Uncle Peter Bines Threatens to Raise Something
Uncle Peter and Billy Brue left the Hightower at midnight. Billy Brue
wanted to walk down to their hotel, on the plea that they might see a
fight or a fire "or something." He never ceased to feel cheated when he
was obliged to ride in New York. But Uncle Peter insisted on the cab.
"Say, Uncle Peter," he said, as they rode down, "I got a good notion to
get me one of them first-part suits--like the minstrels wear in the
grand first part, you know--only I'd never be able to git on to the
track right without a hostler to harness me and see to all the buckles
and cinch the straps right. They're mighty fine, though."
Finding Uncle Peter uncommunicative, he mused during the remainder of
the ride, envying the careless ease with which Percival and his
friends, and even Uncle Peter, wore the prescribed evening regalia of
gentlemen, and yearning for the distinguished effect of its black and
white elegance upon himself.
They went to their connecting rooms, and Billy Brue regretfully sought
his bed, marvelling how free people in a town like New York could ever
bring themselves to waste time in sleep. As he dozed off, he could hear
the slow, measured tread of Uncle Peter pacing the floor in the next
room.
He was awakened by hearing his name called. Uncle Peter stood in a
flood of light at the door of his room. He was fully dressed.
"Awake, Billy?"
"Is it gittin'-up time?"
The old man came into the room and lighted a gas-jet. He looked at his
watch.
"No; only a quarter to four. I ain't been to bed yet."
Billy Brue sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"Rheumatiz again, Uncle Peter?"
"No; I been thinkin', Billy. How do you like the game?"
He began to pace the floor again from one room to the other.
"What game?'! Billy Brue had encountered a number in New York.
"This whole game--livin' in New York."
Mr. Brue became judicial.
"It's a good game as long as you got money to buy chips. I'd hate like
darnation to go broke here. All the pay-claims have been located, I
guess."
"I doubt it's bein' a good game any time, Billy. I been actin' as kind
of a lookout now fur about forty days and forty nights, and the chances
is all in favour of the house. You don't even get half your money on
the high card when the splits come."
Billy Brue pondered this sentiment. It was not his own.
"The United States of America is all right, Billy."
This was safe ground.
"Sure!" His mind reverted to the evening just past. "Of course there
was a couple of Clarences in high collars there to-night that made out
like they was throwin' it down; but they ain't the whole thing, not by
a long shot."
"Yes, and that young shrimp that was talkin' about 'vintages' and
'trouserings.'" The old man paused in his walk.
"What _are_ 'trouserings,' Billy?"
Mr. Brue had not looked into shop windows day after day without
enlarging his knowledge.
"Trouserings," he proclaimed, rather importantly, "is the cloth they
make pants out of."
"Oh! is that all? I didn't know but it might be some new kind of duds.
And that fellow don't ever get up till eleven o'clock A.M. I don't
reckon I would myself if I didn't have anything but trouserings and
vintages to worry about. And that Van Arsdel boy!"
"Say!" said Billy, with enthusiasm, "I never thought I'd be even in the
same room with one of that family, 'less I prized open the door with a
jimmy."
"Well, who's _he?_ My father knew his grandfather when he kep' tavern
over on the Raritan River, and his grandmother!--this shrimp's
grandmother!--she tended bar."
"Gee!"
"Yes, they kep' tavern, and the old lady passed the rum bottle over the
bar, and took in the greasy money. This here fellow, now, couldn't make
an honest livin' like that, I bet you. He's like a dogbreeder would
say--got the pedigree, but not the points."
Mr. Brue emitted a high, throaty giggle.
"But they ain't all like that here, Uncle Peter. Say, you come out with
me some night jest in your workin' clothes. I can show you people all
right that won't ask to see your union card. Say, on the dead, Uncle
Peter, I wish you'd come. There's a lady perfessor in a dime museum
right down here on Fourteenth Street that eats fire and juggles the big
snakes;--say, she's got a complexion--"
"There's enough like that kind, though," interrupted Uncle Peter. "I
could take a double-barrel shotgun up to that hotel and get nine with
each barrel around in them hallways; the shot wouldn't have to be
rammed, either; 'twouldn't have to scatter so blamed much."
