McGlory found his way to the address in Liberty Street without any
difficulty. But he was too early. The Stock Exchange had not yet
opened, and only a few clerks were at work in the brokerage offices of
Random & Griggs.
The cowboy sat down in a room where there were a number of chairs
facing a big blackboard. There were a stepladder and a chair in front
of the blackboard, and off to one side was a machine in a glass case
with a high basket standing under it. A ribbon of paper hung from
the machine into the basket. This, of course, was the “ticker” which
received and recorded the quotations of stocks at the Exchange, but it
was not yet time for it to begin work.
McGlory and Matt were at least an hour too early in setting about their
morning’s business.
While the cowboy sat in his chair in front of the blackboard, wondering
how long he could wait for Random or Griggs and yet be at the Flatiron
Building as per appointment with Matt, a man sauntered in, looked at an
office boy who was just going out with an armful of ticker tape, and
then approached McGlory.
He was the gentleman in the noisy apparel--he of the cigar, and the
newspaper, and the listening ear and scheming brain. He was playing
boldly, for the stakes were worth the risk.
“Young man,” said he to McGlory, “are you waiting for some one?”
“I’m waiting for one of the big high boys that boss the layout,”
answered McGlory.
“Indeed!” The man flashed a quick look around and made sure that only
he and McGlory were in the room. “Well,” he went on, “I am Mr. Random.”
“Fine!” exclaimed the cowboy, getting up. “I’m Joe McGlory, from the
land of sun, sand, solitude, and pay-streaks. I’ve run in here to----”
McGlory got no further. Random grabbed his hand effusively.
“We’ve been expecting you,” said he. “We have a meeting of the
syndicate on Wednesday evening, and a letter from the colonel gives
your name and informs us that you will be on deck with the bullion from
the test run of the mill. If the gold shows up properly, there’s no
doubt about our people coming across with the money. But we can’t talk
here--some one is liable to drop in on us at any moment. This business
is private, very private. Come with me, Mr. McGlory, and I’ll find a
place where we can have a little star-chamber session.”
“I don’t want to tear you away from business,” protested McGlory.
Random waved his hand deprecatingly.
“Griggs will look after the office,” said he. “This ‘Pauper’s Dream’
matter is a big deal to swing, and I guess it’s worth a few hours of my
time. This way.”
Random walked out into Liberty Street, rounded a corner, entered a
door, passed through a barroom, and finally piloted the cowboy into a
small apartment, furnished with two chairs, a table, and an electric
fan.
After he and McGlory had seated themselves, Random pushed an electric
button. A waiter appeared.
“What are you drinking, Mr. McGlory?” inquired Random. “I can recommend
their Scotch highballs, and as for cocktails, they put up a dry Martini
here that goes down like oil, and stirs you up like a torchlight
procession.”
“Elegant!” cackled McGlory. “I reckon, neighbor,” and he cocked up his
eye at the waiter, “that I’ll trouble you for a seltzer lemonade, mixed
with a pickled cherry and the cross-section of a ripe orange.”
“You don’t mean to say that you’re from Arizona, and don’t irrigate!”
gasped Random.
“We irrigate with water, and that’s always been good enough for your
Uncle Joseph. Besides, I’m training with Motor Matt, and our work calls
for a clear brain and a steady hand. Seltzer lemonade for mine.”
“You’ll have a cigar?”
“That’s another thing I miss in the high jump.”
“Give me the same as usual, Jack,” said Random, to the waiter. “You’re
a lad of high principles, I see,” remarked the broker, when the waiter
had retired.
“It’s a matter of business, rather than of principle. Whenever an
_hombre_ gets his trouble appetite worked up, the first thing he
does is to take on a cargo of red-eye. That points him straight for
fireworks and fatalities.”
“I don’t know but you’re right,” said Random reflectively.
The waiter returned, and Random mixed himself something while McGlory
fished around in his lemonade for the “pickled” cherry. Over their
glasses they talked at some length, the broker seeking information
about the section of Arizona where the colonel had begun operations on
the “Pauper’s Dream.”
“What time is it, Mr. Random?” asked McGlory, in the midst of their
talk.
“Just ten,” replied Random, with a look at his watch.
“Sufferin’ schedules!” cried the cowboy, starting up. “I’m to meet Pard
Matt at ten, at the Flatiron Building. On my way there, I’ve got to
drop in at the bank.”
“Why are you to call at the bank?” asked Random.
