GERALD FOSLAND MAKES A SPEECH
Gerald Fosland, known to be so formal that he had once dressed to answer
an emergency call from a friend at the hospital, because the message
came in at six o’clock, surprised his guests by appearing before them,
in the salon just before dinner, in his driving coat and with his motor
cap in his hand.
“Sorry,” he informed them, with his stiff bow, “but an errand of such
importance that it can not be delayed, causes Mrs. Fosland and myself to
return to the city immediately for an hour or so. I am sincerely
apologetic, and I trust that you will have a jolly dinner.”
“Is Gail going with you?” inquired the alert Mrs. Helen Davies,
observing Gail in the gangway adjusting her furs.
“She has to chaperon me, while Gerald is busy,” Arly glibly explained.
“Onery, Orey, Ickery, Ann, Filison, Foloson, Nicholas, John; Queevy,
Quavy, English Navy, Stigalum, Stagalum, Buck. You’re it, Aunt Grace,”
counted out Arly. “You and Uncle Jim have to be hosts. Good-bye!” and
she sailed out to the deck, followed by the still troubled Gail, who
managed to accomplish the laughing adieus for which Arly had set the
precedence.
A swift ride in the launch, in the cool night air, to the landing; a
brisk walk to the street, and, since no one had expected to come ashore
until Monday, a search for a taxi; then Gerald, chatting with correct
pleasantness through his submerged preoccupation, having seen the ladies
safe under shelter, even if it were but the roof of a night hawk taxi,
stopped at the first saloon, a queer place, of a sodden type which he
had never before seen and would never see again. There he phoned half a
dozen messages. There were four eager young men waiting in the reception
room of the Fosland house, when Gerald’s party arrived, and three more
followed them up the steps.
Gerald aided in divesting the ladies of their wraps, and slipped his own
big top coat into the hands of William, and saw to his tie and the set
of his waistcoat and the smoothness of his hair, before he stalked into
the reception parlour and bowed stiffly.
“Gentlemen,” he observed, giving his moustache one last smoothing,
“first of all, have you brought with you the written guarantees which I
required from your respective chiefs, that, in whatsoever comes from the
information I am about to give you, the names of your informants shall,
under no circumstances, appear in print?”
One luckless young man, a fat-cheeked one, with a pucker in the corner
of his lips where his cigar should have been, was unable to produce the
necessary document, and he was under a scrutiny too close to give him a
chance to write it.
“Sorry,” announced Gerald, with polite contrition. “As this is a very
strict condition, I must ask you to leave the room while I address the
remaining gentlemen.”
The remaining gentlemen, of whom there were now eleven, grinned
appreciatively. Hickey would have been the best newspaper man in New
York if he were not such a careless slob. He was so good that he was the
only man from the _Planet_. The others had sent two, and three; for
Gerald’s message, while very simple, had been most effective. He had
merely announced that he was prepared to provide them with an
international sensation, involving some hundreds of billions of
dollars—and he had given his right name!
The unfortunate Hickey made a violent pretence of search through all his
pockets.
“I must have lost it,” he piteously declared. “Won’t you take my written
word that you won’t be mentioned?” and he looked up at the splendidly
erect Gerald with that honest appeal in his eyes which had deceived so
many.
“Sorry,” announced Gerald; “but it wouldn’t be sportsmanlike, since it
would be quite unfair to these other gentlemen.”
“Hold the stuff ’til I telephone,” begged Hickey. “Say, if I get that
written guarantee up here in fifteen minutes, will it do?”
Gerald looked him speculatively in the eye.
“If you telephone, and can then assure me, on your word of honour, that
the document I require shall be in the house before you leave, I shall
permit you to remain,” he decreed; and Hickey looked him quite soberly
in the eye for half a minute.
“I’ll have it here all right,” he decided, and sprang for the telephone,
and came back in three minutes with his word of honour. They could hear
him, from the library, yelling, from the time he gave the number until
he hung up the receiver, and if there was ever urgency in a man’s voice,
it was in the voice of Hickey.
Gerald Fosland took a commanding position in the corner of the room,
where he could see the countenances of each of the eager young gentlemen
present. He stood behind a chair, with his hands on the back of it, in
his favourite position for responding to a toast.
