GOOD INTENTIONS
As Jack Dorlin drew near Bagsbury’s house that same Sunday afternoon,
he felt a growing misgiving as to the wisdom of going in. He had not
seen Dick since Wednesday night, when John Bagsbury and Mrs. Sponley
and Dick herself had combined to bring about his utter defeat. Since
then he had set out a dozen times with the determination to see her
at once and come to some sort of understanding with her, and he had
as often turned back, convinced that some other time would suit his
purpose better. But Sunday afternoon itself came not more regularly
to the Bagsburys than did Jack Dorlin, and having told himself that
whatever else Dick thought of him she must not have a chance to think
that he was sulky, he was now turning the Bagsburys’ corner just at
his accustomed time. He could see clearly that he should have come
when he would have had more chance of seeing Dick alone,--people were
sure to be dropping in to-day,--and when he came opposite the steps he
felt a boyish impulse to walk straight by. He hesitated a moment, in a
pitiable state of indecision, then walked resolutely up the steps.
Simultaneously with his ringing the bell, Dick opened the door.
“I saw you coming,” she explained, and there was something so
impossibly innocent in her smile that Jack wondered if she had not also
seen him trying to make up his mind whether he would come or not.
“Come into the library,” she went on. “I’m all alone just now. The
others will be back soon, though, I think.”
The library was cool and dim, a grateful relief after the burning glare
of the street, and Dick dropped lazily on the big sofa where they had
sat last Wednesday evening; there was also the same expectation of an
interruption from John Bagsbury. Altogether no circumstances could have
been more favorable to the immediate carrying out of Jack’s intention
than these.
“I’ve come round, Dick, to say what I tried to say the other night. I
fancy you have already answered me; but I want to tell you all there is
to tell, and I want to be sure that we both understand. I think we owe
each other that.”
Jack had composed that introduction on the way over, and had decided
that it would do. It was clear and dignified, and there was an
undercurrent of pathos which modified its admirable reserve. But now
that the time had come, he did not say it. Sitting close beside Dick on
the sofa, he wondered how he could have thought seriously of speaking
such idiocy as that. What he really said was:--
“How do you keep this room so cool? It’s been witheringly hot outside
for the last three days.”
Then he asked himself why he would be such an ass; Dick could see right
through him, he knew, and she was laughing at him. He looked at her.
Except for the tell-tale corner of her mouth, her face was intensely
solemn; but that lurking dimple completely disconcerted Jack. He might
be a great fool, but she ought not to make fun of him like this.
“How has it been going down at the bank?” she asked.
“Badly. They’ve been losing money.” This was going from bad to worse.
Nothing was further from his intention than to say something facetious,
but he went on: “They think that I’m worth fifteen dollars a week, and
as I figure it, they’ve lost about six dollars and a quarter since
Thursday morning by that arrangement.”
“I’m glad you came,” said Dick. “I wanted to talk with you about the
bank. Poor John’s having a hard time. Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Meredith
have just bought a lot of stock, and they were scared by the story in
the paper this morning. John’s afraid they’ll make a great disturbance,
and try to sell their stock. That would give people a rather
unfavorable impression of the condition the bank was in, you see.”
So it seemed that, though the bodily presence of John Bagsbury could
not interrupt him, the alert spirit of John Bagsbury was able to
interfere quite as successfully. Dick went on to tell him what she
knew, and all she had guessed, of John’s difficulties. At first Jack
listened patiently, and waited for her to finish so that he could take
the conversation back to where he wanted it; but never for long could
he resist the spell of her enthusiasm,--he would take to mathematics
to-morrow, if she should develop a sudden liking for cubic curves,--and
soon he was asking eager questions, and hazarding wild speculations
upon the probable course of events for the next two or three days.
While they were talking, there came to Jack an idea that almost
amounted to inspiration. It struck him so suddenly as to suspend his
speech right in the middle of a sentence, and he gloated over it in
silence, wondering why he had not thought sooner of a thing so obvious,
so easy, and so entirely satisfactory. He would carry it out before
trying again to tell Dick the rest of his interrupted love story.
