'I've nearly got him. Not quite, but nearly.'
'But I don't see how you could know about----'
'I told you I was going to confide in you. It's simple enough. Gert
Wombast let her sister read it--the one that works at the library.
Swore her to secrecy. And--well, I board at the Wombasts'--Look here,
Calverly: you'd better let me read it.'
Henry promptly surrendered it.
McGibbon laid the manuscript on his knee, lighted a fresh cigar, and
gazed at the lake. Henry, all nerves, was clasping and unclasping his
hands.
'Of course,' he said, 'this ain't really a finished thing, you
understand. It's just as I wrote it off--fast, you know--and I haven't
had a chance to correct it or----'
McGibbon raised his hand.
'No, Calverly--none of that. This is literature. Of course, old Boice
couldn't print it. Never in the world. But it's sweet stuff. It's a
perfect, merciless pen-picture of life on Simpson Street. And those two
old crooks behind the lemonade stand--you've opened a jack-pot there. If
you only knew it, son, that's evidence. Evidence! You walked right into
it. Charlie Waterhouse is short in his town accounts. I know that. Boice
and Weston are covering up for him. They work up this neat little
purse and give it to Charlie. Why? Because he's the most popular man
in Sunbury? Rot! Because they're helping him pay back. Making the town
help.'
'Oh, do you really think----'
'“Think?” I know. This completes the picture. Tell me--what is Boice
paying you?'
'Twelve a week, now.'
'Hm! That's quite a little for a country weekly. I could meet it,
though, if--see here: What chance is there of your getting, say, a
thousand of your money free and investing in the _Gleaner?_ Now, wait!
I want to put this thing before you. It's the turning-point. If we act
without delay, we've got 'em. We've got everything. We own the town.
Here we are! The _Gleaner_ is just at the edge of success. I take you
over from the _Voice_ at the same salary--twelve a week. I'll give you
lots of rope. I won't expect routine from you. I'll expect genius. Stuff
like this. The real thing. Just when it comes to you, and you feel
you can't help writing. With this new evidence I can go after Charlie
Waterhouse and break him. I'll finish Boice and Weston at the same time.
Show up the whole outfit! Whatever'll be left of the _Voice_ by that
time, Boice can have and welcome. The _Gleaner_ will be the only paper
in Sunbury.'
'My Uncle Arthur is executor of my mother's estate.'
'You go right after him. No time to lose. We must drive this right
through.'
'I'll see him to-morrow.'
'Couldn't you find him to-night?'
5
Uncle Arthur lived in Chicago, out on the West Side. It was a long
ride--first by suburban train into the city, then by cable-car
through miles upon miles of gray wooden tenements and dingy gray-brick
tenements. You breathed in odours of refuse and smoke and coal-gas all
the way.
Uncle Arthur was as thin as McGibbon, but wholly without the little
gleam in the eyes that advertised the proprietor of the _Gleaner_ as an
eager and perhaps dangerous man. Uncle Arthur was a man of method who
had worked through long years into a methodical but fairly substantial
prosperity.
His thin nose was long, and prominent. His brow was deeply furrowed.
His gaze was critical. He believed firmly that life is a disciplinary
training for some more important period of existence after death.
He didn't smoke or drink. Nor would he keep in his employ those who
indulged in such practices. He was an officer of several organisations
aiming at civic and social reform.
Uncle Arthur laid a pedantic stress, in all business matters, on what
he called 'putting the thing right end to.' It was not unnatural,
therefore, that he should receive a distinctly unfavourable impression
when Henry began, with a foolish little gesture and a great deal of
fumbling at his moustache, slouching in his chair, by saying 'There's
a little chance come up--oh, nothing much, of course--for me to make
a little money, sort of on the side--and you see I'll be twenty-one in
November; so it's just a matter of three or four months, anyway--and I
was figuring--oh, just talking the thing over----'
His voice trailed off into a mumble.
'If you would take your hand away from your mouth, Henry,' said his
uncle sharply, 'perhaps I could make out what you're trying to say.'
Henry sat up with a jerk.
