HIGH STAKES
The green shutters were half closed to keep the dazzling sunshine out of
Henry Cliffe's private sitting-room at the smart Florida hotel, but the
fresh sea breeze swept in and tempered the heat. The scent of flowers
mingled with a delicate perfume such as fastidious women use, but Mrs.
Cliffe was enjoying an afternoon nap and her daughter had gone out, so
that Cliffe and Robinson had the room to themselves. They sat, opposite
each other, at a small table on which stood a bottle and a cigar box,
but there was only iced water in the tall glass at Cliffe's hand.
He had lunched sparingly, as usual, and now leaned back in his chair,
looking thoughtful. His hair was turning gray, and his face was thin and
lined, but there was a hint of quiet force about him. His dress was
plain but in excellent taste, and he looked, what he was, a good type of
the American business man, who had, however, as sometimes happens to his
kind, sacrificed his health to commercial success. He was a financier
and a floater of companies which generally paid.
Robinson was tall, with a high color, a prominent, hooked nose, and a
face of Jewish cast. His clothes were well cut, but their adherence to
the latest fashion was rather pronounced, and he wore expensive
jewelry. He was favorably known on Wall Street and sometimes heard of
when a corner was being manipulated in the Chicago wheat pit. Cliffe had
proposed a joint venture, because he knew that Robinson did not fear a
risk and he had learned that a Jew can generally be relied upon when the
reckoning comes.
"Well," said Robinson, "I see a chance of trouble. If President Altiera
goes down, we lose our money."
"A sure thing," Cliffe agreed. "It will be our business to keep him on
his feet, and it may cost us something. In a way, that's an advantage.
He must have our help, and is willing to bid high for it."
"The revolutionaries may beat him."
"If he's left alone; but a little money goes a long way in his country,
and the dissatisfied politicians would rather take some as a gift than
risk their lives by fighting for it. Altiera can buy up most of them if
he has the means; and he's capable of quieting the rest in a more
drastic way." Cliffe smiled as he continued: "It's not my habit to plan
a deal without carefully considering what I may get up against."
"Then it's your honest opinion the thing's a good business chance?"
"I call it that. One gets nothing for nothing. If you expect a prize,
you must put up the stakes."
"Very well. Suppose you get the concession? Is there gold worth mining
in the country?"
"I can't tell," Cliffe answered frankly. "The Spaniards found a good
deal three hundred years ago, and now and then a half-breed brings some
out of the bush. Guess we could get enough to use as a draw in the
prospectus."
"You'd have to make the prospectus good," Robinson said with a
thoughtful air. "Not an invariable rule, of course, but our names stand
for something with the investing public."
"I generally do make good. If we don't strike gold, there's rubber, and
the soil will grow high-grade cane and coffee. Give me the concession
and I'll make it pay."
Robinson nodded. Cliffe's business talent was particularly marked in the
development of virgin territory, though he never undertook the work in
person. He knew where to find the right men, and how far to trust them.
"I suppose we won't be required to meddle with dago politics?" Robinson
suggested.
"Certainly not; that's Altiera's affair, and he's capable of looking
after it. A number of his people are getting tired of him, but so long
as he can pay his soldiers up to time and buy support where he can't use
force, he'll keep control."
"A bit of a brute, I've heard."
"He's not a humanitarian," Cliffe agreed. "Still, countries like his
need a firm hand."
"Guess that's so," said Robinson.
He and Cliffe were respected in business circles. They met their
obligations and kept the rules that govern financial dealings. That they
might now be lending their support to tyrannical oppression, and helping
to stifle the patriotic aspirations of a downtrodden people, did not
enter their minds. That was not their affair; they were out for money,
and their responsibility ended with the payment of dividends to those
who bought their stock. They would fulfill this duty if the thing were
possible; although their standard of morality was not of the highest,
they had prosperous rivals who fell short of it.
"I'll stand in," Robinson decided after a few moments' silence. "You can
let me know how much you will need to carry you through when you get
your plans worked out."
"Very well. It's over the first payments we take a risk. The money will,
so to speak, vanish. We'll have nothing to show for it except the good
will of the men in power. Some of it may even get into the wrong hands."
Robinson made a sign of comprehension. He knew something about official
graft, for he now and then found it needful to smooth the way for a new
venture by judicious bribery.
"There'll be no trouble after we've bought the concession," Cliffe
continued. "The cash will then go to the treasury, and whichever party
gets control will have to stand to the bargain. And now I guess we can
let the matter drop until I fix things up."
They went out to a seat on the veranda, which looked across a row of
dusty palmettos and a strip of arid lawn that the glistening showers
from the sprinklers could not keep green. An inlet of blue water ran up
to its edge, and beyond the curve of sheltering beach the long Atlantic
swell rolled into the bay flecked with incandescent foam, for the
sunshine was dazzling and the breeze was fresh. Two or three miles away
there was a stretch of calmer water behind a long point on which the
surf beat, and in the midst of this a small steamer gently rolled at
anchor. Nearer the inlet, a little sailing-boat stood out to sea, her
varnished deck and snowy canvas gleaming in the strong light.
"Miss Cliffe's boat, isn't it?" Robinson remarked. "Looks very small; I
s'pose she's safe?"
"New York canoe club model," Cliffe replied. "Had her brought down on a
freight-car. Evelyn's fond of sailing and smart at the helm. She's all
right--though the breeze does seem pretty fresh."