In the old days, when he had fancied that he loved her, the telling had
been comparatively easy; but now that she had become a part of every
breath he drew, he found the thought of telling her most formidable.
He had hoped in these past few months that she was beginning to care
in a way very different from her old friendly affection for him; but
her behavior since Wednesday night had well-nigh swept that hope away.
He must tell her, even though he was inviting certain defeat, and
hazarding her friendship into the bargain. Yet, with the idea which
had come to him a moment ago, there had arisen the hope that it might
be, if he were to do something to prove himself of material assistance
to John Bagsbury in his fight, that this might make a difference with
Dick. It was worth a trial, anyway.
His sudden preoccupation caused Dick to glance at him curiously once or
twice; but for a little while she did not break in upon it. Then she
asked:--
“Are your plans taking shape at all? I mean, have you any idea what
you’ll go into after you leave the bank?”
He roused himself sharply and said, with a laugh: “No, I think I’ll
stay at the bank a while longer and collect material for a book. I mean
to write a biography of Hillsmead, call it ‘Wit and Wisdom,’ or ‘The
Hillsmead Joke Book.’”
“How immensely funny that will be,” she said.
Her tone was not encouraging to any further jocularity; but Jack had
determined upon his course, and he held to it manfully; and, as best
she could, Dick concealed her irritation. It was a relief to both of
them when the Bagsburys came home.
John Bagsbury was excited, but he had done all that he could do, and
he was going forward into the critical week with the same elation that
some soldiers feel on the eve of battle. He insisted that Jack stay
to tea, and afterward he talked for two solid hours, so that Alice
fairly forgot to be sleepy, and Dick and Jack Dorlin laughed and then
wondered, feeling that never before had they seen John Bagsbury fully
awake.
“Can you allow me a holiday to-morrow?” asked Jack, as he rose to go.
“I have some personal business that I feel I must attend to.”
Dick followed him into the hall, and, standing before the door, barred
the way out. “What is it you’re going to do to-morrow?” she demanded.
“Just a little matter of business--”
“It isn’t curiosity. I really want to know.”
“Why, it’s nothing--” stammered Jack--“that is--well--I can’t tell you.”
She turned abruptly away from him and then he heard a low chuckle. “I
know, I know,” she said triumphantly. “If it had been anything else,
you would have told me, and then how cheap you’d have made me feel! But
I knew it was that. I want to be in it, too. Come around here to-morrow
morning before you do anything.”
After he had gone, as she turned from the door, she met John Bagsbury
coming into the hall.
“I’m going up to bed,” he said. “I’ve got some big days coming, and
to-morrow’ll be one of them. Wish me luck, Dick.”
“I do,” she said. “I know you’ll come out all right.”
She held out her hand and he took it with a grip that fairly hurt her.
“I mean to,” he answered. “Good night.”
“Did John say he was going to bed?” asked Alice, as Dick entered the
library. “I thought from the way people have been flying around to-day
that there might be something the matter with the bank; but John seemed
to feel so cheerful to-night that I guess everything’s all right.”
“Yes,” said Dick. “I don’t believe you need worry.”
As John had prophesied, they were big days that followed--days that
will be talked about down town for another five years. Lard had been
a mystery ever since early in May; the wise ones had guessed about
it, and those who wished to appear wise had repeated their guesses to
others still less expert; but no one had really known anything. But by
Monday morning everybody, even to the remotest office boy, understood
that this operation was practically a duel between Pickering, the Bull,
and Sponley, the Bear. The two men were about equally known; they were
supposed to be nearly equal in resources and also in skill, and so
it befell that all about the city, and in other cities, men fingered
the ribbons of paper that rattled painfully out of the tickers, and
wondered what would happen.
John Bagsbury spent the greater part of Monday in his office. On Sunday
afternoon he had been to see Dawson, the former president of the
Atlantic National. John trusted him thoroughly, so he had laid before
him the whole situation; had told him that he thought a large block
of the Bagsbury stock would be offered for sale next day, and that he
wished to be in a position to buy it; and Dawson promptly told him
that he might have all the money he needed to make the purchase. So
John’s first move on Monday morning was to send a stockbroker around to
Cartwright and Meredith to buy their stock before it should be offered
in open market.