'Why, you see, Uncle Arthur, there's a fellow bought the old Sunbury
_Gleaner_ and he's awfully smart--got his training in New York--and he's
brought the paper already--why, it ain't eight months!--to where he's
right on the point of turning his corner. You see, a thousand dollars
now may easily be worth ten thousand in a few years. The _Voice_ is a
rotten paper. Nobody reads the darned thing. And I can't work for old
Boice, anyhow. He drives me crazy. If he'd just give me half a chance to
do the kind of thing I can do best once in a while; but this----'
'Henry, are you asking me to advance you a thousand dollars of your
principal?'
'Why--well, yes, if----'
'Most certainly not!'
'But, you see, it's so close to November seventh, anyway, that I
thought----'
'You thought that on your twenty-first birthday I would at once close
out the investments I have made with the money your mother left and hand
you the principal in cash?'
Henry stared at him, his thoughts for the moment frozen stiff. In Uncle
Arthur's obstructionist attitude, so suddenly revealed, lay the promise
of a new, wholly undreamed-of disappointment. It was crushing. Then,
almost in the same second, it was stimulating. Henry's eyes blazed.
'You mean to say----' he began, shouting.
'I mean to say that I haven't the slightest intention of letting you
squander the money your mother so painfully--'
'That's my money!'
'But I'm your uncle and your guardian----'
'You needn't think you're going to keep that one minute after November
seventh!'
'I will use my judgment. I won't be dictated to by a boy who----'
'But you gotta!'
'I have not got to!'
'I won't stand for----'
'Henry, I won't have such talk here. I think you had better go.'
Henry, with a good deal of mumbling, went. He was bewildered. And the
little storm of indignant anger had shaken him. He returned, during the
ride back past the tenements on the jerky cable-car, through streets
that swarmed with noisy, ragged children and frowsy adults and all the
smells, to depression. McGibbon said that Uncle Arthur's threat to hold
the money after the seventh of November was a distinct point.
'In these matters, unfortunately, where a relative or family friend has
for years had charge of money belonging to others, little temptations
are bound to come up. Now, your uncle may be the most scrupulously
honest of men, but----'
'He has a bad eye,' Henry put in.
'I don't doubt it. Calverly, let me tell you--never forget this--a man
who hesitates for one instant to account freely, fully for money is
never to be trusted.'
'But what can I do?'
'Do? Everything! Just what I'm doing with Charlie Waterhouse, for one
thing--insist on a full statement.'
'They framed a letter--or McGibbon framed it--demanding an accounting,
'in order that further legal measures may not become necessary.'
McGibbon said he would send it early in the morning, registered, and
with a special-delivery stamp. 'Later, they decided to add emphasis by
means of a telegram demanding immediate consideration of the letter.
Late that night, when Humphrey came upstairs into a pitch-dark
living-room and switched on the light, he discovered a pale youth
sitting stiffly on a window-seat wide-awake, eyes staring nervously,
hands clasped.
'Well, what on earth?' said he, in mild surprise.
'Oh, Hump, I've wondered what you'd think--leaving you in the lurch with
all that work!
Humphrey threw out a lean hand.
'I can manage. Get some help from one of the students. And Gertie
Wombast is usually available---- Oh, say; how about the old man? Did you
tell him what's what?'
Henry's burning eyes stared out of that white face. Suddenly--so
suddenly that Humphrey himself started--he sprang up, cried out; 'No!
No! No!' and rushed into his bedroom, slamming the door after him.
Humphrey looked soberly at the door, shook his head, filled his pipe.
That 'No! No! No!' still rang in his ears It was a cry of pain.
Humphrey had suffered; but he had never known a turbulence of the sort
that every now and then seemed to tear Henry to pieces.
'Must be fierce,' he thought. 'But it works up as well as down. Runs to
extremes. Creative faculty, I suppose. Well, he's got it--that's all.
And he's only a kid. Thing to do's to stand by and try to steady him up
a little when he comes out of it.'
And the philosophical Humphrey went to bed.
6
At noon, no word had come from Uncle Arthur. Henry, all the morning, had
flitted back and forth between McGibbon's rear office and the telegraph
office in the 'depot.'
At twelve-thirty, they sent a peremptory message, demanding a reply by
three o'clock. An ultimatum.
The reply came unexpectedly, with startling effect, at twenty-five
minutes past two, requesting Henry to come directly into his uncle's
Chicago office.
