IV

Fitz did not take a degree at Oxford. He left in the middle of his last

term, leaving many friends behind. He stood well, and had been in no

especial difficulty of mischief, and why he left was a mystery. The

truth of the matter is that he had been planning for ten years to leave

Oxford in the very middle of his last term. For upon that date fell his

twenty-first birthday, when he was to be his own man. He spent a few

hours in his mother's house in London. And, of course, she tried to make

him go back and finish, and was very much upset, for her. But Fitz

was obdurate.

"If it were Yale, or Princeton, or Harvard, or Berkeley, or Squedunk,"

he said, "I would stick it out. But a degree from Oxford isn't worth six

weeks of home."

"But aren't you going to wait till I can go with you?"

"If you'll go with me to-night you shall have my state-room, and I'll

sleep on the coal. But if you can't go till to-morrow, mother mine, I

will not wait. I have cabled my father," said he, "to meet me at

quarantine."

"Your poor, busy father," she said, "will hardly feel like running on

from Cleveland to meet a boy who is coming home without a degree."

"My father," said Fitz, "will be at quarantine. He will come out in a

tug. And he will arrange to take me off and put me ashore before the

others. If the ship is anywhere near on schedule my father and I will be

in time to see a ball game at the Polo Grounds."

Something in the young man's honest face and voice aroused an answering

enthusiasm in his mother's heart.

"Oh, Fitz," she said, "if I could possibly manage it I would go with

you. Tell your father that I am sailing next week. I won't cable.

Perhaps he'll be surprised and pleased."

"I _know_ he will," said Fitz, and he folded his mother in his arms and

rumpled her hair on one side and then on the other.

* * * * *

Those who beheld, and who, because of the wealth of the principal

personages, took notice of the meeting between Fitz and his father, say

that Fitz touched his father's cheek with his lips as naturally and

unaffectedly as if he had been three years old, that a handshake between

the two men accompanied this salute, and that Williams senior was heard

to remark that it had looked like rain early in the morning, but that

now it didn't, and that he had a couple of seats for the ball game. What

he really said was inside, neither audible nor visible upon his

smooth-shaven, care-wrinkled face. It was an outcry of the heart, so

joyous as to resemble grief.

There was a young and pretty widow on that ship who had made much of

Fitz on the way out and had pretended that she understood him. She

thought that she had made an impression, and that, whatever happened, he

would not forget her. But when he rushed up, his face all joyous, to say

good-by, her heart sank. And she told her friends afterward that there

was a certain irresistible, orphan-like appeal about that young

Williams, and that she had felt like a mother toward him. But this was

not till very much later. At first she used to shut herself up in her

room and cry her eyes out.

They lunched at an uptown hotel and afterward, smoking big cigars, they

drove to a hatter's and bought straw hats, being very critical of each

other's fit and choice.

Then they hurried up to the Polo Grounds, and when it began to get

exciting in the fifth inning, Fitz felt his father pressing something

into his hand. Without taking his eyes from Wagsniff, who was at the

bat, Fitz put that something into his mouth and began to chew. The two

brothers--for that is the high relationship achieved sometimes in

America, and in America alone, between father and son--thrust their new

straw hats upon the backs of their round heads, humped themselves

forward, and rested with their elbows on their knees and watched--no,

that is your foreigner's attitude toward a contest--they _played_

the game.

I cannot leave them thus without telling the reader that they survived

the almost fatal ninth, when, with the score 3-2 against, two out and a

man on first, Wagsniff came once more to the bat and, swinging cunningly

at the very first ball pitched to him by the famous Mr. Blatherton,

lifted it over the centrefielder's head and trotted around the bases

and, grinning like a Hallowe'en pumpkin, came romping home.

At dinner that night Williams senior said suddenly:

"Fitz, what you do want to do?"

A stranger would have thought that Fitz was being asked to choose

between a theatre and a roof-garden, but Fitz knew that an entirely

different question was involved in those casually spoken words. He was

being asked off-hand to state off-hand what he was going to do with his

young life. But he had his answer waiting.

"I want to see the world," he said.

Williams senior, as a rule, thought things out in his own mind and did

not press for explanations. But on the present occasion he asked:

"As how?"

Fitz smiled very youthfully and winningly.