“Gentlemen; Edward E. Allison (_Twelve young gentlemen who had been
leaning forward with strained interest, and their mouths half open to
help them hear, suddenly jerked bolt upright. The little squib over
under the statue of Diana, dropped his lead pencil, and came up with a
purple face. Hickey, with a notebook two inches wide in one hand, jabbed
down a scratch to represent Allison_) is about to complete a
transportation system encircling the globe. (_The little squib on the
end choked on his tongue. Hickey made a ring on his note pad, to
represent the globe, and while he waited for the sensation to subside,
put a buckle on it._) The acquisition of the foreign railroads will be
made possible only by a war, which is already arranged. (_The little
squib got writer’s cramp. Hickey waited for details. The hollow-cheeked
reporter grabbed for a cigarette, but with no intention of lighting
it._) The war, which will be between Germany and France, will begin
within a month. France, unable to raise a war fund otherwise, will sell
her railroads. The Russian line is already being taken from its present
managers, and will be turned over to Allison’s world syndicate within a
week. The important steamship lines will become involved in financial
difficulties, which have already been set afoot in England. Following
these events will come a successful rebellion in India, and the
independence of all the British colonies. (_The little squib laid down
his pencil, and sat in open-mouthed despair. He was three sentences
behind, and knew that he would be compelled to trust his memory and his
imagination, and neither were equal to this task. Hickey had seven
serene jabs on his notebook, and was peacefully framing his introductory
paragraph. A seraphic smile was on his thick lips, and his softened eyes
were gazing fondly into the fields of rich fancy. The hollow-cheeked
young man had cocked his cigarette perpendicularly, and he was writing a
few words with artistic precision. The red-headed reporter was tearing
off page after page of his notebook and stuffing them loosely in his
pocket. One of the boys, a thick-breasted one with large hands, was
making microscopic notes on the back of an envelope, and had plenty of
room to spare._) You will probably require some tangible evidence that
these large plans are on the way to fulfilment. I call your attention to
the fact that, last week, the Russian Duomo began a violent agitation
over the removal of Olaf Petrovy, who was the controller of the entire
Russian railroad system. Day before yesterday, Petrovy was unfortunately
assassinated, and the agitation in the Duomo subsided. (_Hickey only
nodded. His eyes glowed with the light of a poet. The little squib
sighed dejectedly._) This morning I read that France is greatly incensed
over a diplomatic breach in the German war office; and it is commented
that the breach is one which can not possibly be healed. Kindly take
note of the following facts. From the first to the eighth of this month,
Baron von Slachten, who is directly responsible for Germany’s foreign
relations, was seen in this city at the Fencing Club, under the
incognito of Henry Brokaw. Chevalier Duchambeau, director of the
combined banking interests of France, was here in that same week, and
was seen at the Montparnasse Cercle. He bore the name of Andree Tirez.
The Grand Duke Jan, of Russia, was here as Ivan Strolesky. James
Wellington Hodge, the master of the banking system of practically all
the world, outside the United States, was here as E. E. Chalmers. Prince
Nito of Japan, Yu-Hip-Lun of China and Count Cassioni of Rome, were here
at the same time; and they all called on Edward E. Allison. (_Furious
writing on the part of all the young gentlemen except the little squib
and Hickey; the former in an acute paralysis of body and mind and soul,
and Hickey in an acute ecstasy. He had symbols down for all the foreign
gentlemen named, a pretzel for the Baron, and had the local records of
Ivan Strolesky and Baron von Slachten up a tree. He had seen them both,
and interviewed the former._) Furthermore, gentlemen, I will give you
now the names of the eight financiers, who, with Edward E. Allison, are
interested in the formation of the International Transportation Company,
which proposes to control the commerce of the world. These gentlemen are
Joseph G. Clark (_the little squib jumped up and sat down. Hickey
produced a long, low whistle of unbounded joy. The hollow-faced one
jerked the useless cigarette from his mouth and threw it in the
fireplace. The red-headed reporter laughed hysterically, though he never
stopped writing. Every young gentleman there made one or another sharp
physical movement expressive of his astonishment and delight_), Eldridge
Babbitt (_more sensation_), W. T. Chisholm (_Hickey wrote the rest of
the list_), Richard Haverman, Arthur Grandin, Robert E. Taylor, A. L.
