I
“So that’s why I missed you in San Francisco four years ago!” Brainard
exclaimed. “Because you wanted to write a play!”
He threw back his head and laughed as if the idea was peculiarly
ironical.
“Yes!” the ex-reporter Farson replied, with an echo of Brainard’s irony.
“You see I had always meant to be a playwright and took to reporting to
make a living. When you came along and gave me that five hundred for
helping you crack the safe and get away with the contents, I chucked the
newspaper job and moved on to Broadway—been here ever since.”
“Well, how has it gone?”
Farson’s face wrinkled comically.
“I haven’t quite persuaded Broadway that I am another Sardou. In fact
the only creation of mine that ever saw the footlights is a melodrama,
founded on our adventures that evening in Frisco. And I sold that for
fifty dollars to a western syndicate. I have never heard from it since.
I need hardly say it does not satisfy my aspirations.”
“So you went back to reporting?”
“Of a kind,” the young man replied with a sudden attempt to become
important. “I am on the staff of _Bunker’s Magazine_.”
“And they sent you here to interview me!” Brainard laughed again.
“_Bunker’s_ thought that the public would be interested in your rapid
rise into the limelight, and as I had some experience in the great West
they sent me to extract from you the crude ore of a personal document
article,” Farson explained with engaging impudence, glancing
appreciatively at his subject.
The interview happened to take place in the parlor of a suite in the same
large hotel on Fifth Avenue from which almost exactly four years before
Brainard had slunk away with the manuscript of his rejected play in his
pocket, and had thence wended his way disconsolately homeward to meet the
fate that whirled him on during four years of exciting adventure.
Numerous trunks and other impedimenta cluttered the room, indicating that
the miner, who in the words of Farson “had succeeded in climbing into the
limelight” had but just arrived from Arizona and did not yet know that he
needed a man servant.
Through the open windows came the roar of the traffic on the avenue, so
long unfamiliar to the miner’s ears. He rose from the table, where over
a bottle of wine he had been telling the magazine man something about the
wonderful Melody mine, and gazed out of the window into the seething
stream of humanity below. This unexpected meeting with the reporter of
the _Despatch_ who had helped him in his first exploit with Krutzmacht’s
fortune had brought to his memory sharply the great contrast between his
last appearance in New York and the present.
His face, now adorned by a mustache and a short brown beard, which the
hotel barber had not yet had an opportunity to trim to an artistic point,
was reddened and roughened by exposure to the fierce Arizona sun. His
hands were large and coarse, as if they had handled every instrument but
the pen. His whole person had filled out solidly, and he walked with the
awkward gait of one accustomed to the saddle rather than the motor car.
But what occupied his mind at this moment was the curious consciousness
of that other self, so vastly different, so inconceivably discouraged and
weak, whom he could see down below on the pavement, dragging his thin
body through the April mist. Whole worlds separated the two! . . .
The magazine man disturbed his revery by a question.
“You went out there after copper in the first place, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Brainard said, turning with a twinkle in his eyes, “I went after
copper and got sulfur instead! That often happens in life.”
“You went out there as a rank greenhorn,” Farson translated, “and come
back as the chief representative on this earth of his satanic
majesty,—the Sulfur King.”
“The Sulfur King!” Brainard repeated with an appreciative chuckle.
“That’s good. Are you going to write me up for _Bunker’s_ as the Sulfur
King?”
“You had rather have me do that than play you up as a successful
safe-breaker?”
Farson looked at the miner with admiration mixed with a little envy,
perhaps, as one to whom splendid chances of living had come. From the
professional point of view Brainard would make excellent material for
eulogy as type of “the man who does things,” so ardently beloved by
magazine editors.
“Do whatever you like with me,” Brainard remarked slowly. “You couldn’t
make it too wonderful,—nor explain it all. . . . Do you know that four
years ago, just at nightfall like this, I stood out there in the crowd,
wondering how I could best spend my last quarter for a meal? I never
dreamed I should be looking down from this window some day!”
He chuckled quietly to himself over the picture. The magazine man
pricked his ears for “the human interest note,” divining a life story,
and hinted broadly:
“What really put you into mining, after you left Frisco?”