"I've seen some of it," he said, "right side up. Now I want to have a

look upside-down. If I go into something of yours--as myself--I don't

get a show. I'm marked. The other clerks would swipe to me, and the

heads would credit me with brains before I showed whether I had any or

not. I want you to get me a job in Wall Street--under any other name

than my own--except Percy"--they both laughed--"your first name and

mamma's maiden name would do--James Holden. And nobody here knows me by

sight, I've been abroad so much; and it seems to me I'd get an honest

point of view and find out if I was any good or not, and if I could get

myself liked for myself or not."

"Well," said his father; "well, that's an idea, anyhow."

"I've had valets and carriages and luxuries all my life," said Fitz. "I

think I like them. But I don't _know_--do I? I've never tried the other

thing. I'm sure I don't want to be an underpaid clerk always. But I am

sure I want to try it on for a while."

"I was planning," said his father, "to take a car and run about the

country with you and show you all the different enterprises that I'm

interested in. I thought you'd make a choice, find something you liked,

and go into it for a starter. If you're any good you can go pretty far

with me pulling for you. You don't like that idea?"

"Not for now," said Fitz. "I like mine better."

"Do you want to live on what you earn?"

"If I can stand it."

"You'll be started with ten dollars a week, say. Can you do it?"

"What did grandpa start on?" asked Fitz.

"His board, two suits of clothes, and twenty-four dollars a year," said

William senior with a proud ring in his voice.

"And you?"

"I began at the bottom, too. That was the old-fashioned idea. Father

was rich then. But he wanted me to show that I was some good."

"Did grandpa pull for you, or did you have to find yourself?"

"Well," said the father diffidently, "I had a natural taste for

business. But," and he smiled at his son, "I shouldn't live on what you

earn, if I were you. You needn't spend much, but have a good time out of

hours. You'll find yourself working side by side with other sons of rich

men. And you can bet your bottom dollar _they_ don't live on what they

can earn. Unless you make a display of downright wealth you'll be judged

on your merits. That's what you're driving at, isn't it?"

So they compromised on that point; and the next morning they went

downtown and called upon Mr. Merriman, the great banker. He and Williams

had been in many deals together, and on one historic occasion had

supported prices and loaned so much ready money on easy terms as to

avert a panic.

"John," said Williams senior, "my son Fitz."

"Well, sir," said Merriman, only his eyes smiling, "you don't look like

a foreigner."

"I'm not," said Fitz stoutly.

"In that case," said Merriman, "what can I do for you?"

"I want to be called James Holden," said Fitz, "and to have a job in

your office."

Merriman listened to the reasons with interest and amusement. Then he

turned to Williams senior. "May I drive him?" he asked grimly.

"If you can," said Fitz's father. And he laughed.

Finally, it was arranged that, in his own way, Fitz was to see the

world.

V

Fitz's experiment in finding himself and getting himself liked for

himself alone was a great failure. He had not been in Mr. Merriman's

employ two hours before he found that he disliked long sums in addition,

and had made friends with Wilson Carrol, who worked next to him. Indeed,

Fitz made friends with everybody in the office inside of two weeks, and

was responsible for a great deal of whispering and hanging out of back

windows for a puff of smoke. Nobody but Mr. Merriman knew who he was,

where he came from, or what his prospects were. Everybody liked him--for

himself. Rich or poor, it must have been the same. His idea that

character, if he had it, would tell in the long run proved erroneous. It

told right away.

Wilson Carrol and half a dozen other clerks in the office were the sons

of rich men, put to work because of the old-fashioned idea that

everybody ought to work, and at the same time pampered, according to the

modern idea, with comfortable allowances over and beyond their pay.

With one or other of these young men for companion, and presently for

friend, Fitz began to lead the agreeable summer life of New York's

well-to-do youth. He allowed himself enough money to keep his end up,

but did not allow himself any especial extravagances or luxuries. He

played his part well, appearing less well off than Carrol, and more so

than young Prout, with whom he got into much mischief in the office.

Whatever these young gentlemen had to spend they were always hard up.

Fitz did likewise. If you dined gloriously at Sherry's and had a box at

the play you made up for it the next night by a chop at Smith's and a

cooling ride in a ferry-boat, say to Staten Island and back. Saturday

you got off early and went to Long Island or Westchester for tennis and

a swim, and lived till Monday in a luxurious house belonging to a

fellow-clerk's father, or were put up at the nearest country club.

