THE BOOM IN EARNEST
It was late in the evening. The lonely house at Buffalo Point stood
out in dim relief against the purpling shades of dusk. At that hour of
the evening the distant outline of Snake's Fall was lost in the gray to
the eastwards. South, there were only the low grass hillocks, now
blended into one definite skyline. To the westward, the sharp outline
of the mountains was still silhouetted against the momentarily dulling
afterglow of sunset. The evening was still, with that wonderful
silence which ever prevails at such an hour upon the open prairie.
A light shone in the window of the hitherto closed office at Buffalo
Point, and, furthermore, a rig stood at the door with a team of horses
attached thereto, which latter did not belong to Mike Callahan.
An atmosphere not, perhaps, so much of secrecy as of portent seemed to
hang about the place. The solitary light in the surroundings of
gathering night seemed significant. Then the team, too, waiting ready
to depart at a moment's notice. But above all, perhaps, this was the
first time a sign of life had been visible in the house since the
closing down at the moment when Slosson's sudden plunge into the real
estate world of Snake's Fall had apparently swept all rivalry from his
triumphant path.
Of a truth, a portentous moment had arrived in the affairs of those
interested in Buffalo Point. And the significance of it was displayed
in the earnest faces of the four men gathered together in the office.
Silas Mallinsbee sat smoking in his own armchair, and with a profound
furrow of concentration upon his broad forehead. His usually thrusting
chin-beard rested upon the front of his shirt by reason of the intent
inclination of his great head. Mike Callahan was seated on a small
chair his elbows resting upon his parted knees, and his chin supported
upon the knuckles of his locked fingers. His eyes were intently fixed
upon the desk, behind which Gordon was frowning over a sheet of paper,
upon which the scratching of his pen made itself distinctly audible in
the silence. Peter McSwain, the fourth conspirator, was still
suffering from a fictitious heat, and was comfortably, but wakefully,
snoring under its influence, with a sort of nasal ticking noise which
harmoniously blended with the scratching of Gordon's pen.
It was fairly obvious that the work Gordon was engaged upon was the
central interest of all present, for every eye was steadily, almost
anxiously, riveted upon the movement of his pen.
After a long time Gordon looked up, and a half smile shone in his blue
eyes.
"Give us a light, some one," he demanded, as he turned his sheet of
paper over on the blotting-pad, and drew his code book from an inner
pocket and laid it beside it.
Mike Callahan produced and struck the required match. He held it while
Gordon re-lit his half-burned cigar, which had gone out under the
pressure of thought its owner had been putting forth.
"Good," the latter exclaimed, as the tobacco glowed under the draught
of his powerful lungs. Then he turned the paper over again. "Guess I
got it fixed. I haven't coded it yet, but I'll read it out. It's to
Spenser Harker, my father's chief man."
"Cancel all previous arrangements made through Slosson for Snake's
Fall. Take following instructions. Have bought heavily at Buffalo
Point, which is right on the coal-fields. Depot to be built at once at
Buffalo Point. Make all arrangements for dispatch of engineers and
surveyors at once. There must be no delay in starting a boom. My son,
Gordon, is here to represent our interests. Put this to the general
manager of the Union Grayling and Ukataw, and yourself see no delay.
Am going on to coast on urgent affairs. Gordon has the matter well in
hand and will control at this end. This should be a big coup for us.
"JAMES CARBHOY."
As Gordon finished reading he glanced round at his companions' faces
through the smoke of his cigar. Mike was audibly sniggering.
Mallinsbee's eyes were smiling in that twinkling fashion which deep-set
eyes seem so capable of. As for Peter McSwain, from sheer force of
habit he drew forth a colored handkerchief and mopped his grinning eyes.
"You ain't going to send that?" he said incredulously.
"Why not?"
"But--that piece about yourself?" grinned Mike. "You darsen't to do
it."
"I think I get his point," nodded Mallinsbee, his broad face beaming
admiration. "Sort of local color, I guess."
Gordon twisted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.
His blue eyes were shining with a sort of earnest amusement. His sharp
white teeth were gripping the mangled end of his cigar firmly.
"Say, fellows," he said, after a moment's thought, "I'm kind of
wondering if you get just what this thing means to me. It just needs a
sum in dollars to get its meaning to you. But for me it's different.
I need to make dollars, too. But still it's different. You see, some
day I've got to sit right in my father's chair, and run things with a
capital of millions of dollars. But before I do that I've got to get
right up and convince my father I can handle the work right. He
doesn't figure I can act that way--yet. So it's up to me to show him I
can. Well, I've started in, and I'm going to see the game through to
the end. I've backed my wits to push this boat right into harbor safe.
