MR. WALLINGFORD WINS THE TOWN OF BATTLESBURG BY THE TOSS OF A COIN
"Colonel" Wallingford looked at his watch.
"Two hours yet!" he exclaimed with a yawn. "Two solid hours in a yap
town that's not on the map. What shall we do with the time? Play cards?"
"What's the use?" demanded "Blackie" Daw. "If I'd win your money you'd
choke me till I gave it back, and if you won mine I'd have you pinched."
"Let's get off then and look at the burg," suggested J. Rufus.
It was Mr. Daw's turn to yawn. He looked out on one side of the
manufacturing portion of Battlesburg, and on the other side at the
mercantile and residence portion.
"I think I can see all I want to remember of it from here," he objected;
"but anything's better than nothing. Shall we go, Vi?"
"That's us," replied the vivacious bride, who was already beginning to
respond to all Mr. Wallingford's suggestions with more alacrity than
either Mrs. Wallingford or Mr. Daw quite approved. "Let's go wake 'em
up, Jimmy. Ring for a carriage."
The invaluable porter was already exchanging his white coat and apron
for his dark-blue coat and derby, and, in another moment, that dusky
autocrat, his face calm with the calmness of them who dwell near to much
money, had asked the crowd outside the way to a livery stable.
Billy Ricks projected himself instantly through the assemblage. "I'll
show you," he said eagerly.
The autocrat surveyed Billy Ricks briefly and gauged him accurately.
"Suppose you go get the best two-horse carriage, to seat four, that you
can find in town," and in Billy's palm he pressed a half dollar.
The excitement grew intense! The millionaires were positively to appear!
Doc Gunther's best "rig," his rubber-tired one, came rolling down Main
Street, turned, and drew up near the car. The porter, now wearing his
official cap, jumped down with his stepping box. Ah-h-h! Here they came!
First emerged huge, sleek Mr. Wallingford, looking more like a million
cleverly won dollars than the money itself. Mr. Daw stepped down upon
the gravel, tall and slender, clad in glove-fitting "Prince Albert," his
black mustache curled tightly, his black eyes glittering. Descended the
beautiful, brown-haired Mrs. Wallingford, brave in dark-green
broadcloth. Descended the golden-haired Mrs. Daw, stunning in violet
from hat to silken hose. Perfectly satisfactory, all of them; perfectly
adapted to fill the ideal of what a quartette of genuine nabobs should
look like! Under the skillful guidance of Mr. Wallingford they pranced
up Main Street, of fully as much interest and importance as any circus
parade that had ever wended its way along that thoroughfare.
The town of Battlesburg, converting a level, dusty country road into
"Main Street" for a space, lay across the railroad like a huge tennis
racquet, its hand grip being the manufacturing district, its handle the
business quarter, its net the residence section; and here were the first
cross streets, little, short byways, the longest of them ten or twelve
blocks in extent, and all ending against the fences of level fields. As
they rode through the town, however, its pavements stirred to unusual
liveliness by the great event, the impression that here was a place of
merely sleeping money grew and grew upon J. Rufus Wallingford and
appealed to his professional instincts.
"Some town, this," he concluded, turning to Mr. Daw. "They have rusty
wealth here, and, if somebody will only give it a start, it will
circulate till it gets all bright and shiny again. Then you can see by
the flash where it is and nab it."
"Heads or tails to see who gets it," suggested Mr. Daw, and drew a
dollar from his pocket.
"Heads!" called Mr. Wallingford, pulling on the reins, and just in front
of the Baptist Church the fate of Battlesburg was decided.
Mr. Daw flipped the coin in the air over Mrs. Wallingford's lap. Upon
the green broadcloth the bright silver piece came down with a spat, and
the Goddess of Liberty faced upward to the sky.
"I win the place!" exulted J. Rufus as they rolled on out past the
cemetery and toward Battles' Grove. "I don't know just yet how I'll milk
it, but the milk is here."
"You wouldn't honestly come back to this graveyard, would you?" inquired
Mrs. Daw. "Why, you'd die."