“Buy it as cheap as you can,” he said. Then, mentioning a figure, “I
think you can get it for that.”
Half an hour later the broker telephoned that Cartwright was claiming
that they had a much better offer, and asked John if he cared to go
any higher. John did not for a moment believe that any one was bidding
against him for the stock. He reflected that probably the old trustees
were not so badly frightened as he had thought, and were holding out
for a good price. He told the broker how much higher he might go, but
cautioned him to do all he could to get the stock for less.
Curtin came into the private office a little later and stayed about
half an hour, telling some rather damaging things about Sponley,
and making explanations which John half listened to and but half
believed--that was about the proportion which Sponley had expected
him to believe--and which he finally cut short. The episode irritated
him more than did the visits from directors and stockholders, who kept
steadily dropping in all day to offer him advice or remonstrance.
He had expected that, however; more of it, in fact, than he was forced
to take, and he explained and answered questions with a patience that
did him credit. To everybody he said that the bank was in excellent
shape, that all the loans were amply secured, and that the success or
failure of the Pickering deal would not make the slightest difference
in the dividends. Upon the whole, his visitors accepted the situation
with fairly good grace. There was this about John Bagsbury: when he
told you anything, you knew he was telling you the truth.
Early in the afternoon the broker telephoned to him again. “I can’t get
that stock, Mr. Bagsbury, even at your highest figure. There’s some one
else after it. Do you want to offer any more?”
John told the broker to let it go and quit, and in his leisure moments
during the rest of the afternoon he wondered a good deal over what
this sharp competition could mean. He could in no way attribute it to
Sponley; but he was equally at a loss to find any other explanation.
When the Bagsburys’ door-bell rang early that evening, John and Alice
were surprised to see Dick move to answer it herself. They saw her walk
through the library, and then heard her run the length of the hall.
“They’ve made up,” said Alice.
“Who?”
“Why Dick and Mr. Dorlin, of course.”
“I didn’t know they’d quarrelled,” said John. “Dick has seemed pretty
cheerful, and she hasn’t said anything--”
“Said anything! She didn’t need to say anything. They quarrelled
Wednesday evening, and he didn’t come around all the rest of the week.
And yesterday they were still at it. I could tell, because they were
both so glad to see us when we came in.”
“They’ve certainly made up all right now--”
He stopped as the two young people entered the library. The instant of
silence told them that they had been the subjects of the conversation
they had interrupted, and Dick blushed, first in embarrassment and then
in vexation over having blushed. Jack returned the Bagsburys’ greeting
nervously. He was asking himself why he would be such an ass as to
try to do things theatrically. He ought to have told John down at the
office, or written him a note. Well, there was nothing to do now but
see the thing through.
Then suddenly he read in Alice’s expectant look and in John’s quizzical
smile, and last of all in Dick’s flushed face, the interpretation that
the Banker and his wife were putting upon this little scene. That
fairly scattered him.
“I came around to tell you--” he began wildly--“to say that we--that
is, Dick and I have--”
“We bought the stock in the bank to-day--what Mr. Cartwright and Mr.
Meredith bought of Mr. Sponley.”
Dick spoke quickly, but not an instant too soon; another second and
John would have been giving them his blessing.
At her words, however, he dropped back into his chair and looked
blankly from her to Jack and back to her again.
“_You_ did!” he exclaimed; then after a moment, “you _did_!” and
then in spite of his best attempt to keep a straight face he began
to laugh. “I beg your pardon,” he said, when he had his voice under
control again. “I was--surprised. Tell me about it, please. How did you
happen to do it?”
Without the smallest misgiving--for he attributed John’s laughter to
the ridiculous mistake he had so nearly made--Jack told his tale. He
said nothing about the motive which had led him and Dick to buy the
stock, but he dwelt with a good deal of humor on the perplexities
into which his ignorance of business had led him in the course of the
negotiations. He could afford to laugh at them because he and Dick had
succeeded, in spite of all, in effecting a sale of a large part of
their own securities and, in the teeth of opposition, in buying the
Cartwright-Meredith stock. They had spent the day profitably and had
thoroughly enjoyed it. The encounter with the broker was what pleased
Jack particularly.