"Oh, well, them society sports--there's got to be some of _them_--"
"Yes, and the way they make 'em reminds me of what Dal Mutzig tells
about the time they started Pasco. 'What you fellows makin' a town here
fur?' Dal says he asked 'em, and he says they says, 'Well, why not? The
land ain't good fur anything else, is it?' they says. That's the way
with these shrimps; they ain't good fur anything else. There's that
Arledge, the lad that keeps his mouth hangin' open all the time he's
lookin' at you--he'll catch cold in his works, first thing _he_
knows--with his gold monogram on his cigarettes."
"He said he was poor," urged Billy, who had been rather taken with the
ease of Arledge's manner.
"Fine, big, handsome fellow, ain't he? Strong as an ox, active, and
perfectly healthy, ain't he? Well, he's a _pill_! But _his_ old man
must 'a' been on to him. Here, here's a piece in the paper about that
fine big strappin' giant--it's partly what got me to thinkin' to-night,
so I couldn't sleep. Just listen to this," and Uncle Peter read:
"E. Wadsworth Arledge, son of the late James Townsend Arledge, of the
dry-goods firm of Arledge & Jackson, presented a long affidavit to
Justice Dutcher, of the Supreme Court, yesterday, to show why his
income of six thousand dollars a year from his father's estate should
not be abridged to pay a debt of $489.32. Henry T. Gotleib, a grocer,
who obtained a judgment for that amount against him in 1895, and has
been unable to collect, asked the Court to enjoin Judge Henley P.
Manderson, and the Union Fidelity Trust Company, as executors of the
Arledge estate, from paying Mr. Arledge his full income until the debt
has been discharged. Gotleib contended that Arledge could sustain the
reduction required.
"James T. Arledge died about two years ago, leaving an estate of about
$3,000,000. He had disapproved of the marriage of his son and evinced
his displeasure in his will. The son had married Flora Florenza, an
actress. To the son was given an income of $6,000 a year for life. The
rest of the estate went to the testator's widow for life, and then to
charity.
"Here is the affidavit of E. Wadsworth Arledge:
"'I have been brought up in idleness, under the idea that I was to
inherit a large estate. I have never acquired any business habits so as
to fit me to acquire property, or to make me take care of it.
"'I have never been in business, except many years ago, when I was a
boy, when I was for a short time employed in one of the stores owned by
my father. For many years prior to my father's death I was not
employed, but lived on a liberal allowance made to me by him. I am a
married man, and in addition to my wife have a family of two children
to support from my income.
"'All our friends are persons of wealth and of high social standing,
and we are compelled to spend money in entertaining the many friends
who entertain us. I am a member of many expensive clubs. I have
absolutely no income except the allowance I receive from my father's
estate, and the same is barely sufficient to support my family.
"'I have received no technical or scientific education, fitting me for
any business or profession, and should I be deprived of any portion of
my income, I will be plunged in debt anew.'
"The Court reserved decision."
"You hear that, Billy? The Court reserved decision. Mr. Arledge has to
buy so many gold cigarettes and vintages and trouserings, and belong to
so many clubs, that he wants the Court to help him chouse a poor grocer
out of his money. Say, Billy, that judge could fine me for contempt of
court, right now, fur reservin' his decision. You bet Mr. Arledge would
'a' got my decision right hot off the griddle. I'd 'a' told him,
'You're the meanest kind of a crook I ever heard of fur wantin' to lie
down on your fat back and whine out of payin' fur the grub you put in
your big gander paunch,' I'd tell him, 'and now you march to the
lock-up till you can look honest folks in the face,' I'd tell him. Say,
Billy, some crooks are worse than others. Take Nate Leverson out there.
Nate set up night and day for six years inventin' a process fur
sweatin' gold into ore; finally he gets it; how he does it, nobody
knows, but he sweat gold eighteen inches into the solid rock. The first
few holes he salted he gets rid of all right, then of course they catch
him, and Nate's doin' time now. But say, I got respect fur Nate since
readin' that piece. There's a good deal of a man about him, or about
any common burglar or sneak thief, compared to this duck. They take
chances, say nothin' of the hard work they do. This fellow won't take a
chance and won't work a day. Billy, that's the meanest specimen of
crook I ever run against, bar none, and that crook is produced and
tolerated in a place that's said to be the centre of 'culture and
refinement and practical achievement.' Billy, he's a pill!"
