OAKLEY took the satchel from General Cornish's hand as the latter
stepped from his private car.
“You got my note, I see,” he said. “I think I'll go to the hotel for the
rest of the night.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, as he turned with Dan towards the bus
which was waiting for them at the end of the platform.
“I guess no one else got off here. It's not much of a railroad centre.”
“No,” agreed Oakley, impartially; “there are towns where the traffic is
heavier.”
Arrived at the hotel, Oakley led the way up-stairs to the general's
room. It adjoined his own. Cornish paused on the threshold until he had
lighted the gas.
“Light the other burner, will you?” he requested. “There, thanks, that's
better.”
He was a portly man of sixty, with a large head and heavy face. His
father had been a Vermont farmer, a man of position and means, according
to the easy standard of his times. When the Civil War broke out, young
Cornish, who was just commencing the practice of the law, had enlisted
as a private in one of the first regiments raised by his State. Prior to
this he had overflowed with fervid oratory, and had tried hard to look
like Daniel Webster, but a skirmish or two opened his eyes to the fact
that the waging of war was a sober business, and the polishing off of
his sentences not nearly as important as the polishing off of the enemy.
He was still willing to die for the Union, if there was need of it,
but while his life was spared it was well to get on. The numerical
importance of number one was a belief too firmly implanted in his nature
to be overthrown by any patriotic aberration.
His own merits, which he was among the first to recognize, and the solid
backing his father was able to give, won him promotion. He had risen
to the command of a regiment, and when the war ended was brevetted a
brigadier-general of volunteers, along with a score of other anxious
warriors who wished to carry the title of general back into civil life,
for he was an amiable sort of a Shylock, who seldom overlooked his pound
of flesh, and he usually got all, and a little more, than was coming to
him.
After the war he married and went West, where he resumed the practice of
his profession, but he soon abandoned it for a commercial career. It was
not long until he was ranked as one of the rich men of his State. Then
he turned his attention to politics, He was twice elected to Congress,
and served one term as governor. One of his daughters had married an
Italian prince, a meek, prosaic little creature, exactly five feet three
inches tall: another was engaged to an English earl, whose debts were a
remarkable achievement for so young a man. His wife now divided her time
between Paris and London. She didn't think much of New York, which had
thought even less of her. He managed to see her once or twice a year.
Any oftener would have been superfluous. But it interested him to read
of her in the papers, and to feel a sense of proprietorship for this
woman, who was spending his money and carrying his name into the centres
of elegance and fashion. Personally he disliked fashion, and was rather
shy of elegance.
There were moments, however, when he felt his life to be wholly
unsatisfactory. He derived very little pleasure from all the luxury that
had accumulated about him, and which he accepted with a curious placid
indifference. He would have liked the affection of his children, to have
had them at home, and there was a remote period in his past when his
wife had inspired him with a sentiment at which he could only wonder. He
held it against her that she had not understood.
He lurched down solidly into the chair Oakley placed for him. “I hope
you are comfortable here,” he said, kindly.
“Oh yes.” He still stood.
“Sit down,” said Cornish. “I don't, as a rule, believe in staying up
after midnight to talk business, but I must start East to-morrow.”
He slipped out of his chair and began to pace the floor, with his hands
thrust deep in his trousers-pockets. “I want to talk over the situation
here. I don't see that the road is ever going to make a dollar. I've
an opportunity to sell it to the M. & W. Of course this is extremely
confidential. It must not go any further. I am told they will
discontinue it beyond this point, and of course they will either move
the shops away or close them.” He paused in his rapid walk. “It's too
bad it never paid. It was the first thing I did when I came West. I
thought it a pretty big thing then. I have always hoped it would justify
my judgment, and it promised to for a while until the lumber interests
played out. Now, what do you advise, Oakley? I want to get your ideas.
You understand, if I sell I won't lose much. The price offered will just
about meet the mortgage I hold, but I guess the stockholders will come
out at the little end of the horn.”
Oakley understood exactly what was ahead of the stockholders if the road
changed hands. Perhaps his face showed that he was thinking of this, for
the general observed, charitably:
“It's unfortunate, but you can't mix sentiment in a transaction of this
sort. I'd like to see them all get their money back, and more, too.”
His mental attitude towards the world was one of generous liberality,
but he had such excellent control over his impulses that, while he
always seemed about to embark in some large philanthropy, he had never
been known to take even the first step in that direction. In short, he
was hard and unemotional, but with a deceptive, unswerving kindliness
of manner, which, while it had probably never involved a dollar of his
riches, had at divers times cost the unwary and the indiscreet much
money.
No man presided at the board meetings of a charity with an air of larger
benevolence, and no man drove closer or more conscienceless bargains.
His friends knew better than to trust him--a precaution they observed in
common with his enemies.
“I am sure the road could be put on a paying basis,” said Oakley.
“Certain quite possible economies would do that. Of course we can't
create business, there is just so much of it, and we get it all as it
is. But the shops might be made very profitable. I have secured a
good deal of work for them, and I shall secure more. I had intended to
propose a number of reforms, but if you are going to sell, why, there's
no use of going into the matter--” he paused.
