IN CHASTENED MOOD
Of course, the whole thing was ridiculous. Gordon knew that. No one
could know it better. The more he thought about it the more surely he
was certain of it. He told himself that he, personally, had behaved
like a first-class madman over the whole affair. How on earth was he
to make one hundred thousand dollars in six months? It couldn't be
done. That was all. It simply couldn't be done. What power of
mischief had driven him to charge his highly respectable father with
graft? It was a rotten thing to do anyway. And it served him right
that it had come back on him by pointing the way to the present
impossible situation.
He was perfectly disgusted with himself.
But after a while he began to chuckle. The thing was not without an
atmosphere of humor--of a sort. No doubt his friends would have seen a
tremendous humor in the idea of his making one hundred thousand dollars
under any conditions.
One hundred thousand dollars! What a tremendous sum it sounded viewed
from the standpoint of his having to make it. He had never considered
it a vast sum before. But now it seemed to grow and grow every time he
thought of it. Then he laughed. What stupid things "noughts" were.
They meant so much just now, and, in reality, they mean nothing at all.
Oh, dear. The whole thing was a terrible trouble. It was worse. It
was a tragedy. But--he mustn't give his friends the laugh on him.
That would be the last straw. No. The whole thing should remain a
secret between his father and himself. He almost broke into a sweat as
he suddenly remembered the Press. What wouldn't the Press do with the
story. The son and heir of James Carbhoy, the well-known
multi-millionaire, leaving home to show the world how to make one
hundred thousand dollars in record time! A stupendous farce. Then the
swarm of reporters buzzing about him like a cloud of flies in summer
time. The prospect was too depressing. Think of the columns in the
Press, especially the cheaper Press. They would haunt him from New
York to--Timbuctoo!
It couldn't be done. He felt certain that in such circumstances
suicide would be justifiable. Thoughts such as these swept on through
his disturbed brain as he sped up Broadway on his way to say good-by to
his mother and sister. He had been lucky in finding his father's
high-powered automobile standing outside the palatial entrance of the
towering Carbhoy Building. Nor had he the least scruple in
commandeering it.
His visit to the east side of Central Park was in the nature of a
whirlwind. He had no desire to be questioned, and he knew his young
sister, Gracie, too well to give her a chance in that direction. Their
friends were wont to say that, for one so young--she was only
thirteen--she was all wit and intellect. He felt that that was because
she was his father's daughter. For himself he was positive she was all
precocity and impertinence. And he told himself he was quite
unprejudiced.
As for his mother, she was one of those gentle Southern women who
declare that no woman has the right to question the doings of the male
members of her household, and, in spite of the luxury with which she
was surrounded, and which she never failed to feel the burden of--she
was originally a small farmer's daughter--still yearned for that homely
meal of her youth, "supper"--a collation of coffee, cakes, preserves
and cold meats.
Experience warned him that he must give her no inkling of the real
facts. She would be too terribly shocked at the revelation.
So, for an hour or more, in the little family circle, in his mother's
splendid boudoir, he talked of everything but his own affairs. Nor was
it until he was in the act of taking his leave that he warned them both
that he was leaving the city for six months. He felt it was a cowardly
thing to do, but, having fired his bombshell in their midst, he fled
precipitately before its stunning effect had time to pass away.
Off he sped, the automobile urged to a dangerous speed, and it was with
a great sense of relief that he finally reached his own apartment on
Riverside Drive.
Letting himself in, he found his man, Harding, waiting for him.
"Mrs. Carbhoy has been ringing you up, sir," he said in the level tones
of a well-trained servant. "She wants to speak to you, sir--most
important."
Gordon hardened his heart.
"Disconnect the 'phone then," he said sharply, and flung himself into a
great settle which stood in the domed hall.
"Very good, sir."
The man was moving away.
"If my mother or sister should come here, I'm out. Send word down to
the office that there's no one in."
The valet's face was quite expressionless. Gordon Carbhoy had his own
way of dealing with his affairs. Harding understood this. He was also
devoted to his master.