"If I did, I'd die with money in both hands," responded Wallingford. "I
can smell money, and I don't think there's a pantry shelf in this town
without some spare coin tucked away in the little old cracked blue
teapot. All you have to do is to play the right music, and all that coin
will dance right out. I shouldn't be surprised that I'd come back here
and toot a tune."
"There's no danger just yet a while," laughed Mrs. Wallingford. "You
have too much wealth. In spite of this trip I never saw you get rid of
money so slowly."
"He's a good enough spender for me," stated Mrs. Daw, with a sidelong
glance at him from her round blue eyes. "He's a good sport, all right."
"I rather like this town, Jim," interposed Mrs. Wallingford quickly,
catching that glance. "Let's do come back here and start up a business
of some sort."
"I'm glad I lost," declared Mr. Daw vehemently. "It's too far away from
a push button."
He also had seen that glance. It was nothing to which he could object,
of course, but he did not like it. A damper had somehow been put upon
the spirits of the party, and, after they had driven far out of sight of
the town, Mrs. Wallingford suggested that they had better turn back.
"I don't know," said her husband, looking at his watch. "We have nearly
an hour and a half yet, and we can easily make it from here in half an
hour."
"But what a long, long ways we are from a drink, if we wanted one,"
objected Mrs. Daw. "Just think of all that fizzy red wine in the ice
box."
"You're a smart woman," declared J. Rufus with laughing enthusiasm, "and
you win! Back we go."
They had scarcely proceeded a mile upon the return trip, however, when a
shrill whistle screamed behind them. They turned, and there across the
fields they saw a passenger train whizzing along at tremendous speed.
The same thought came to them instantly.
"I thought there wasn't another train in that direction until 3.45,"
exclaimed Mr. Daw, "and now it is only 2.40!"
The team was abruptly stopped, and both men gazed accusingly at their
watches. Suddenly Wallingford swore and whipped up the horses.
"We've Western time!" he called over his shoulder.
The explanation, though depressing, was correct. They had thought that
they were over the line in the morning, and had set their watches ahead.
When they discovered their error they had let it stand and had forgotten
about it. They made the trip back to Battlesburg at record speed, and
just beyond the cemetery they met Billy Ricks, in the middle of the
road. He had been running.
"Number Two's jus' been through, an' it took away your private car!"
gasped Billy.
Mr. Wallingford, gazing straight ahead, made no intelligible answer, but
he was muttering under his breath.
"Your colored gentleman tried to stop 'em," Billy went on with
enthusiasm, delighted to be the bearer of good or ill tidings so long as
it was startling, "but the conductor cussed an' said he had orders to
stop here and take on private car 'Theodore,' an' he was goin' to do it.
Number Two didn't even stop at the depot. It jus' backed on to the
sidin' an' took your private car an' whizzed out, an' the conductor
stood on the back platform damnin' Dave Walker till he was plumb out o'
hearin'!"
Mrs. Wallingford smiled. Mr. Daw chuckled. Mrs. Daw laughed
hilariously.
"Ain't that the limit?" she demanded. "Let's _all_ be happy!"
"I jus' thought I'd come on out and tell you, 'cause you might want to
know," went on Billy expectantly.
For the first time Mr. Wallingford looked at him, and the next minute
his hand went in his pocket. Billy Ricks drew a long breath. Two half
dollars for officious errands in one day was a life record, and he
trotted behind that carriage all the way to the depot, where Mr.
Wallingford, with the aid of Dave Walker, immediately began to "burn up
the wires." It seemed that the management of the P. D. S. positively
refused to haul the "Theodore" back to Battlesburg. It was not their
fault that the passengers had not been aboard at the time they were
warned Number Two would stop for them. They would hold the car at the
end of that division, and instruct their agent at Battlesburg to issue
transportation to the four on the next west bound train; and that was
all they would do!