And in doin' that I've got to squeeze the biggest financier in the
country. When I've done it right, that financier will know he can hand
over his particular craft to my steering without fear of my running it
on the rocks. The dollars I need to make out of this are just a
circumstance. They are the outward sign of my fitness for my father's
edification. That piece about my representing my father isn't just
local color either. I actually intend to assume that character, and,
from now on, I intend to work direct with headquarters, ordering the
whole transaction for the railroad myself in _my own name_. Do you get
me? From now on I _am_ my father's representative. If Spenser Harker
chooses to come right along here, if the general manager of the Union
Grayling chooses to come along, I shall meet them, and insist that the
work goes through. You see, I am my father's son, I am still his
secretary, and they have word in private code _from my father_ that I
represent him. There can be no debate. All they know of me is that I
left New York on confidential work for my father. Well, this, I guess,
is the confidential work. Gentlemen, we've simply got to sit right
back and help ourselves to our profits. And while we're doing that,
why, I guess the dear old dad is taking his well-earned vacation in the
hills, while David Slosson is feeling a nasty draught through the
chinks in an old adobe and log shack which I hope will blow the foul
odors out of his fouler mind. You can leave the after part of this
play safely in my hands. Meanwhile, if you'll just give me five
minutes I'll code this message. Then we'll drive right into town and
send it over the wire."
Sunday in an obscure country hotel on the western plains is usually the
dullest thing on earth. The habit of years is a whitewash of
respectability and a moderation of tone, both assumed through the
medium of a complete change of attire from that worn during the week.
There is nothing on earth but the loss by fire, or the definite
destruction of them, which will stop the citizen, who possesses such
things, from arraying himself in a "best suit." It is the outward sign
of an attempted cleansing of the soul. There can be no doubt of it.
That suit is not adjusted for the purpose of holiday enjoyment. That
is quite plain. For each man is as careful not to do anything that can
destroy the crease down his trousers, as he is not to sit on the tails
of his well-brushed Prince Albert coat.
The day is spent in just "sitting around." The citizen will talk.
That is not calculated to spoil his suit. He will even write his mail
after a careful adjustment of the knees of his trousers. He will sneak
into the bar by a back door to obtain an "eye-opener." This, again,
will involve no great risk to his suit. Then he will dine liberally
off roast turkey and pie of some sort. If the hotel is fairly well
priced he will even get an ice-cream with his midday dinner. In the
afternoon he will again sit around and talk. He may even venture a
walk. Then comes the evening supper. It is the worst function of a
dreary day--a meal made up of cakes, preserves, tea or coffee, and any
cold meats left over during the week.
After that the "best suits" somehow seem to fade out of sight, and a
generally looser tone prevails.
Such had been the Sundays in Snake's Fall since ever the town had
boasted an hotel with boarding accommodation. No guest had ever dared
to break through the tradition. It would have required heroic courage
to have done so. But now changes in the town were rapidly taking
place. So rapidly, indeed, that the times might well have been
characterized as "breathless."
On this particular Sunday a perfect revolution was in progress.
Amongst the older inhabitants who managed to drift to the vicinity of
the hotel a feeling of unreality took possession of them, and they
wondered if it were not some curious and not altogether pleasant dream.
The hotel was thronged with a blending of strangers and townspeople,
clad, regardless of the day, in a state of excitement such as might
only have been expected at the declaration of a world war, or a
presidential election.
It was the culmination of the excitement inspired originally by the
news of Slosson's defection, and which, in the course of less than a
week, had been augmented by happenings in swift and rapid succession,
such as set sober business men wondering if they were living on a
volcano instead of a coalmine, or if the days of miracles had indeed
returned upon the world.
Well before the excitement over Slosson had died down it became known
that the Buffalo Point interests were at work again. Mallinsbee's
office was opened once more. Furthermore, he had acquired two clerks,
and was securing others from down east. This was more than
significant. It attracted every eye in the new direction. Men strove
to solve the question with regard to its relationship to Slosson's
going. The thought which promptly came to each mind was that Slosson's
going was less a miracle than a natural disappearance. His wild buying
had inspired doubt from the first. The man had gone crazy, and his
employers had turned him down. So he had bolted. The opening of
Buffalo Point warned them that the railroad had in consequence come to
terms with Mallinsbee. So there had been a fresh rush for information
in that direction.
But this rush received no encouragement and less information, and the
sorely tried speculators were once more flung back into their own outer
darkness.
Then came the next, the culminating excitement. The news drifted into
the place from outside sources. It came from agents and friends in the
east. Surveyors and engineers and construction gangs were about to be
sent to _Buffalo Point_! The news was quite definite, quite decided.
It was more. It was accompanied by peremptory orders and urgent
requests that those who were on the spot should get in on the Buffalo
Point township without a moment's delay, and price was not to hinder
them.