He caught the two-forty-seven. McGibbon, who had missed nothing of the
concern on Henry's face at this brisk counter-offensive on the part of
Uncle Arthur, was with him.
McGibbon waited in the corner drug store while Henry-went up in one of
the elevators of the great La Salle Street office-building.
Uncle Arthur led the way into his inner office, closed the door, seated
himself, and with austerity surveyed the youth before him, taking in
with deliberate thought the far-from-inexpensive blue-serge suit, the
five-dollar straw hat, the bamboo stick (which Henry carried anything
but airily now), and the hopelessly futile little moustache.
'Sit down,' said Uncle Arthur.
Henry sat down.
Uncle Arthur opened a drawer, took up two slips of paper, deliberately
laid them before his nephew.
'There,' he said, 'is my cheque for one thousand forty-six dollars and
twenty-nine cents. It is the value, with interest to this morning, of
one bond which I am buying from you, at the price given in to-day's
quotations. Kindly sign the receipt. Right there.'
He dipped a pen and Henry signed, then, with shaky fingers, picked up
the cheque, fingered it, laid it down again.
'I want no misunderstandings about this, Henry. I am doing it because I
regard you as a young fool. Perhaps you will be less of a fool after you
have lost this money. Henry heard the words through a mist of confused
feelings. 'I will have no more letters and telegrams like these.' He
indicated the little sheaf of papers on his desk. 'And I won't have my
character assailed either by you or by any cheap scoundrel whose advice
you may be taking.'
'But--but he's _not_ a cheap scoundrel!'
Uncle Arthur raised his eyebrows. His eyes, Henry felt, would burn holes
in him if he stayed here much longer.
'You're hard on me, Uncle Arthur. You're not fair I'm _not_ going to
lose----'
The older man abruptly got up.
'If you care for any advice at all from me, I suggest that you insist
on a note from this man--a demand note, or, at the very outside, a
three-months' one. Don't put money unsecured into a weak business. Make
it a personal obligation on the part of the proprietor. And now, Henry,
that is all. I really don't care to talk to you further.
Henry stood still.
His uncle turned brusquely away.
'But--but--' Henry said unsteadily, 'Uncle Arthur--really! Money isn't
everything!'
His uncle turned on him as if about to speak; but on second thought
merely raised his eyebrows again.
And then came the final humiliation, the little climax that was always
to stand out with particular vividness in Henry's memory of the scene.
He turned to go. He had reached the door when he heard his uncle's
voice, saying, with a rasp:--
'You have forgotten the cheque, Henry'
And he had to go back for it.
7
One effect of the scene was a slight coolness toward McGibbon.
'I shall want your note,' he said.
McGibbon turned his head away at this and looked out of the car window.
Then, a moment later, he replied:--
'Sure! Of course! It's just as I told you--always watch a man who
hesitates a minute in money matters.'
'Three months,' said Henry.
'And we can arrange renewals in a friendly spirit between ourselves,'
said McGibbon.
At the Sunbury station, Henry drew a little red book from his pocket,
knit his brows, and said:--
'I owe you for those car fares. Two; wasn't it? Or three?'
'Oh, shucks! Don't think of that!'
'Was it two or three?'
'Well--if you really--two.'
Henry gave him a dime. Then entered the item in the small book.
'What's that?' asked McGibbon. 'Keep accounts?'
'Oh, yes,' Henry replied; 'I'm very careful about money.'
'It's a good way to be,' said McGibbon.
The _Gleaner_ office was over Hemple's meat-market on Simpson Street, up
a long flight of stairs. Here they paused.
'Come up,' said McGibbon jovially, 'and pick out the place for your
desk.'
'No,' said Henry; 'not now. Got to hurry. But I'll be right over.'
He had to hurry, because it was nearly five o'clock, and Mr Boice might
be gone. And it seemed to Henry to be important that he should have the
cheque still in his pocket at the moment.
His eyes were burning again. And his brain was racing.
'Say!' he cried abruptly. 'Look here! Miss Dittenhoefer----'
Their eyes met. I think McGibbon, for the first time, really felt the
emotional power that was unquestionably in Henry. His own quick eyes now
took on some of that fire.