The only west bound train that night was a local freight; the only west
bound train in the morning was the accommodation which had brought them
to Battlesburg; then came Number Two, the next afternoon. They drove
straight to the Palace Hotel and met the only man in Battlesburg who was
not impressed by the high honor that a lucky accident had bestowed upon
the city and upon his hostelry. Suspicion, engendered by thirty years of
contact with a traveling public which had invariably either insulted his
accommodations or tried to cheat him--and sometimes both--had soured the
disposition of the proprietor of the Palace and cramped his soul until
his very beard had crinkled. Suspicion gleamed from his puckered eyes,
it was chiseled in the wrinkles about his nose, it rasped in his voice;
and the first and only thing he noted about Mr. J. Rufus Wallingford and
his splendid company was that they had no luggage! Whereupon, even
before the multi-millionaire had finished inscribing the quartette of
names upon his register, he had demanded cash in advance.
Judge Lampton, who had edged up close to the register, was shocked by
this crass demand, and expected to see the retired capitalist give Pete
Parsons the dressing down of his life. Instead, however, Mr. J. Rufus
Wallingford calmly abstracted, from a pocketbook bulging with such
trifles, a hundred-dollar bill which he tossed upon the desk, and went
on writing. As impassive as Fate, Pete Parsons turned to his safe,
slowly worked the combination, and still more slowly started to make
change. In this operation he suddenly paused.
"Billy," said he to the ever-present Ricks, "run over to the bank with
this hundred-dollar bill and see if Battles'll change it."
For just one instant the small eyes of Wallingford narrowed
threateningly, and then he smiled again.
"Show us to our rooms," he ordered. "Send up the change when it comes."
He laid down the pen, but his hand had scarcely left the surface of the
book when it was clutched by that of Judge Lampton.
"In the name of the judiciary and of the enterprising citizens of this
place, I welcome you to Battlesburg," he announced.
Mr. Wallingford, "always on the job"--to use the expressive parlance of
his friend Mr. Daw--drew himself up and radiated.
"Thank you," he returned. "I have already inspected your beautiful
little city with much pleasure, and all that you need to make this a
live town is a good hotel."
The Judge shot at Pete Parsons a triumphant grin. Ever since Mr. Lampton
had been denied credit beyond the amount of two dollars at the Palace
Hotel bar, himself and Mr. Parsons had been "on the outs."
"Let me show you the very piece of property to build it on," he eagerly
returned.
Only for a moment Wallingford considered.
"I'll look at it to-morrow morning," he said.
"I shall have the facts and figures ready for you, sir," and Judge
Lampton swaggered out of the Palace Hotel on a bee-line for a little
publicity.
It was scarcely half an hour later when Clint Richards called at
Wallingford's room with four copies of the Battlesburg _Blade_.
"I brought these up myself, Mr. Wallingford," he explained, "to show you
that Battlesburg is not without its enterprise. Twice this afternoon the
_Blade_ was made over after it was on the press; once when the P. D. S.
stole your private car--stole, sir, is the word--and again upon Judge
Lampton's report of his important conversation with you. If you should
decide to invest some of your surplus capital in Battlesburg, I am sure
that you will find her progressive citizens working hand in hand with
you to make that investment profitable."
The Battlesburg _Blade_ consisted of four pages, and the first one of
these was devoted entirely to that eminent financier, Mr. J. Rufus
Wallingford.
EASTERN MILLIONS HERE
was the heading which, in huge, black type, ran entirely across the top
of the page just beneath the date line. Beneath this was a smaller black
streamer, informing the public that these millions were represented in
the persons of those eminent captains of industry, Mr. J. Rufus
Wallingford and Mr. Horace G. Daw. Beneath this, in the center four
columns of the six-column page, was another large type headline:
ROBBED OF THEIR PRIVATE CAR "THEODORE" BY THE BUNGLING P. D. S.
In the center two columns was this boxed-in, large type announcement:
LATER!