"Yes, sir."
He vanished out of the hall.
Left alone a great change came over Gordon. The old buoyancy and humor
seemed suddenly to fall from him. For once his eyes were perfectly,
almost painfully serious. He stared about him, searching the
remoteness of his surroundings, his eyes and thoughts dwelling on the
luxury of the apartment he had occupied for the last three years. It
was a two-floored masterpiece of builder's ingenuity. It was to be his
home no longer.
That splendid domed hall had been the scene of many innocent revels.
Yes, in spite of the accusation of immorality, his parties had been
innocent enough. He had entertained the boys and girls of his
acquaintance royally, but--innocently. Well, that was all done with.
It was just a memory. The future was his concern.
The future. And that depended on his own exertions. For a moment the
seriousness of his mood lifted. Surely his own exertions as a business
man was a broken reed to---- What about failure? What was to
follow--failure? He hadn't thought of it, and his father hadn't spoken
of it.
Suddenly the cloud settled again, and a sort of panic swept over him.
Did his father intend to--kick him out? It almost looked like it. And
yet---- Had he intended this stake as his last? What a perfect fool
he had been to refuse the hundred thousand dollars. Then, in a moment,
his panic passed. He was glad he had done so--anyway.
He selected a cigar from his case and sniffed at it. He remembered his
father's. His handsome blue eyes were twinkling. His own cigars cost
half a dollar more than his father's, and the fact amused him. He cut
the end carefully and lit it. Then he leaned back on the cushions and
resigned himself to the reflection that these things, too, must go with
the rest. They, too, must become a mere memory.
"Harding!" he called.
The man appeared almost magically.
"Harding, have you ever smoked a--five-cent cigar?" he inquired
thoughtfully.
The valet cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry to say, sir, I haven't."
"Sorry?" Gordon's eyes were smiling.
"A mere figure of speech, sir."
"Ah--I see. They must be--painful."
"Very, I should think, sir. But, beg pardon, sir, I believe in
some--ahem--low places, they sell two for five cents!"
"Two? I--I wonder if the sanitary authorities know about it."
Gordon smiled into the serious face of his devoted henchman. Then he
went on rapidly--
"What baggage do you suggest for a six months' trip?"
"Europe, sir?"
"No."
"South, sir?"
"I--haven't made up my mind."
"General then, sir. That'll need more. There's the three large
trunks. The steamer trunk. Four suit cases. Will you need your polo
kit, sir, and your----?"
Gordon shook his head.
"Guess your focus needs adjusting. Now, suppose you were getting a man
ready for a six months' trip--a man who smoked those two-for-five
cigars. What would you give him?"
Harding's eyelids flickered. He sighed.
"It would be difficult, sir. I shouldn't give him clean
under-garments, sir. I should suggest the oldest suit I could find.
You see, sir, it would be waste to give him a good suit. The axles of
those box cars are so greasy. I'm not sure about a toothbrush."
"Your focus is adjusting itself."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir."
"And the five-cent-cigar man?"
Harding's verdict came promptly.
"A hand bag with one good suit and ablutionary utensils, sir. Also
strong, warm under-garments, and a thick overcoat. One spare pair of
boots. You see, sir, he could carry that himself."
"Good," cried Gordon delightedly. "You prepare for that
five-cent-cigar man. Now I want some food. Better ring down to the
restaurant."
"Yes, sir. An oyster cocktail? Squab on toast, or a little pheasant?
What about sweets, sir, and what wine will you take?"
"Great gods no, man! Nothing like that. Think of your five-cent-cigar
man. What would he have? Why, sandwiches. You know, nice thick ones,
mostly bread. No. Wait a bit. I know. A club sandwich. Two club
sandwiches, and a bottle of domestic lager. Two things I
hate--eternally. We must equip ourselves, Harding. We must mortify
the flesh. We must readjust our focus, and outrage all our more
delicate susceptibilities. We must reduce ourselves to the
requirements of the five-cent-cigar man, and turn a happy, smiling
world into a dark and drear struggle for existence. See to it, good
Harding, see to it."