“I all but had it fixed,” he said, “when this other fellow came around
and began to bid up the price. But after that they gave me rather
an exciting time. I’d make them an offer, and then they’d have a
consultation with the mysterious stranger, and I’d have to raise it.
We kept it going until the middle of the afternoon, and then he quit.
I’d have been there yet if he hadn’t. The business roused my sporting
blood somehow; I haven’t enjoyed anything so much in a long while.”
Dick had helped tell the first part of the tale, eagerly snatching
the thread away from Jack, and then handing it back to him with, “Oh,
I don’t understand it, you tell him.” But toward the end she became
silent, watching with puzzled curiosity the quick changes of expression
in John Bagsbury’s face. When Jack finished, she asked,--
“Have we done something awfully, absurdly stupid?”
“You have done one of the most thoughtful, generous things I ever heard
of,” said John, “and it was a good move, too. Only we’ve all made a
mistake in not telling each other just what we meant to do. You see, I
was the man who sent around that broker.”
“Good Lord!” said Jack.
Dick began to laugh, and John Bagsbury’s smile gradually expanded into
an indubitable grin; but Jack’s face remained as solemn as an old
raven’s.
“Laugh!” Dick commanded. “The mistake doesn’t matter. The stock is all
in the fam--”
She colored, and, correcting herself, proceeded to punish Jack for her
slip.
“The stock I bought is all in the family. Jack, of course, will vote
his as he pleases.”
“I’ve put in quite a day of it myself,” said John, quickly, in the
interest of peace. “I would have been as busy as I care to be without
any visitors, and there was a regular procession of them. And Curtin
came in for a long talk, too. He had a story to tell, mostly about
Sponley. Said he had known Sponley a long time, and that he had got him
his job in the bank. Then, according to him, Sponley tried to make him
pay for his place by giving away information about the bank. He bought
Curtin’s stock, it seems, and then threatened to get him put out of the
bank unless he did as he was told. Curtin says he told him of the loan
to Pickering, thinking it was all right to do it; but he denies having
known anything about the collateral. I suppose Sponley guessed at that.”
Dick gave her fellow-amateur detective a look which said, “We’re saved
from doing anything foolish about that,” but Jack was still thinking
about the outrageous injustice of her last remark, and he affected not
to see.
“Do you think he was telling the truth?” she asked of John. “What are
you going to do with him?”
“Oh, it was probably somewhere near true. I shall let him stay till the
year’s out. I have all I want on my hands just now, without trying to
get rid of my officers. If he had a little more spunk, he might make a
pretty good rascal; but as he is, he can’t do much harm.”
“Do you know,” the Banker went on after a long pause, “you did a good
thing for the bank by bidding up that stock and paying a big price
for it? It got Cartwright and Meredith over their fright a lot better
than if you’d bought it cheap. If they had got badly scared and talked
around, there’s no telling where they’d have landed us. But I guess
there’s no danger of that now.”
“No,” said Jack. “They were as pleased as possible, when the thing was
finally fixed up. They seemed to be mighty glad to be well out of it.”
“I wonder--” began John. He rested his chin on his hands and stared
intently at nothing for a minute, then he looked at his watch.
“I’m going to see them,” he said, rising.
“Now?” asked Dick.
“Yes, I’m going to suggest that they turn the whole estate over to me.”
Not a word was spoken in the library until they heard the door close
behind John Bagsbury.
“I suppose I’d better go,” said Jack, without stirring in his big chair.
“Perhaps so,” said Dick; “we’ve knocked about together all day--”
That brought him to his feet like a flash. “You’re right,” he said.
“Good night.”
He shook hands with admirable nonchalance, and marched--he could not
help marching--into the hall.
“Stupid!” said Dick, just after he closed the door. A little later she
said “Stupid” again, but with an entirely different inflection, and
with something a little like a laugh on the end of it.
But by that time poor Jack was halfway down the block, walking at the
rate of at least five miles an hour.