It is rumored upon good authority that these wide-awake
millionaires may invest a portion of their surplus capital in
wide-awake Battlesburg. _Huge hotel projected!_
The article which filled the balance of the page was an eloquent tribute
to the yellow genius of Mr. Richards. With flaming adjectives and a
generous use of exclamation points it told of the marvelous richness of
the private car "Theodore," owned, of course, by the gentlemen who were
traveling in it; of the truly unparalleled sumptuousness of the feast
that had been served by these charmingly democratic gentlemen to the
humble representative of the _Blade_; of the irresistible beauty and
refinement of their ladies; of the triumphs of Mr. J. Rufus Wallingford
in the milk-stopper business, the carpet tack industry, the insurance
field, the sales recorder trade, successive steps by which he had arisen
to his present proud eminence as one of the powers of Wall Street; of
Mr. Daw's tremendously successful activity in gold mining, in rubber
cultivation, in orange culture and in allied lines, where deft and
brilliant stock manipulations had contributed to the wealth of the
nation and himself; of the clumsy and arrogant blundering of the P. D.
S. Railroad, which, until this lucky accident, had always been a
detriment to the energetic city of Battlesburg.
It was easy to see by the reading of this article that the P. D. S. R.
R. did not advertise in the Battlesburg _Blade_, and that it now issued
no passes to the press, and Mr. Richards took occasion to point out, as
he had so often before urged, that, if a traction line could only be
induced to parallel the P. D. S. and enter Battlesburg, it would awaken
that puerile railroad from its lifelong lethargy and infuse a new
current of life and activity into the entire surrounding country,
besides earning for itself a handsome revenue.
It was this last clause which plunged Wallingford into profound
meditation.
"A traction line," he said musingly, by and by. "I'm a shine for
overlooking that bet so long, but when we get through this voyage of
joy, just watch my trolleys buzz. I'm coming back here and jar loose all
the money that's not too much crusted to jingle."
"But, Jim," protested Mrs. Wallingford thoughtfully, "you couldn't build
a traction line with only a little over a hundred thousand dollars!"
"How little you know of business, Fanny," he rejoined, with a wink at
Mr. Daw. "I can tear up a street, level a small hill and buy two tons of
iron rails with one thousand, and have the rest to marry to other money.
Blackie, I'm glad I won this town from you. I'd hate to think of all
the good coin hidden away under the cellar stairways here being paid
over for your fine samples of four-color printing. They don't need
phoney gold mining stock in this burg. What they need is something live
and progressive, like a traction line."
"I know," agreed Mr. Daw with a grin. "You'll organize an air line and
sell them the air."
"Don't, Jim," protested Mrs. Wallingford. "You're clever enough to make
honest money, and I know it. Other people do. A hundred thousand is a
splendid nest-egg."
"To be sure it is," assented Mr. Daw. "Watch Jim set on it! If he don't
hatch out a whole lot of healthy little dollars from it I'll grow
hayseed whiskers and wear rubber boots down Broadway."
There was another knock at the door. This time it was Judge Lampton, and
with him was a nervous, wiry man, in black broadcloth and wearing a vest
of the same snowy whiteness as his natty mustache.
"Mr. Wallingford," said Judge Lampton, tingling with pride, "permit me
to introduce the Honorable G. W. Battles, president of the Battles
County Bank, of the Battlesburg Wagon Works, of the G. W. Battles Plow
Factory, of the Battles & Handy Sash, Door and Blind Company, of the
Battles & Son Canning Company, of the Battles & Battles Pure Food
Creamery and Cheese Concern, and of the Battlesburg Chamber of
Commerce."
As one seasoned financier to another these two masters of commerce
foregathered gravely upon matters of investment and profit. The
Honorable G. W. Battles was a man who believed in his own enthusiasm and
had command of many, many words, a gift which had been enhanced by much
public speechmaking, and now, in a monologue that fairly scintillated
and coruscated, he laid before J. Rufus Wallingford the manifold
advantages of investment in the historic town that had been founded by
his historic grandfather. Before he was entirely through all that he
could, would or might have said, there came another knock at the door.