The general meditated in silence for a moment. “I'd hate to sacrifice my
interests if I thought you could even make the road pay expenses. Now,
just what do you intend to do?”
“I'll get my order-book and show you what's been done for the shops,”
said Oakley, rising with alacrity. “I have figured out the changes, too,
and you can see at a glance just what I propose doing.”
The road and the shops employed some five hundred men, most of whom had
their homes in Antioch. Oakley knew that if the property was sold it
would practically wipe the town out of existence. The situation was full
of interest for him. If Cornish approved, and told him to go ahead with
his reforms, it would be an opportunity such as he had never known.
He went into his own room, which opened off Cornish's, and got his
order-book and table of figures, which he had carried up from the office
that afternoon.
They lay on the stand with a pile of trade journals. For the first time
in his life he viewed these latter with an unfriendly eye. He thought of
Constance Emory, and realized that he should never again read and digest
the annual report of the Joint Traffic Managers' Association with
the same sense of intellectual fulness it had hitherto given him. No,
clearly, that was a pleasure he had outgrown.
He had taken a great deal of pains with his figures, and they seemed
to satisfy Cornish that the road, if properly managed, was not such a
hopeless proposition, after all. Something might be done with it.
Oakley rose in his good esteem; he had liked him, and he was justifying
his good opinion. He beamed benevolently on the young man, and thawed
out of his habitual reserve into a genial, ponderous frankness.
“You have done well,” he said, glancing through the order-book with
evident satisfaction.
“Of course,” explained Oakley, “I am going to make a cut in wages this
spring, if you agree to it, but I haven't the figures for this yet.” The
general nodded. He approved of cuts on principle.
“That's always a wise move,” he said. “Will they stand it?”
“They'll have to.” And Oakley laughed rather nervously. He appreciated
that his reforms were likely to make him very unpopular in Antioch.
“They shouldn't object. If the road changes hands it will kill their
town.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Cornish, indifferently.
“And half a loaf is lots better than no loaf,” added Oakley. Again the
general nodded his approval. That was the very pith and Gospel of his
financial code, and he held it as greatly to his own credit that he had
always been perfectly willing to offer halfloaves.
“What sort of shape is the shop in?” he asked, after a moment's silence.
“Very good on the whole.”
“I am glad to hear you say so. I spent over a hundred thousand dollars
on the plant originally.”
“Of course, the equipment can hardly be called modern, but it will do
for the sort of work for which I am bidding,” Oakley explained.
“Well, it will be an interesting problem for a young man, Oakley. If you
pull the property up it will be greatly to your credit. I was going
to offer you another position, but we will let that go over for the
present. I am very much pleased, though, with all you have done, very
much pleased, indeed. I go abroad in about two weeks. My youngest
daughter is to be married in London to the Earl of Minchester.”
The title rolled glibly from the great man's lips. “So you'll have the
fight, if it is a fight, all to yourself. I'll see that Holloway does
what you say. He's the only one you'll have to look to in my absence,
but you won't be able to count on him for anything; he gets limp in a
crisis. Just don't make the mistake of asking his advice.”
“I'd rather have no advice,” interrupted Dan, hastily, “unless it's
yours,” he added.
“I'll see that you are not bothered. You are the sort of fellow who will
do better with a free hand, and that is what I intend you shall have.”
“Thank you,” said Oakley, his heart warming with the other's praise.
“I shall be back in three months, and then, if your schemes have worked
out at all as we expect, why, we can consider putting the property in
better shape.”--A part of Oakley's plan.--“As you say, it's gone down
so there won't be much but the right of way presently.”
“I hope that eventually there'll be profits,” said Oakley, whose mind
was beginning to reach out into the future.
“I guess the stockholders will drop dead if we ever earn a dividend.
That's the last thing they are looking forward to,” remarked Cornish,
dryly. “Will you leave a six-thirty call at the office for me? I forgot,
and I must take the first train.”
Oakley had gathered up his order-book and papers. The general was
already fumbling with his cravat and collar.
“I am very well satisfied with your plan, and I believe you have the
ability to carry it out.”
He threw aside his coat and vest and sat down to take off his shoes.
“Don't saddle yourself with too much work. Keep enough of an office
force to save yourself wherever you can. I think, if orders continue to
come in as they have been doing, the shops promise well. It just shows
what a little energy will accomplish.”
“With judicious nursing in the start, there should be plenty of work for
us, and we are well equipped to handle it.”
“Yes,” agreed Cornish. “A lot of money was spent on the plant. I wanted
it just right.”
“I can't understand why more hasn't been done with the opportunity
here.”
“I've never been able to find the proper man to take hold, until I found
you, Oakley. You have given me a better insight into conditions than
I have had at any time since I built the road, and it ain't such a bad
proposition, after all, especially the shops.” The general turned out
the gas as he spoke, and Oakley, as he stood in the doorway of his own
room, saw dimly a white figure moving in the direction of the bed.
“I'd figure close on all repair work. The thing is to get them into the
habit of coming to us. Don't forget the call, please. Six-thirty sharp.”
The slats creaked and groaned beneath his weight. “Good-night.”