Had it been needed, there were no two people in the whole of Snake's
Fall better placed for the dissemination and exaggeration of the news
than Peter McSwain at the hotel and Mike Callahan at the livery barn.
Nor were they idle. Nor did they miss a single opportunity.
In the office of the hotel, while service was on at the little church,
and all the womenfolk and children were singing their tender hearts out
in an effort to get an appetite for Sunday's dinner, Peter was the
center of observation amidst a crowd of bitterly complaining commercial
sinners, each with his own particular ax to grind and a desperate
grievance against the crooks who were rigging the land markets in the
neighborhood for their own sordid profit. He was holding forth,
debating point for point, and, as he would have described it himself,
"boosting the old boat over a heavy sea."
Some one had suggested that Buffalo Point had been in league with
Slosson to hold up the situation, while the former completed their own
arrangements to the detriment of the community. Peter promptly jumped
in.
"Say, youse fellers are all sorts of 'smarts,' anyway," he said, with a
pitying sort of contempt. "What you need is gilt-edged finance.
You're scared to death pulling the chestnuts out o' the fire. You're
mostly looking for a thousand per cent. result, with only a five per
cent. courage. That's just about your play. What's the use in settin'
around here talking murder when the plums are lyin' around? Pick 'em
up, I says. Pick 'em right up an' get your back teeth into 'em so the
juice jest trickles right over your Sunday suits. They're there for
you. Just grab. I'm tired of talk. The truth is, some o' youse
feelin' you've burnt your fingers over Slosson. Slosson was the
railroad's agent. Your five per cent. minds saw the gilding in
following Slosson. When he skipped out with my team you were stung
bad. You've got stakes in Snake's, while you're finding out now the
railroad ain't moved that way. An' so you're just scared to death to
show the color of your paper till you see the depot built and the
locomotives passing this place ringing a chorus of welcome for Buffalo.
Then where are you? You're going to pay sucker prices then, or get
right back east with a big debit for wasted board and time. I'm takin'
a chance myself, and it ain't with any five per cent. courage. I got a
big stake in both places, and I don't care a continental where they
build the depot."
Mike Callahan was talking in much the same strain in the neighborhood
of his barn, which somehow always became a sort of Sunday meeting-place
for loungers seeking information. But Mike, acting on instructions,
went much further. He spoke of the reports of the movements of the
railroad's engineers and surveyors. He assured his hearers he had had
definite word of it himself, and then added a hint that started
something in the nature of a panic amongst his audience.
"It ain't no use in guessing," he said from his seat on an upturned
bucket at the open door of his barn. "I ain't got loose cash to fling
around. Mine is just locked right up in hossflesh and rigs, so I ain't
got no ax needs sharpening. But I drive folks around and I hear them
yarning. I drove a crowd out to Mallinsbee's place--the office at
Buffalo Point yesterday. They were guests of his. They were talkin'
depots and things the whole way. Say, ever heard the name of Carbhoy?
Any of youse?"
Some one assured him that Carbhoy was President of the Union road, and
Mike winked.
"Jest so," he observed. "As sure as St. Patrick drove the snakes out
of Ireland, one of that gang was called 'Carbhoy.' I heard one of 'em
use the name. And I heard the feller called 'Carbhoy' tell him to
close his map. Not just in them words, but the sort of words a
millionaire might use. That gang are guests of Mallinsbee. Wher' they
are now I can't say. I didn't drive 'em back."
It was small enough wonder that the conflagration of excitement fairly
swallowed up the town of vultures. The Buffalo Point interests
intended it to do so. Nor could their agents have been better
selected. They were established citizens who came into contact with
the whole floating population of the place. They were above suspicion,
and they just simply laughed and talked and pushed their pinpricks
home, preparing the way for the _denouement_.
On the Monday following, the effect of their work began to show itself.
Amongst other visitations Mallinsbee was invaded by a deputation
representing large real-estate interests.
Under Gordon's management the office had been entirely converted. Now
the original parlor office had been turned over to the use of the
clerical staff. The bedroom Gordon had occupied had become
Mallinsbee's private office, and the other bedroom had been made into
an office for Gordon himself. There was no longer any appearance of a
makeshift about the place. It was an organized commercial
establishment ready for the transaction of any business, from battling
with a royal eagle of commerce down to the plucking of the half-fledged
pigeon.
The deputation arrived in the morning, and consisted of Mr. Cyrus P.
Laker and Mr. Abe Chester. These two men represented two Chicago
real-estate corporations who were prepared to shed dollars that ran
into six figures in a "right" enterprise.
The rancher had been notified of their coming, and had sat in
consultation with Gordon for half an hour before their arrival. When
the clerk showed them into Mallinsbee's private office they found him
fully equipped, with his hideous patch over one eye, and Gordon sitting
near by at a small table under the window.