Judge Lampton, who had retired immediately upon introducing the
Honorable G. W. Battles, had returned, and with him was Max Geldenstein,
proprietor of the Rock Bottom clothing stores, not only in Battlesburg,
but also in Paris, London, Dublin, Berlin and Rome, all six cities being
in or adjacent to Battles County. He was also a director in the Battles
County Bank and in the Battles & Son Canning Company, a city councilman
and a member of the Chamber of Commerce. He, too, extended a welcoming
hand to the chance millionaire and invited him most cordially to become
one of them. Came shortly after, in tow of the indefatigable Judge
Lampton, the Honorable Timothy Battles, mayor of Battlesburg and
illustrious son of the Honorable G. W. Battles, bearing with him the
keys of the city. Came, too, Lampton-led, Mr. Henry Quig, coal and ice
magnate, and the largest stockholder, except the Honorable G. W.
Battles, in the Battlesburg Gas and Electric Light Plant; also a member
of the City Council and of the Chamber of Commerce.
It became necessary to subsidize the dining room after eight o'clock,
and until far into the night Mr. Wallingford and Mr. Daw entertained the
leading gentlemen of the city, who, under the efficient marshalship of
Judge Lampton, came to help the Judge sell a building lot and to present
their respects to these gentlemen of boundless capital. What need is
there to tell how J. Rufus Wallingford, he of the broad chest and the
massive dignity, arose to the opportunity of presiding as informal host
over Battlesburg's entire supply of twenty-one bottles of champagne?
Suffice it to say that, when the last callers had gone, he mopped his
perspiring brow and turned to Blackie Daw with a chuckle in which his
entire body participated.
"They will do it, eh, Blackie?" he commented. "Just come and beg to be
skinned! What will you give me for one side of Main Street?"
"It would be a shame to split it," declared Mr. Daw. "Keep it all, J.
Rufus. I'm only a piker. If I make ten thousand on a clean-up I think
I'm John W. Gates, and if I made more I'd start mumbling and making
funny signs. I can't trot in your class."
But J. Rufus was in no humor for banter. He looked at the array of empty
bottles and glasses upon the long dining-room table and nodded his head
in satisfaction.
"It's been a good night's work, Blackie," he concluded, "and, when I
come back here, I'm going to jam a chestnut burr under the tail of this
one-horse town. To-morrow morning I'm going to be an investor in
Battlesburg real estate, and the traction line idea must be kept under
cover for a while. Don't breathe a word of it."
The next morning, in pursuance of this idea, Mr. Wallingford went forth
with Judge Lampton and looked at property. Between the Palace Hotel and
the depot was an entire vacant block, used at present for mere grazing
purposes by Doc Gunther, and Mr. Wallingford agreed that this would be
an admirable site for an up-to-date, six-story, pressed-brick hotel. He
even went so far as to sketch out his idea of the two-story marble
lobby--a fountain in the center--balcony at the height of the first
floor ceiling--arched orchestra bridge! On the other side of the street,
a little above the bank and on a block occupied at present by a
blacksmith shop and a prehistoric junk heap, he gave a glowing word
picture of the new Grand Opera House that should be erected there.
Farther up the street was another cow pasture, over which he thought
deeply; but his thoughts he carefully kept to himself, and both Clint
Richards and Judge Lampton dreamed great, puzzling dreams by reason of
that very silence. Up in the residence district Mr. Wallingford picked
out three splendid lots, one of which he did not hesitate to say would
make an admirable site for an up-to-date apartment house, and one of the
others--he had not decided which--would make an admirable location for a
private residence.
He bought none of this property, but he took ninety-day options on all
seven pieces, paying therefor from ten to fifty dollars upon each one,
and leaving in the town of Battlesburg, aside from his hotel and livery
bill and other expenses, not less than two hundred and fifty dollars of
real money, each dollar of which glowed with a promise of many more to
come. It is needless to say that the Battlesburg _Blade_ that evening
did full honor to these wholesale transactions. It took all of the first
page and part of the last to do that; even the telegraphic account of
the absorbing and scandalous Estelle Lightfoot murder romance, clipped
from the Chicago morning papers, had to be condensed for that day to
half-a-dozen lines.