"NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS"
At no time had it been Phil Kendrick's habit to entertain an inflated
opinion of his own importance. On occasion he had ridden around the
gridiron on the shoulders of idolatrous students; but his modesty had
been one of the factors underlying his popularity. Despising conceit
in others, he was too prone, perhaps, to take himself to task for those
little mistakes which every young man is liable to make from time to
time.
It is safe to say, however, that never in all his life had he arraigned
himself upon the carpet of his own condemnation so severely as now
while paddling across the bay for the second time within the hour. If
the McCorquodale incident earlier in the evening had lowered his
opinion of his own judgment he was now ready to concede that he had no
judgment whatsoever. It was of little use to tell himself that it
served her right, or that she had dared him deliberately to do what he
had done. That did not alter the fact that if he ever met her
again--it was not likely that he would, of course, but if he
did,--somewhere, sometime--he had erected a barrier to her good will
which would preclude all hope of her friendship. His status in her
sight was that of a "miserable fresh Aleck!"
Thus, as a relief to his feelings and in part to keep warm by exertion,
did Phil come home through the fog at headlong pace in a high state of
discontent, a veritable bear with a sore head. As he lifted the canoe
to its place in the boathouse something pricked his finger, and by the
light of a match he found a dollar bill pinned to one of the canoe
cushions with a tiny brooch. His hire!--the only reward he had had any
right to expect! The sight of these souvenirs did not tend to restore
his peace of mind, and there was little mirth in the short laugh which
he bestowed upon them as he thrust them into his pocket; yet it is
interesting that he looked upon them as souvenirs, even while deciding
to dismiss the whole matter permanently from his thoughts.
The launch was not back yet, he noted. Well, Stinson could go to the
devil with it for all he cared! He slammed the boathouse door and
strode up the side-street, this mood carrying as far as the picket
gate. His hand was on the latch before he realized that the library
windows were blurring through the fog with light.
Had the servants all gone crazy to-night? He went around to the front
of the house, and with his face between the slats of the verandah
railing, peered through the French windows. Muttering astonishment, he
climbed over the railing, fitted his latch-key noiselessly and swung
open the double glass doors that gave direct entrance to the room. The
slight sound of his entry passed unnoticed by the Honorable Milton
Waring, who continued to lean over his desk completely absorbed in a
litter of papers.
But for the heavy odor of stale cigar smoke it would have been easy to
suppose that the fog without had crept into the library. The air was
blue. Phil's glance swept the disordered room. Three empty whisky
glasses stood on the library table. The butts of cigars and
innumerable cork-tipped cigarettes lay smothered in gray ashes that
spilled untidily in sundry ash-trays. There was a char of burned paper
in the open grate where a few coals still glowed redly. The desk was
covered with packets of folded papers, held together by rubber bands,
and loose sheets upon which much figuring had been done with the blue
pencil which his uncle favored. A stock certificate or two peeped from
a closed account book.
Phil looked again at the bowed figure, struck by a laxity of manner
that was foreign to the Honorable Milton Waring. His thick iron-gray
hair, usually so carefully brushed, was rumpled on end where his
fingers had plowed and held his head while he figured with the other
hand. He had removed his collar and tossed it aside impatiently; it
lay on the floor behind the chair, leaving the tie still hanging
loosely around the neck, the end of it twisted over one shoulder. The
door in front of which the intruder stood was outside the older man's
line of vision; but Phil could see a flushed cheek, and there was an
air of dejection in his uncle's attitude quite out of keeping with
customary poise.
The subject of these observations reached abruptly for the decanter on
the desk and poured himself a stiff drink of Scotch whisky. The neck
tinkled a little tattoo against the glass. He swallowed the liquor
neat and shook his head in a spasmodic grimace. The sigh with which he
settled back in his chair was one of utter weariness.
Phil gave a slight cough to announce his presence.
"Pardon me, Uncle Milt, if I'm intruding, but I didn't know you were in
town---- Why, what's wrong?" he ended quickly; for his uncle had
sprung from his chair and was clinging to the edge of the desk for
support while he stared as if he were gazing at an apparition.
In truth, quite aside from his quiet entry, the young man's appearance
was startling enough. His facial disfigurement achieved a bizarre
effect which the condition of his clothes served to heighten. The once
jaunty panama hat hung shapelessly about his ears and from beneath it a
plaster of blond hair slanted across his forehead rakishly. His collar
was a soggy mess, from which depended a dark red string in sorry
travesty of a flowing tie. His shirt was soiled with mud, his coat and
trousers full of wrinkles.
"For heaven's sake, boy! What's happened? Train wreck?" He dropped
back into his chair, eyeing his nephew in amazement. "Why aren't you
at Sparrow Lake with your aunt? Get my wire? Eh? They told me you
left this morning----" His voice was hoarse and it trailed away as if
the situation embarrassed him and he was not quite sure how to handle
it. He stared uncertainly, drumming nervously with his fingers.
Phil nodded as he sat down in the nearest chair and stared back. The
surprise of finding his uncle there was overridden by the new discovery
of his evident diffidence, his flushed face, a lack of that
self-contained bearing which always had marked him as a man of large
affairs. It was his uncle's strict rule, he recalled, never to take a
second drink; it was an axiom of the Honorable Milton's that the second
drink drew the cork on indiscretion and eventual inebriety. That
something had happened which must have disturbed him greatly to make
him break this rule was a deduction as simple as the evidence that he
had broken it.
"What about you, Uncle Milt?" suggested Kendrick after a brief
explanation of his change of plans--a recital which carefully avoided
mention of McCorquodale or the mysterious woman of the fog. "If I had
known that Aunt Dolly was going to be alone I wouldn't have let Thorpe
persuade me to stay over a day."
