"Show him!"
"Yes. He must see his son Howard take the money."
Bodney stood up and looked down upon him. "Goyle, are you a fool, or do
you take me for one? Must see Howard take the money! What do you mean?
Do you think I can bribe Howard to take it? I don't understand you."
"Sit down," said Goyle, and Bodney obeyed, looking at him. Goyle
lighted a cigarette, turned and pointed to the valise. "The thief is in
that grip, and the Judge must see him take the money from the safe.
Listen to me a minute. Among my numerous accomplishments I number
several failures--one as an actor. But we learn more from a failure
than from a success. All right. I heard Howard say that tonight he is
going to a reception. In that grip is his semblance--make-up. At the
proper time, after Howard is gone, you must lead the Judge in here and
see me, as Howard, take money from the safe. On the mother's account
the old man can be made to keep quiet--to hold his tongue, and not even
say anything to his son. He changes his combination, the affair blows
over--and we've got the money."
"Monstrous!" exclaimed Bodney, jumping up and glaring at Goyle.
"Do you think so? Sit down."
Bodney sat down. "Yes, I do think so," he said.
"What, the crime or the--"
"Both. And the trick! Anybody could see through it. It's nonsense,
it's rot."
"Yes? Now, let me tell you, Brother Bodney, that life itself is but a
trick. The world worships a trick--art, literature, music--all tricks.
And what sort of art is the most successful? Bold art. What sort of
scoundrel is the most admired by the world? The bold scoundrel. Bold
art, my boy."
"But art has its limits and its rules," Bodney feebly protested.
Goyle dropped the stub of his cigarette upon the floor. "Yes, rules for
imitators to follow. Originals break rules. Rules are made by
weaklings to hamper the success of the strong. You've got to take the
right view of life," he said, slowly lifting his hand and slowly letting
it drop upon his knee. "We are living in the nervous atmosphere of
adventure and bold trickery. The spirit of this town hates the
stagnant; we wipe our muddy feet on tradition. To us the pig squeal of
the present is sweeter than the flute of the past. You and I are
intellectual failures, and why? The town is against us. Put an
advertisement in tomorrow morning's newspaper--'Graduates of Harvard and
Yale wanted, fifteen dollars a week,' and see how many answers you'll
get. A cartload--and from men who were turned out prepared to fight the
battle of life. Think of it. The man who has had his mind trained to
failure, whose teaching has made him a refined weakling, with a mind
full of quotations and mystic theories--that man has a cause to be
avenged upon life, upon society for misleading him. Hear them laughing
in there? You don't hear me laughing. I've got nothing to laugh about.
You and I know that there isn't any future beyond this infernal life.
Then, why hesitate to do anything that works toward our advantage here?
I'm talking to your reason now. We have gambled, and we have lost." He
turned and shook his finger at the valise. "The thief, I tell you, is
in that grip, and he will get us out. If it fails, of course, we are
done for, but we are done for if we don't try. I know it's a bold
trick, but that's in its favor. It's too bold to be expected or
understood. It's no time to think of gratitude. We've got to act.
Give me the combination."
They got up, and Bodney stood trembling. He seemed to be struggling to
break loose from something that held him in its grasp. Goyle gazed into
his eyes. Bodney put up his hand as if to shield them from a dazzling
light.
"Give me the combination."
Bodney tore loose from the something that seemed to be gripping him, and
started on a run toward the door. Goyle caught him, put his hand on
him, held him.
"I hear them coming. Give me that piece of paper."
Bodney gave him a slip of paper. Goyle took up the valise. "Come on,"
he said, and Bodney followed him out through the door leading into the
passage.
*CHAPTER II.*
*THE FAMILY JOKE.*
The Judge, his brother William and the Rev. Mr. Bradley entered the
office. "Yes, sir," said the Judge, "I'm delighted that you have been
called to Chicago. We are full of enterprise here, religious as well as
secular. Sit down. And we push religious matters, Mr. Bradley. Here
everything takes up the vigorous character of the town. You know that
one of our poets has said that when the time comes we'll make culture
hum." Bradley sat down, smiling. "William," said the Judge, still
standing, "can't you find a chair?"
"Oh, I believe so," William replied, sitting down. "But why do you make
everybody sit down and then stand up yourself? Mr. Bradley, my brother
John is a browbeater. He forgets that he ain't always on the bench."
The Judge winked at Bradley, and laughed. He was full of good humor,
sniffing about on the scent of a prank, and when all other resources
failed, he had the reserve fund of his brother, the family joke, the
humorous necessity.
"You remember," said Bradley, "I told you, some time ago, that it was my
ambition to have a charge here."
The Judge, standing in front of him, began to make convincing motions
with his finger, laying down the law, as William termed it. "It's the
field, Bradley. You can raise more money in a church here than--"
"Oh, it is not that, Judge," the preacher broke in. "Chicago presents a
fertile opportunity for doing good, for making men better, life more
worth living, and--"
"Death more certain," William suggested.
"My brother doesn't like it here," said the Judge.
Bradley turned his mild eyes upon the brother and in the form of a
question, said, "No?"
William cleared his husky throat. "I have lived further West, where a
fellow may make you get out of a stage-coach at the muzzle of a pistol,
but he won't sneak up and slip his hand into your pocket."
"My brother took a whirl at the board of trade," said the Judge. He sat
down, lighted a cigar, and offered one to Bradley. "Won't you smoke?"
"Not now," Bradley answered. "I am trying to break myself."
"Go down to the board of trade," William suggested. The Judge laughed,
and looked as if he were proud of his family joke. "Won't you smoke,
William?"
"No," replied the humorous necessity, "I'll wait till I go to my room
and then smoke sure enough--a pipe."
"Smoke it here."
"No, I'll put it off--always enjoy it more then. I recollect the tenth
of June, sixty-three--was it the tenth or the eleventh? Anyway, a party
of us were going--it was the eleventh. Yes, the eleventh. I was only a
young fellow at the time, but I liked a pipe, and on that day--no, it
must have been the tenth. John, did I say the eleventh?"
"I think you hung a little in favor of the eleventh, William." He
winked at Bradley. "And I was sorry to see it, too, for of all the days
in June, the tenth is my favorite."
William looked at him and cleared his throat, but the Judge wore the
mask of seriousness. The brother proceeded: "Well, I'm reasonably
certain it was the tenth. Yes. Well, on the tenth of June,
sixty-three, a party of us were going over to--yes, the tenth--over
to--"
"Hold on a moment," said the Judge. "Are you quite sure it was the
tenth? We want it settled, don't we, Bradley? Of course, you are much
younger than we are, Bradley, but you are old enough to enter into the
importance of this thing. As far as he can, a preacher should be as
exact as a judge." Bradley nodded, laughing, and the flame of William's
anger burst forth.'
"Confound it, John, don't you suppose I know?"
"I hope so, William," said the Judge.