'Great!' he answered. And would have talked on, but Henry had already
torn away, almost running.
He rushed past the _Gleaner_ office without a glance. It suddenly didn't
matter whether Mr Boice had gone or not. Henry was a firebrand now. He
would unhesitatingly trail the man to his home, to the Sunbury Club, to
Charlie Waterhouse's, even to Mr Weston's. The Power was on him!
Mr Boice had not gone. Even twenty minutes later, when Henry came into
the office, he was still at his desk. Over it, between the dusty pile
of the _Congressional Record_ and the heap of ancient zinc etchings, his
thick gray hair could be seen.
Henry entered, head erect, tread firm, marched in through the gate in
the railing to his table, rummaged through the heaps of old exchanges,
proofs, hand-bills, and programmes for a book that was there, and
certain other little personal possessions. The two pencils and one
penholder were his. Also, a small glass inkstand. He gathered these up,
made a parcel in a newspaper. He felt Humphrey's eyes on him. He heard
old Boice move.
Then came the husky voice.
'Henry!' He went on tying the parcel. 'Henry--come here!'
He turned to his friend.
'Gotta do it, Hump. Tell you later.'
Then he moved deliberately to the desk out front, rested an elbow on it,
looked down at the bulky, motionless figure sitting there.
'Where've you been?' asked Mr Boice.
'Been attending to my own affairs.'
'How do you expect your work to be done? The fiftieth anniversary
of----'
'I haven't any work here.'
'Oh, you haven't?'
'No. Through with you. You owe me a little for this week, but I don't
want it. Wouldn't take it as a gift.' His voice was rising. He could
feel Humphrey's eyes over the top of his desk. And a stir by the
press-room door told him that Jim Smith was listening there, with two
or three compositors crowding pip behind him. 'Not as a gift. It's dirty
money. I'm through with you. You and your crooked crowd!'
'Oh, you are?'
'Yes. Through with you. I'm on a decent paper now. A paper that ain't
afraid to print the truth.'
Mr Boice, still motionless, indulged his only nervous affection, making
little sounds.'
'Mmm!' he remarked. 'Hmm! Ump! Mmm!' Then he said, 'Meaning the
_Gleaner_, I presume.'
'Meaning the _Gleaner_.'
'I suppose you know that McGibbon's slated to fail within the month. He
can't so much as meet his pay-roll.'
'I know more'n that!' cried Henry, laughing nervously. 'I know he's got
money because I put some in to-day. Miss Dittenhoefer's quitting you
this week, too. She's enthusiastic about us. I've just seen her. We're
going to have a big property there. We'll buy you out one o' these days
for a song. Then it'll be the _Gleaner and Voice_. See? But, first,
we're going to clean up the town. You and Charlie Waterhouse and
that-old whited sepulchre in the bank! I'll show you you can't fool with
me!'
It was very youthful. Henry wished, in a swift review, that he had
thought up something better and rehearsed it.
Then he saw the eyes of the huge, still man waver down to his desk. And
his heart bounded.
'He's afraid of me!' ran his thoughts. 'I've licked him!'
It was the time to leave. Parcel under arm, he strode out.
Out on the sidewalk, he laughed aloud. Which wouldn't do. He was a
business man now. With investments. He mustn't go grinning down Simpson
Street.
But it was worth a thousand dollars. Just to feel this way once.
Jim Smith? out of breath, came sidling up to the corner. He had run
around through the alley.
He wrung Henry's hand.
'Great!' he cried. 'Soaked it to the old boy, you did! Makes me think of
a story. Maybe you've heard this one. If you have, just----'
A hand fell on Henry's shoulder.
It was Humphrey, hatless. He must have walked out right past Mr Boice.
His face wrinkled into a grin.
'My boy,' he said, 'right here and now I thank you for the joy you've
brought into my young life. The impossible has happened. The beautifully
impossible. It was great.'
'Well,' cried Henry, beaming, unstrung, a touch of nervous aggression in
his voice, 'I said it!'
'Oh, you said it' cried Humphrey.
Thus Henry closed a door behind him. And treading the air, trying
desperately to control the upward-twitching corners of his mouth,
humming the wedding-march from _Lohengrin_ to the familiar words:--