“How did I get to Arizona? Oh, that’s a long story. I went by way of
Mexico and Paris and New York. Help yourself to another cigar.”
After a few moments he added in a less joking tone,—“I went out there in
search of an heir to Krutzmacht’s property. I didn’t find her—instead I
found the Melody mine!”
“I’d like to hear that story,” Farson said quickly, with the keen scent
of the old newspaper man.
Brainard shook his head.
“Not to-day—perhaps sometime. . . . But not for publication—that! I’ve
given you one good newspaper scoop four years ago, and this thing for
your magazine. But the other I’ll keep for myself.”
Farson’s face expressed a momentary disappointment. But he merely
remarked:
“I’ve often wondered about you ever since I helped you aboard the ferry
with that big bag. Got it still?”
“Yes, what’s left of it.” . . .
Frank as Brainard had become under the influences of his new life and
much as he was attracted by the careless, good-humored young newspaper
man, he could not bring himself to tell him the intimate details of his
story, which in his feelings was so much more concerned with his unknown
mistress than with himself. Ever since that evening when he had stood in
the abandoned house above the Arizona desert, surrounded by the mute
evidences of the girl’s existence, he had prosecuted vigorously the
search for the elusive Melody, using every means known to him—and all in
vain. There had been no clew whatever that led beyond the railroad
tracks. Neither in San Francisco, where he had looked first, nor in New
Orleans, where he had gone in the hope of finding some trace of the
girl’s mother, nor in New York, where the old German was well known,
could he learn anything definite of Krutzmacht’s family affairs. There
were many who had known the business man, but as sometimes happens the
business man had admitted no one into his personal confidence.
After the first few months of this search, when forced finally to fall
back upon the usual devices of advertising and employing detectives,
Brainard returned to Monument,—the spot where he had found and lost his
one substantial proof of the girl’s reality,—and there he had taken up
the project he had conceived of working the abandoned mine until some
heir should be found. Into this project he had thrown himself with all
the ardor of his newly awakened temperament and found in the struggles
that ensued a relief from the aimless hunting for the lost girl. As time
passed with no results from all the agencies he had used in his search,
his mind became less occupied with the vision of his unknown mistress,
and his life concentrated itself upon this accidental undertaking,—all
the more as it proved unexpectedly difficult and failure frequently
threatened. His pride and good faith as well as his new manhood were
challenged in the struggle, which had only quite recently resulted in
abounding triumph. Now that he was free to look about him again and
direct his energy into a new channel, the thought of Melody returned to
haunt his mind. One of his purposes in coming to New York was to start
afresh the hopeless search. An idea came to him as he talked with Farson
about the mine. Perhaps publicity of his success with the Melody mine in
Arizona might attract the attention of the one most concerned. With this
thought in mind he said to the magazine man, turning away from the
window:
“I’ll tell you all you want to know about the mine—you can put it in your
story.”
He gave him a lively account of the vicissitudes of the great Melody mine
at Monument, Arizona, and his experiences with it.
“So,” Farson summed up at the end, “the copper gave out?”
Brainard laughed.
“I should say not! There are millions of tons of copper in those hills.”
“Then what was the trouble?”
“It cost too much to mine and smelt it at present prices. After pouring
a good bit of money into the thing, I found that out. The sulfur looked
promising, and we went in for that; but that, too, came near taking our
last dollar before it made good.”
He told the magazine man how he had discovered traces of sulfur in an old
crater among the hills, had made tests, and had found that the mineral
existed in great quantities and almost pure. But when they went after
it, new difficulties were encountered—quicksands. One method after
another was tried and found useless, until the experts he had summoned
were ready to give up the job. Then, almost in despair, Brainard had
experimented with a novel method of extracting the sulfur by pumping
steam through one pipe into the earth and taking the solution out by
another. It was successful.
“It’s a steady yellow stream out of the bowels of the earth—a stream of
gold!”
The young man sighed with envy.
“Better than gold,” Brainard continued. “A thousand per cent better! I
wouldn’t dare tell you how much money that yellow stream pours into my
pockets every twenty-four hours.”