Downtown that summer there was nothing exciting going on. The market

stood still upon very small transactions, and there was no real work for

any one but the book-keepers. The more Fitz saw of the science of

addition the less he thought of it, but he did what he had to do (no

more) and drew his pay every Saturday with pride. Once, there being a

convenient legal holiday to fatten the week-end, he went to Newport with

Carrol and got himself so much liked by all the Carrol family that he

received and accepted an invitation to spend his long holiday with them.

He and Carrol had arranged with the powers to take their two weeks off

at the same time--from the fifteenth to the end of August. And during

business hours they kept their heads pretty close together and did much

plotting and planning in whispers.

But Mrs. Carrol herself was to have a finger in that vacation. The

presence in her house of two presentable young men was an excellent

excuse for paying off dinner debts and giving a lawn party and a ball.

Even at Newport there are never enough men to go round, and with two

whole ones for a basis much may be done. The very night of their arrival

they "ran into" a dinner-party, as Carrol expressed it. It was a large

dinner; and the young men, having got to skylarking over their dressing

(contrary to Mrs. Carrol's explicit orders) descended to a drawing-room

already full of people. Carrol knew them all, even the famous new

beauty; but Fitz--or James Holden, rather--had, except for the Carrols,

but a nodding acquaintance with one or two of the men. He felt shy, and

blushed very becomingly while trying to explain to Mrs. Carrol how he

and Wilson happened to be so unfortunate as to be late.

"Well," she said, "I'm not going to punish you this time. You are to

take Miss Burton in."

"Which is Miss Burton?" asked Fitz, on whose memory at the moment the

name made no impression.

"Do you see seven or eight men in the corner," she said, "who look as if

they were surrounding a punch-bowl?"

"Miss Burton is the punch-bowl?" he asked.

"All those men want to take her in," said Mrs. Carrol, "and you're going

to make them all very jealous."

Dinner was announced, and Mrs. Carrol, with Fitz in tow, swept down upon

the group of men. It parted reluctantly and disclosed, lolling happily

in a deep chair, the most beautiful girl in the world. She came to her

feet in the quickest, prettiest way imaginable, and spoke to Mrs. Carrol

in the young Ellen Terry voice, with its little ghost of a French

accent. Fitz did not hear what she said or what Mrs. Carrol answered. He

only knew that his heart was thumping against his ribs, and that a

moment later he was being introduced as Mr. Holden, and that Eve did not

know him from Adam.

Presently she laid the tips of her fingers on his arm, and they were

going in to dinner.

"I think Mrs. Carrol's a dear," said Fitz, "to give me you to take in

and to sit next to. I always wanted people to like me, but now all the

men hate me. I can feel it in the small of my back, and I like it. Do

you know how you feel in spring--the day the first crocuses come out?

That's the way it makes me feel."

She turned her great, smiling eyes upon him and laughed. The laugh died

away. His young, merry face had a grim, resolved look. So his father

looked at critical times.

"I thought you were joking--rather feebly," she said.

"I don't know," said he, "that I shall ever joke again."

"You make your mind up very quickly," she said.

"The men of my family all do," he said. "But it isn't my mind that's

made up."

Something of the girl's stately and exquisite poise forsook her. Her

eyes wore a hunted look for a moment. She even felt obliged to laugh to

cover her confusion.

"It's my heart," said Fitz. "I saw you--and that is all there is to it."

"Aren't you in something of a hurry?" she asked, her eyes twinkling. She

had felt for a moment like a soldier surprised without weapons. But now,

once more, she felt herself armed _cap à pie_.

"I've got to be," said Fitz. "I'm a bank clerk on a two weeks' vacation,

of which the first day is gone."

She was sorry that he was a bank clerk; it had a poor and meagre sound.

It was not for him that she had been trained. She had been made to slave

for herself, and was to make a "continental" marriage with the highest

bidder. Eve's heart had been pretty well schooled out of her, and yet,

before dinner came to an end, she found herself wishing that among the

high bidders might be one very young, like the man at her side, with

eyes as honest, and who, to express admiration, beat about no bushes.

Later, when they said good-by, Fitz said:

"It would be good for me to see you to-morrow."

And she said:

"Would it be good for _me_?" and laughed.

"Yes," he said firmly, "it would."

"Why?" she asked.

"To-morrow at four," said Fitz, "I shall come for you and take you

around the Cliff Walk and tell you."

She made no promise. But the next day, when Fitz called at the cottage

which Mrs. Burton, by scraping and saving these many years, had managed

to take for the season, Eve was at home--and she was alone.