Vance. I would suggest that, if you disturb these gentlemen in the
manner which I have understood you to be quite capable of doing, you
might secure from some one of them a trace of corroboration of the
things I have said. This is all.” He paused, and bowed stiffly.
“Gentlemen, I wish to add one word. I thank you for your kind attention,
and I desire to say that, while I have violated to-night several of the
rules which I had believed that I would always hold unbroken, I have
done so in the interest of a justice which is greater than all other
considerations. Gentlemen, good-night.”
“Have you a good photograph handy?” asked the squib, awakening from his
trance.
Nine young gentlemen put the squib right about that photograph. Hickey
was lost in the fields of Elysian phantasy, and the red-headed reporter
was still writing and stuffing loose pages in his pocket, and the one
with the beard was making a surreptitious sketch of Gerald Fosland, to
use on the first plausible occasion. He had in mind a special article on
wealthy clubmen at home.
“Company incorporated?” inquired Hickey, who was the most practical poet
of his time.
“I should consider that a pertinent question,” granted Gerald.
“Gentlemen, you will pardon me for a moment,” and he bowed himself from
the room.
He had meant to ask that one simple question and return, but, in
Arlene’s blue room, where sat two young women in a high state of quiver,
he had to make his speech all over again, verbatim, and detail each
interruption, and describe how they received the news, and answer,
several times, the variously couched question, if he really thought
their names would not be mentioned. It was fifteen minutes before he
returned, and he found the twelve young gentlemen suffering with an
intolerable itch to be gone! Five of the young men were in the library,
quarrelling, in decently low voices, over the use of phone. The
imperturbable Hickey, however, had it, and he held on, handing in a
story, embellished and coloured and frilled and be-ribboned as he went,
which would make the cylinders on the presses curl up.
“I am sorry to advise you, gentlemen, that I am unable to tell you if
the International Transportation Company is, or is about to be,
incorporated,” reported Gerald gravely, and he signalled to William to
open the front door.
The air being too cold, however, he had it closed presently, for now he
was the centre of an interrogatory circle from every degree of which
came questions so sharply pointed that they seemed to flash as they
darted towards him. Gerald Fosland listened to this babble of
conversation with a courtesy beautiful to behold, but at the first good
pause, he advised them that he had given them all the information at his
command, and once more caused the door to be opened; whereupon the eager
young gentlemen, with the exception of the squib, who was on his knees
under a couch looking for a lost subway ticket, shook hands cordially
and admiringly with the host of the evening, and bulged out into the
night.
As the rapt and enchanted Hickey passed out of the door, a grip like a
pair of ice tongs caught him by the arm, and drew him gently but firmly
back.
“Sorry,” observed Gerald; “but you don’t go.”
“Hasn’t that damn boy got here yet?” demanded Hickey, in an immediate
mood for assassination. He was a large young man, and defective
messenger boys were the bane of his existence.
“William says not,” replied Gerald.
“For the love of Mike, let me go!” pleaded Hickey. “This stuff has to be
handled while it’s still sizzling! It’s the biggest story of the
century! That boy’ll be here any minute.”
“Sorry,” regretfully observed Gerald; “but I shall be compelled to
detain you until he arrives.”
“Can’t do it!” returned the desperate Hickey. “I have to go!” and he
made a dash for the door.
Once more the ice tongs clutched him by the shoulder and sank into the
flesh.
“If you try that again, young man, I shall be compelled to thrash you,”
stated the host, again mildly.
Hickey looked at him, very thoroughly. Gerald was a slim waisted
gentleman, but he had broad shoulders and a depressingly calm eye, and
he probably exercised twenty minutes every morning by an open window,
after his cold plunge, and took a horseback ride, and walked a lot, and
played polo, and a few other effete things like that. Hickey sat down
and waited, and, though the night was cold, he mopped his brow until the
messenger came!