The man withdrew, puzzled. Used as he was to Gordon's vagaries, the
thought of his master dining off two hideous club sandwiches and a
bottle of _domestic_ lager made his staunch stomach positively turn.
His perfect training, however, permitted of no verbal protest. And he
waited on the diner with as much care for punctilio as though a formal
banquet were in progress. Then came another violent shock to his
feelings. Gordon leaned back in his chair with a sigh of amused
contentment.
"Do you think you could get me a--five-cent cigar, Harding?" he
demanded. "Say, I enjoyed that food. That unique combination of
chicken, hot bacon and--and something pickly--why, it's great. And as
for _domestic_ lager--it's got wine beaten a mile. Guess I'm mighty
anxious to explore a--five-cent cigar."
Harding cleared his throat.
"I'll do my best, sir. It may be difficult, but I'll do my best. I'll
consult the clerk downstairs. He smokes very bad cigars, sir."
"Good. You get busy. I'll be around in my den."
"Yes, sir," Harding hesitated. Then with an unusual diffidence,
"Coffee, sir? A little of the '48 brandy, sir?"
Gordon stared.
"Can I believe my ears? Spoil a dinner like that with--'48 brandy?
I'm astonished, Harding. That focus, man; that five-cent-cigar focus!"
Gordon hurried off into his den with a laugh. Harding gazed after him
with puzzled, respectful eyes.
Once in the privacy of his den, half office, half library, and wholly a
room of comfort, Gordon forgot his laugh. His mind was quite made up,
and he knew that a long evening's work lay before him.
He picked up the receiver of his private 'phone to his father's office
and sat down at the desk.
"Hello! Hello! Ah! That you, Harker? Splendid. Guess I'm glad I
caught you. Working late, eh? Sure. It's the way in er--big finance.
Yes. Got to lie awake at nights to do the other feller. Say. No.
Oh, no, that's not what I rang you up for. It's about--finance. Ha,
ha! It's a check for me. Did the governor leave me one? Good. Five
thousand dollars, isn't it? Well, say, don't place it to my credit.
Get cash for it to-morrow, and send it along to---- Let me see. Yes,
I know. You send along a bright clerk with it. He can meet me at the
Pennsylvania Depot to-morrow, at noon--sharp. Yes. In the
waiting-room. Get that? Good. So long."
"That's that," he muttered, as he replaced the receiver. "Now for
Charlie Spiers."
He turned to the ordinary 'phone, picked up the receiver, gave the
operator the number, and waited.
"Hello! Hello, hello, hello! That you, Charlie? Bully. I wasn't
sure getting you. Guess my luck's right in. How are you? Goo----
No, better not come around to-night. Fact is, I'm up to my back teeth
packing and things. I've got to be away awhile. Business--important."
He laughed. "Don't get funny. It's not play. No. Eh? What's that?
A lady? Quit it. If there's a thing I can't stand just about now it's
a suggestion of immorality. I mean that. The word 'immoral' 's about
enough to set me chasing Broadway barking and foaming at the mouth. I
said I'm going away on business, and it's so important that not even my
mother knows where I'm going. Yes. Ah, I'm glad you feel that way.
It's serious. Now, listen to me; it's up to you to do me a kindness.
I'm going to write the mater now and again. But I can't mail direct,
or she'll know where I am, see? Well, I can send her mail under cover
to you, and you can mail it on to her. Get me? Now, that way, you'll
know just where I am. That's so. Well, you've got to swear right
along over the wire you won't tell a soul. Not the governor, or the
mater, or Gracie, or--or anybody. No, I don't need you to cuss like a
railroader about it. Just swear properly. That's it. That's fine.
On your soul and honor. Fine. I'm glad you added the 'honor' racket,
it makes things plumb sure. Oh, yes, your soul's all right in its way.
But---- Good-by, boy. I'll see you six months from to-day. No. Too
busy. So long."
Gordon hung up the receiver and turned back to his desk with a sigh.