"That's right," said Billy Brue, promptly throwing the recalcitrant
Arledge overboard.
"But it ain't none of my business. What I do spleen again, is havin' a
grandson of mine livin' in a community where a man that'll act like
that is actually let in their houses by honest folks. Think of a son of
Daniel J. Bines treatin' folks like that as if they was his equals.
Say, Dan'l had a line of faults, all right--but, by God! he'd a trammed
ore fur two twenty-five a day any time in his life rather'n not pay a
dollar he owed. And think of this lad making his bed in this kind of a
place where men are brought up to them ways; and that name; think of a
husky, two-fisted boy like him lettin' himself be called by a measly
little gum-drop name like Percival, when he's got a right to be called
Pete. And he's right in with 'em. He'd be jest as bad--give him a
little time; and Pishy engaged to a damned fortune-hunting Englishman
into the bargain. It's all Higbee said it was, only it goes double.
Say, Billy, I been thinkin' this over all night."
"'Tis mighty worryin', ain't it, Uncle Peter?"
"And I got it thought out."
"Sure, you must 'a' got it down to cases."
"Billy,' listen now. There's a fellow down in Wall Street. His name is
Shepler, Rulon Shepler. He's most the biggest man down there."
"Sure! I heard of him."
"Listen! I'm goin' to bed now. I can sleep since I got my mind made up.
But I want to see Shepler in private to-morrow. Don't wake me up in the
morning. But get up yourself, and go find his office--look in a
directory, then ask a policeman. Shepler's a busy man. You tell the
clerk or whoever holds you up that Mr. Peter Bines wants an appointment
with Mr. Shepler as soon as he can make it--Mr. Peter Bines, of
Montana City. Be there by 9.30 so's to get him soon as he comes. He
knows me; tell him I want to see him on business soon as possible, and
find out when he can give me time. And don't you say to any one else
that I ever seen him or sent you there. Understand? Don't ever say a
word to any one. Remember, now, be there at 9.30, and don't let any
clerk put you off, and ask him what hour'll be convenient for him. Now
get what sleep's comin' to you. It's five o'clock."
At noon Billy Brue returned to the hotel to find Uncle Peter finishing
a hearty breakfast.
"I found him all right, Uncle Peter. The lookout acted suspicious, but
I saw the main guy himself come out of a door--like I'd seen his
picture in the papers, so I just called to him, and said, 'Mr. Peter
Bines wants to see you,' like that. He took me right into his office,
and I told him what you said, and he'll be ready for you at two
o'clock. He knows mines, all right, out our way, don't he?--and he
crowded a handful of these tin-foil cigars on to me, and acted real
sociable. Told me to drop in any time. Say, he'd run purty high in the
yellow stuff all right."
"At two o'clock, you say?"
"Yes."
"And what's his number?"
"Gee, I forgot; I can tell you, though. You go down Broadway to that
old church--say, Uncle Peter, there's folks in that buryin'-ground
been dead over two hundred years, if you can go by their gravestones.
Gee! I didn't s'pose _anybody'd_ been dead that long--then you turn
down the gulch right opposite, until you come to the Vandevere
Building, a few rods down on the left. Shepler's there. Git into the
bucket and go up to the second level, and you'll find him in the
left-hand back stope--his name's on the door in gold letters."
"All right. And look here, Billy, keep your head shut about all I said
last night about anything. Don't you ever let on to a soul that I ain't
stuck on this place and its people--no matter what I do."
"Sure not! What _are_ you going to do, Uncle Peter?"
The old man's jaws were set for some seconds in a way to make Billy
Brue suspect he might be suffering from cramp. It seemed, however, that
he had merely been thinking intently. Presently he said:
"I'm goin' to raise hell, Billy."
"Sure!" said Mr. Brue--approvingly on general principles. "Sure! Why
not?"