Farson’s eyes gleamed, and he looked covetously at the bulging pockets of
the miner’s loose coat.
“So you made good,” he said; “and of course you came up here to New York,
straight off, to spend your money.”
“That’s it,” Brainard assented with a laugh.
“It’s a good place to enjoy oneself. What are you going to do?”
Brainard looked quizzically at the ex-reporter. “Get some clothes,
first. I need ’em, don’t you think?”
Farson candidly admitted that he did.
“But,” he added, “you don’t seem the sort to blow your money the usual
way—chorus-girls, or country places, or yachts, or stock market, or—”
Brainard shook his head vigorously at each item of gratification
mentioned.
“What _are_ you going to do with that yellow stream?”
“I have my idea,” Brainard admitted.
“That’s what I want to know.”
“I’ll tell you, and you can make another article about it, if you like.”
The young man leaned forward, all eager attention. Brainard smoked
thoughtfully, then began.
“You’ve written plays—got one in your pocket this minute, probably.”
“You don’t mean you are going to write plays!” Farson said disgustedly.
“No, my boy—not now. I tried it once. But I hope to make it possible
for you and other young men to write their plays and get them put on the
stage. I’m going to build theaters, here and in other cities. I shall
found a national society of dramatic art. That’s the way I’m going to
blow in the money from the sulfur stream as long as it flows!”
“Whew!” The magazine man whistled dubiously. “Another uplift movement
for the poor drama?”
“Let me explain,” Brainard continued.
With much more eagerness than he had shown over his exploits with copper
and sulfur, he sketched the story of his great idea, which had first
taken possession of him that last night of his week’s stay in Paris,
while he wandered through the silent streets. He told of the vision that
had come to him in the snowy heights of the Arizona mountains, in the
silence of earth and sky—a vision of beautiful art that might be created
into reality by the aid of the wealth which he could give it. He had set
himself earnestly to the task of getting the necessary gold out of the
ground, and all through these years, in the vigils of his lonely nights
in the mining camp, he had nursed his vision.
He poured out his heart freely to Farson, because he was young and a
would-be dramatist, and could understand; and Farson, listening to the
story of this idea, became warmed with the enthusiasm of the other and
forgot his habitual journalistic skepticism.
“It’s big!” he murmured.
“And now it will no longer be just an idea. It’s to become fact! I have
the money—at least, it’s mine for the present.” Brainard corrected
himself. “One can do something with half a million or so a year.”
“Half a million a year!” the young man gasped.
“More or less—at present rather more, I should say,” Brainard admitted
carelessly. “Depends on the market for crude sulfur, you understand.
It’s pretty strong just now. And there’s the copper to fall back upon,
when the price of copper goes up. There’s no need to worry about the
money.”
Just here they were interrupted by a boy with a card.
“Show the gentleman up!” Brainard exclaimed, glancing a second time at
the card.
The magazine man rose reluctantly to go, saying:
“Another time, if you would be good enough to tell me more about your
plans—”
“Don’t go!” Brainard interrupted warmly. “If you are interested, stay,
and you will hear more about my great idea. This gentleman has come from
Chicago by appointment to talk it over.”
“Thanks!”
“Why don’t you drop that magazine job?” Brainard suggested abruptly. “I
shall need a secretary. I think you would be the right sort. Why not
begin _now_?”
“Done!” the journalist exclaimed boyishly, and they shook hands. This
was a millionaire after his own heart, who did things casually at the
drop of the hat with the most surprising ease.
“You’ll have a better chance to write your plays,” Brainard remarked
genially.
It pleased him to think that here, on the spot where he had experienced
his last defeat, he was able to play the part of good fortune to youth.
“Somehow,” said Farson enthusiastically, “I feel it’s going to be like a
play all the time with you!”
“The chap that’s coming up to see me,” explained Brainard, “is an actor
and a manager in a small way. He calls himself Ferris MacNaughton—an odd
genius, a Scotsman who has played all over the world. I ran across him
in a small Arizona town, doing Shakespeare to the mining camps, and doing
it well, too. He seemed interested in the idea, and so, when I got ready
to pull out, I wired him to meet me here. He hasn’t lost any time,” he
added as the door swung open.