While they talked about other matters, Evelyn Cliffe sat in the stern of
the tiny sloop, enjoying the sense of control the grasp of the tiller
gave her, and the swift rush of the polished hull through the sparkling
foam. There was also some satisfaction in displaying her nerve and skill
to the loungers on the beach, who were, for the most part, fashionable
people from the Northern States. Among these was a young man upon whom
Evelyn knew her mother looked with approval.
Though he had much to recommend him, and had shown a marked preference
for her society, Evelyn had come to no decision about Reginald Gore, but
she was willing that he should admire her seamanship, and it was,
perhaps, in the expectation of meeting him afterward that she had
dressed herself carefully. She wore well-cut blue serge that emphasized
her fine pink-and-white color, and matched her eyes; and the small blue
cap did not hide her red-gold hair.
As the breeze freshened, she forgot the spectators, and began to wish
she had taken a reef in the mainsail before starting. Hitherto she had
had somebody with her when it was necessary to shorten canvas; but it
was unlike a sport to turn back because of a little wind. She would
stand on until she had weathered the point and was out on the open
Atlantic, and then run home. The strain on the helm got heavier, the
foam crept level with the lee deck, and sometimes sluiced along it when
the boat dipped her bows in a sea. Then the spray began to beat upon the
slanted canvas, and whipped Evelyn's face as she braced herself against
the tiller.
The boat was sailing very fast, plunging through the sparkling ridges of
water; there was something strangely exhilarating in her speed and the
way the foam swirled past. Evelyn had an adventurous temperament, and,
being then twenty-three, was young enough to find a keen relish in
outdoor sport. Now she was matching her strength and skill against the
blue Atlantic combers, which were getting steeper and frothing on their
crests. The point was falling to leeward; it would be a fair wind home,
and she determined to stand on a little longer. Casting a quick glance
astern, she saw that the figures on the beach had grown indistinct and
small. She felt alone with the sea at last, and the situation had its
charm; but when she fixed her eyes ahead she wished that the rollers
were not quite so large. She had to ease the boat over them; sometimes
let the sheet run in the harder gusts, and then it was not easy to get
the wet rope in.
When the point shut off the beach, she saw she must come round, and,
after waiting for a patch of smooth water, put up the helm to jibe. The
strain on the sheet was heavier than she thought; the rope bruised her
fingers as it ran through them. The boat rolled wildly, and then the big
sail swung over with a crash. Evelyn saw with alarm that the gaff along
its head had stopped at an unusual angle to the canvas. Something had
gone wrong. But her nerve was good. She could lower the mainsail and
run home under the jib.
When she left the helm the boat shot up into the wind, with the long
boom banging to and fro and the spray flying across her. Evelyn loosed
the halyards, but found that the gaff would not come down. Its end
worked upon a brass slide on the mast, and the grips had bent and
jambed. Things now looked awkward. It was blowing moderately fresh, the
sea was getting up, and the sail she could not shorten might capsize the
boat.
With difficulty, she got the sloop round, but, as the gaff was jambed,
she would not steer a course that would take her to the inlet, and
Evelyn remembered with alarm that there was some surf on the beach. She
could swim, but she shrank from the thought of struggling ashore from
the wrecked craft through broken water. Still, it was some comfort to
see the point drop astern and the beach get nearer; she was on the way
to land, there were boats on the inlet, and somebody might notice that
she was in difficulties. No boat came off, however, and she realized
that from a distance nothing might appear to be wrong with the sloop.
When she was near enough to signal for help it would be too late.
A small steamer lurched at anchor not far away; but Evelyn could not
reach her: the sloop was like a bird with a broken wing and could only
blunder clumsily, in danger of capsizing, before the freshening wind. In
another quarter of an hour she would be in the surf, which now looked
dangerously heavy.
While she was trying to nerve herself for the struggle to land, she saw
a boat leave the steamer's side. It was a very small dinghy, and there
was only one man on board, but he waved his hand as if he understood
her peril, and then rowed steadily to intercept her. This needed
judgment: if he miscalculated the distance it would be impossible for
him to overtake the sloop. And Evelyn could do nothing to help. She must
concentrate her attention upon keeping her craft before the wind. If she
jibed, bringing the big sail violently over with its head held fast
would result in a capsize.
Five minutes later she risked a glance. The dinghy was close at hand,
lurching up and down, lost from sight at intervals among the combers.
The man, coatless and hatless, seemed to be handling her with caution,
easing her when a roller with a foaming crest bore down on him, but
Evelyn thought he would not miss her boat. Her heart beat fast as she
put the helm hard down. The sloop swung round, slackening speed as she
came head to wind, there was a thud alongside, and the man jumped on
board with a rope in his hand.
Then things began to happen so rapidly that the girl could not remember
exactly what was done; but the man showed a purposeful activity. He
scrambled along the narrow deck, got a few feet up the mast, and the
sail came down; then he sprang aft to the helm, and the sloop headed for
the steamer, with his dinghy in tow and only the jib set.
They were alongside in a few minutes, and he seized a rope that some one
threw him.
"Our gig's hauled up on the beach for painting, and I'm afraid we
couldn't reach the landing in the dinghy, now the sea's getting up," he
said. "You'd better come on board, and I'll see if Macallister can put
your gaff right."
Evelyn hesitated, for she suspected that it would take some time to mend
the damaged spar. It was not an adventure her mother would approve of,
but as she could see no way of reaching land, she let the man help her
through the gangway.