But old Jamie knew naught of this, and the Bowdoins never told him.
They consulted much what they should do; but they never told him. And
Jamie went on, piling up his money. Three rolls were in the old chest
now, and all of Spanish gold. Doubloons and pistoles were growing
rarer, and the price was getting higher. But the old clerk was not
content with replacing the present value to the credit of "Pirates" on
the books; the actual pieces must be returned; so that if any
earringed, whiskered buccaneer turned up to demand his money from
James Bowdoin's Sons, he might have it back in specie, in the very
pieces themselves, that the honor of the firm might be maintained.
Until then, he felt sure, there was little chance the box would ever
be looked into. Practically, he was safe; it was only his conscience,
not his fears, that troubled him.
Since he had sent her that hundred dollars, he had heard nothing from
Mercedes. The Bowdoins did not tell him how her husband had sunk to be
a slave-catcher; for they knew how miserly old Jamie had become, and
supposed that his salary all went to her. While Jamie could take care
of her, it mattered little what the worthless husband did, save the
pain of Jamie's knowing it. And of course they did not know that Jamie
could no longer take care of her, and why.
But one day, in the spring of 185-, a New York correspondent of the
bank came on to Boston, and Mr. Bowdoin gave a dinner for him at the
house. The dinner was at three o'clock; but old lady Bowdoin wore her
best gown of tea-colored satin, and James Bowdoin and his wife were
there. After dinner, the three gentlemen sat discussing old madeira,
and old and new methods of banking, and the difference between Boston
and New York, which was already beginning to assume a metropolitan
preëminence.
"By the way, speaking of old-fashioned ways," said the New Yorker
suddenly, "that's a queer old clerk of yours,--Mr. McMurtagh, I mean."
"Looks as if he might have stepped out of one of Dickens's novels,
does he not?" said Mr. Bowdoin, always delighted to have Jamie's
peculiarities appreciatively mentioned.
"But how did you come to know him?" asked Mr. James.
"Why, I see him once a year or so. Don't you send him occasionally to
New York?"
"He used to go, some years ago," said Mr. Bowdoin.
"He buys his Spanish gold of us," added the New Yorker. "Queer fancy
you have of buying up doubloons. Gold is gold, though, in these
times."
"Spanish doubloons?" said Mr. James.
"We have a use for them at the bank," remarked the old gentleman
sharply. "Shall we join the ladies?"
"You have to pay a pretty premium for them," added the money-dealer,
as he stopped to wipe his lips. "Wonderful madeira, this."
Old Mr. Bowdoin took no squeaking toy to bed with him that night; but
at breakfast his worthy spouse vowed he must take another room if he
would be so wakeful. For once the old gentleman had no repartee, but
hurried down to the bank. Early as he was, he found his son James
there before him. And with all his soul he seized upon the chance to
lose his temper.
"Well, sir, and what are you spying about for? You're not a director
in the bank!"
Mr. James looked up, astonished.
"Got a headache, I suppose, from drinking with that New York tyke they
sent us yesterday!"
"Well, sir, when it comes to old madeira"--
"I earned it, I bought it, and I can drink it, too. And as for your
Wall Street whippersnappers that haven't pedigree enough to get a
taste for wine, and drink champagne, and don't know an honest man when
they see one--it's so seldom"--
"Seriously, what do you suppose he wanted with the gold?"
"I don't know, sir, and I don't care. But since you're spying round,
come in!" and Mr. Bowdoin led his son into the vault. "There, sir,
there's the confounded box," tapping with his cane the old chest that
lay on the top shelf.
"I see, sir," said Mr. James, taking his cue.
"And as for its contents, the firm of James Bowdoin's Sons are
responsible. Perhaps you'd like to poke your nose in there?"
"Oh no, sir," said Mr. James. And that chest was never opened by
James Bowdoin or James Bowdoin's Sons.
"When the pirate wants it, he can have it,--in hell or elsewhere,"
ended Mr. Bowdoin profanely.
But coming out, and after Mr. James had gone away, the old gentleman
went to Jamie McMurtagh's desk. Poor Jamie had seen them enter the
vault, and his heart stood still. But all Mr. Bowdoin said was to ask
him if his salary was sufficient. For once in his life the poor old
man had failed to meet his benefactor's eye.
"It is quite enough, sir. I--I deserve no more."
But Mr. Bowdoin was not satisfied. "Jamie," he said, "if you should
ever need more money,--a good deal of money, I mean,--you will come to
me, won't you? You could secure it by a policy on your life, you
know."