“To find out whether the bullion has got here, and to show them my
order for it from the colonel.”
“You have the order with you?”
“Sure thing. Just got it this morning.”
“It won’t be necessary for you to go to the bank, Mr. McGlory,” said
Random. “I’ve been there, myself, and I know the bullion has arrived.
As for showing the order, you won’t have to do that until you take out
the gold, on Wednesday.”
“Wouldn’t it be a good scheme to get acquainted with the bank men?”
“Not at all! If they doubt your authority to receive the bullion, in
spite of the colonel’s order, a word from me will make everything all
right. I believe I will go with you to the Flatiron Building. I’ve
heard of this Motor Matt, and should like to meet him.”
McGlory wondered a little at the cheerful way in which Random left
Griggs to look after the brokerage business; at the same time, the
cowboy felt not a little flattered to have Random neglect his personal
affairs for the purpose of meeting Matt.
A cab carried them to the Flatiron Building, and Random waited on the
walk while McGlory went bushwhacking for Matt. But Matt wasn’t in
evidence.
“Perhaps he got tired waiting for you,” suggested Random, “and went
away?”
“Nary, he wouldn’t,” returned the puzzled McGlory, “I reckon he’s
talking with an aviator, upstairs, and has lost track of the time. I’ll
go find Lafitte, and, ten to one, my pard will be with him. Wait here
for a brace of shakes, Mr. Random, and----”
Just then a man pushed forward from the entrance to the cigar store.
The man wore a cap and gloves, and looked like a chauffeur.
“I beg your pardon,” said he, addressing McGlory, “but are you Motor
Matt’s chum?”
“That’s me,” answered the cowboy.
“McGlory’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Joe McGlory, that’s the label.”
“Well, Motor Matt had a hurry-up call into the country. It’s a long
ride, and he went by automobile. He wants you to follow him, and he
hired me to wait for you and then take you after him. That’s my chug
cart,” and the man pointed to a red touring car at the curb.
“Speak to me about this!” cried McGlory. “What’s to pay? Do you know?”
“Motor Matt didn’t say. All he wanted was for me to follow him with you
in my car.”
“I’ll bet a bushel of Mexican dollars it has something to do with
Lafitte,” hazarded the cowboy. “Of course, I’ll go. Mr. Random,” and he
turned to the broker, “I’m sorry you couldn’t meet up with my pard, but
I’ll bring him around to your office Wednesday.”
“Just a minute, Mr. McGlory,” and the broker took the cowboy’s hand and
drew him to one side. “I don’t like the looks of this thing,” he went
on, in a low tone.
“How’s that?” asked McGlory, surprised.
“I don’t know, but I’ve got a presentiment that something’s wrong.”
“There’s something unexpected happened to Pard Matt,” said McGlory, “or
he wouldn’t have piked off like this. But his orders are clear enough.
I’m to follow him, so it’s me for the country.”
“Perhaps,” and Random wrinkled his brows, “this has something to do
with the ‘Pauper’s Dream.’”
McGlory laughed incredulously.
“I can’t see how,” he answered.
“Neither can I, but it’s possible, all the same. We’re to get a good
fat commission for placing that property, and I don’t intend to let the
commission slip through my fingers.”
“It’s a cinch, Mr. Random, that you’re barking up the wrong tree. This
business of Matt’s has more to do with flying machines than with mines,
and I’ll bet my moccasins on it.”
“If you haven’t any objections, Mr. McGlory, I’d like to ride with you
and make sure.”
“The shuffer says it’s a long trip.”
“I don’t care how long it is, just so I can assure myself that nothing
is going crossways with the ‘Pauper’s Dream.’”
“All right, neighbor. If that’s how you feel about it, you’re welcome
to one corner of the bubble-wagon.”
The three of them climbed into the touring car, Random in front with
the driver, and McGlory in the tonneau. As soon as they were seated,
the car began working its way through the crowded streets toward a
section less congested with traffic. As the way cleared, the speed
increased. Once on the Pelham Road, the chauffeur “hit ’er up,” and the
red car devoured the miles in a way that brought joy to McGlory’s soul.
When they passed a taxicab, with its nose rammed into a stone fence,
the chauffeur remarked that the taxi was a good ways from home. Mr.
Random looked thoughtful, but he made no request that the red car
slacken its speed. McGlory saw a young fellow sitting on a bowlder,
but the spectacle afforded by the taxicab and the supposed youth meant
nothing to him. His mind was circling about Motor Matt.