He opened a drawer and took out his check-book, and gave himself up to
a few minutes of figures. There was not a great deal of money to his
credit at the bank, but it was sufficient for his purposes. He wrote
and signed three checks. Then he tore the remaining blanks up and
flung them into the waste-basket.
After that he turned his attention to a systematic examination of his
papers. It was a long, and not uninteresting process, but one that
took a vast amount of patience. He tore up letter after letter,
photographs, bills, every sort of document which a bachelor seems
always to accumulate when troubled by the disease of youth.
In the midst of his labors he came across his father's private code for
cable and telegraph. It brought back to him the memory of his position
as one of his father's secretaries. He smiled as he glanced through
it. It must be sent back to the office. He would hand it to the clerk
who brought him his money in the morning. So he placed it carefully in
the inside pocket of his coat and continued his labors.
Half an hour later Harding appeared.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said. "I had some difficulty, but"--he held up
an oily-looking cigar with a flaming label about its middle, between
his finger and thumb--"I succeeded in obtaining one. I had to take
three surface cars, and finally had to go to Fourth Avenue. It was a
lower place than I expected, sir, seeing that it was a five-cent cigar."
"That means it cost me twenty cents, Harding--unless you were able to
transfer."
Gordon eyed the man's expressionless face quizzically.
"I'm sorry, sir. But I forgot about the transfer tickets."
Gordon sighed with pretended regret.
"I'm sure guessing it's--bad finance. We ought to do better."
"I could have saved the fares if I'd taken your car, sir," said
Harding, with a flicker of the eyelids.
"Splendid, gasoline at thirteen cents, and the price of tires going up."
Gordon drummed on the desk with his fingers and became thoughtful. He
had a painful duty yet to perform.
"Harding," he said at last, with a genuine sigh, his eyes painfully
serious. "We've got to go different ways. You've--got to quit."
The valet's face never moved a muscle.
"Yes, sir."
"Right away."
"Yes, sir."
Then the man cleared his throat, and laid the oily-looking cigar on the
desk.
"I trust, sir, I've given satisfaction?"
"Satisfaction?" Gordon's tone expressed the most cordial appreciation.
"Satisfaction don't express it. I couldn't have kept up the farce of
existence without you. You are the best fellow in the world. Guess
it's I who haven't given satisfaction."
"Yes, sir."
"Oh--you agree?"
"Yes, sir. That is, no, sir."
Harding passed one thin hand across his forehead, and the movement was
one of perplexity. It was the only gesture he permitted himself as any
expression of feeling.
"I'm going away for six months--as a five-cent-cigar man," Gordon went
on, disguising his regret under a smile of humor. "I'm going away
on--business."
"Yes, sir." The respectful agreement came in a monotonous tone.
"So you'll--just have to quit. That's all."
"Yes, sir."
"Ye-es."
"You will--need a man when you come back, sir?" The eagerness was
unmistakable to Gordon.
"I--hope so."
Harding's face brightened.
"I will accept temporary employment then, sir. Thank you, sir."
Gordon wondered. Then he cleared his throat, and held out two of the
checks he had written.
"Here's two months' wages," he said. "One is your due. Guess the
other's the same, only--it's a present. Now, get this. You'll need to
see everything cleared right out of this shanty, and stored at the
Manhattan deposit. When that's done, get right along and report things
to my father, and hand him your accounts for settlement. All my cigars
and cigarettes and wine and things, why, I guess you can have for a
present. It don't seem reasonable to me condemning you to five-cent
cigars and domestic lager. Now pack me one grip, as you said. I'll
wear the suit I've got on. Mind, I need a grip I can tote
myself--full."
"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"Why, yes." Gordon was smiling again. "Hand this check in at the bank
when it opens to-morrow, and get me cash for it, and bring it right
along. That's all, except you'd better get me another disgusting
sandwich, and another bottle of tragedy beer for my supper. There's
nothing else."
With a resolute air Gordon turned back to his work, as, with an obvious
sigh of regret, Harding silently withdrew.