Abe Chester overflowed the chair the clerk set for him, and Laker
possessed himself of another. They were in sharp contrast, these two.
One was lean and tall, the other was squat and breathed asthmatically.
But both were men of affairs, and equal to every move in a deal.
The tall man opened the case, with his keen eyes searching the baffling
face of the rancher. Just for one moment he had doubtfully eyed
Gordon's figure, so intently bent over his work, but Mallinsbee had
reassured him with the words, "My confidential secretary."
Mr. Laker assumed an air of simple frankness.
"Our errand is a simple one, Mr. Mallinsbee," he began in hollow tones
which seemed to emanate from somewhere in the region of his highly
shined shoes. Then he smiled vaguely, a smile which Gordon mentally
registered as being "childlike," as he observed it out of the corners
of his eyes. "We are looking for two little pieces of information
which you, as a business man, will appreciate as being a justifiable
search on our part. You see, we are open to negotiating a deal of
several hundred thousand dollars, of course depending on the
information being satisfactory."
"There's several rumors afloat that maybe you can confirm or deny,"
broke in Abe Chester shortly. His _confrere's_ "high-brow" methods, as
he termed them, irritated him.
"Just so," agreed Laker suavely. "Two rumors which affect the
situation very nearly. The first is, is it a fact that the President
of the Union Grayling and Ukataw Railroad is your guest at the present
moment? The second is, there is a rumor afloat that the railroad
company are actually preparing to build their depot here. Is this so?"
Mallinsbee's expression was annoyingly obscure. Mr. Laker felt that he
was smiling, but Abe Chester was convinced that a smile was not within
a mile of his large features. Both men were agreed, however, that they
distrusted that eye-patch.
Gordon awaited the rancher's reply with amused patience. It came in
the rumbling, heavy voice so like an organ note, after a duly
thoughtful pause.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, with the air of a man who has bestowed a
weight of consideration upon his answer, "you have put what a legal
mind maybe 'ud consider 'leading' questions. Not having a legal mind,
but just the mind of an _honest_ trader, I'll say they certainly are
_some_ questions. However, it don't seem to me they'll prejudice a
thing answering 'em straight. You are yearning to deal--well, so am I;
an' if my answer's going to help things that way, why, I thank you for
asking. Mr. Carbhoy is my guest at this moment. How long he'll remain
my guest I can't just say. You see, he's going along to the coast when
we're through fixing things right for Buffalo Point. That answers your
first question, I guess. The second's even easier. The railroad's
engineers will be right here with plans and specifications and
materials and workers for building the depot at Buffalo Point on
_Wednesday noon_."
Abe Chester drew a short asthmatical breath. His leaner companion
smiled cadaverously.
"Then it will give us both much pleasure to talk business," said the
latter.
"Sure," agreed Chester, sparing words which cost him so much breath, of
which he possessed such a small supply.
Mallinsbee pushed cigars towards them. He felt the occasion needed
their moral support.
"Help yourselves, gentlemen," he said. "Guess it'll make us talk
better. There's a whole heap of talk coming."
The two men helped themselves, tenderly pressing the cigars and
smelling them. The rancher took one himself, with the certainty of its
quality, and lit it.
"A lot to talk about?" inquired Mr. Laker, not without misgivings.
"Why, yes." The rancher pulled deeply at his cigar and examined the
ash thoughtfully. "Yes," he went on after a moment, "I guess I'll have
to say quite a piece before you talk money. You see, I'd just like you
to understand the position. It's perhaps a bit difficult. This scheme
has been lying around quite a time, inviting folks to put money into it
at a profitable price to themselves. A number of wise friends of mine
have taken the opportunity and are in, good and snug. There's a number
of others hadn't the grit. Maybe I don't just blame them. You see, it
was some gamble, and needed folks who could take a chance. Wall, those
days are past. There's no gamble now. It's as good as American double
eagles. You see, Snake's will just become a sort of flag station,
while Buffalo Point will sit around in a halo of glory with a brand-new
swell depot. It's been some work handling this proposition, and the
folks interested, including the Bude and Sideley Coal Company, need a
deal of compensation for their work. Personally, I am not selling a
single frontage now until the depot is well on the way. In short, I
need a fancy price. In conclusion, gentlemen, let me say quite plainly
that what I would have sold originally for three figures will now, or
rather when the time comes, cost four--and maybe even five."
"You mean to shut us out," snapped Abe Chester.
"Is it graft?" inquired Laker, with something between a sneer and anger.
"Call it what you like," said Mallinsbee coldly. "I've told you the
plain facts, as I shall tell everybody else. Those who want to get in
on the Buffalo Point boom will have to pay money for it--good money. I
think that is all I have to say, gentlemen."