"I was called in unexpectedly--important business----" He pushed
uneasily at the papers on the desk. "Have a cigar, Philip?" He passed
the humidor as he spoke, then scratched a match and held it to his
nephew's selection with careful courtesy. He shook his head in smiling
disapproval of the swollen eye. "Bad business, young man! Bad
business! A fine flower of folly you have there, eh? Don't grow 'm
like that at the Ladies' Aid meeting at the First Baptist Church, do
they?" He settled back in his chair, chortling.
Phil smiled as he tossed aside his hat.
"Blame it on the fog, Uncle Milt. I was foolish enough to trip over
something in the dark and take a header down the Canoe Club stairs into
the water," he explained mendaciously. "Me for the woods to-morrow
without fail. I guess I got off easy at that, for you can't see your
hand in front of your face out on the bay to-night. Stinson almost ran
me down with the launch--missed me by a couple of feet and that's all."
"Stinson? Stinson, d'you say? Don't mean _our_ Stinson--in--_our_
launch? Not our Stinson in our very own launch, Phil'p? You s'prise
me greatly. In the dark like that---- How do you know?" he challenged.
Kendrick smiled at the transparency of this attempt.
"I recognized his voice for one thing. Stinson was speeding the
parting guests--the three who drank out of the glasses yonder. Pshaw,
you know as well as I do that you sent me that wire to clear the way
for this little affair to-night, and you're wishing right now that I
was at the bottom of the lake! But it's all right, Uncle Milt."
His uncle did not laugh. Instead he eyed the younger man from beneath
heavy brows that met in a scowl.
"Sherlock Holmes, eh? When'd you start emulating Sherlock Holmes?" he
growled. "Been a meeting here--yes--business. What of it?"
"Nothing at all, if you say so. Only don't make the mistake of
thinking I'm still a mere kid, Uncle Milt. I'd hate to think there was
any other reason why you have never admitted me to your confidence.
Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I might--well, sort of dig in and
help you in some way? You and Aunt Dolly have been mighty good to me
and I kind of feel---- Well, you know what I mean," he finished
diffidently.
The Honorable Milton Waring's brows unbent. His gaze wandered
automatically to the pile of papers on the desk and for a moment he was
silent.
"There is nothing you can do, Phil---- Phill_up_,----to help," he said
at last, shaking his head slowly, while the tired lines deepened about
his eyes. "I----thanks all same."
Kendrick hunched his chair nearer and laid a hand on the other's knee.
"You're in trouble of some kind," he said earnestly. "Please don't try
to deny it, Uncle Milt. I promised Billy Thorpe I'd join him next week
on a fishing trip, but that's all off if I can be of any use to you.
That special course in engineering next fall--that's all off, too, if
you need me. It's my duty to help and it's your duty to let me. We
both owe it to Aunt Dolly, don't we?"
A look of apprehension sprang into the tired eyes. He waved his hand
swiftly towards the empty glasses.
"Your aunt--she must know nothing of--all this. I warn you now,
Phil'p,--not a word. No use causing her needless worry. Her social
duties, understand,---- These business affairs----" His voice trailed
again and he looked anxiously for his nephew's acquiescence.
"That goes as a matter of course," nodded Kendrick. "So far as I am
concerned, this little chat with you has never taken place and there's
been nobody here except the servants--so far as I am concerned. But is
there any danger of anybody---- What would be the object of anybody
spying on this particular little seance----?" He paused at the quick
consternation which the suggestion aroused.
"What do you mean, Philip?" demanded the Honorable Milton sharply. He
sat up more alertly. "Why do you ask such a foolish question? Are you
talking at random or----?"
"Very much at random," assured Kendrick hastily. "I was just
wondering. Because---- Well, it would be the only way anybody who
happened to be interested would find out about your meeting, wouldn't
it? I don't intend to talk about it, as I said before. I thought
perhaps if it had anything to do with the political situation, for
instance,--detectives, you know--around election time. I don't pretend
to know very much about these things, of course."
"You are fortunate," grunted the Honorable Milton, dryly. "Seems to me
you are allowing your imagination to run away with you, young man.
Advise you to curb it."
Phil took a long pull at his cigar and studied his uncle keenly as he
blew the smoke into the air.
"Do you want to know how I really got this beauty spot--this 'flower of
folly' as you called it?" he asked unexpectedly. "I had a little
argument with a fellow to-night who insisted that you were--he
retracted it, of course--were a political grafter!"
The smile with which the Honorable Milton Waring had welcomed the
promised change of subject faded slowly. He wagged his head in reproof.
"Very foolish of you, Philip--to take any notice of that sort of thing.
Let 'em talk!" Yet he looked at this nephew of his with a new
interest. "Grafter, eh? Didn't believe it, eh?"
"Anyone who looks up your political record, Uncle Milt, must respect
you," said Phil seriously. "These newspapers that are so fond of
handing out roasts seem to overlook the fact that you were the man
mainly responsible for kicking out Rives and his crowd and cleaning up
the whole rotten administration. It makes me mad. And some of them
have got the nerve to hint that the present Government----"
"Don't let's get into any political discussion, Philip," interrupted
his uncle, holding up his hand in protest. "Please. I'm too tired for
that. I'm sick of it, d'you hear? Politics! Politics! The same
miserable tactics of misrepresentation! The same petty motives that
have bedeviled public life for the past---- Damn them!"
He heaved himself abruptly from his chair and began to pace the room
restlessly while Kendrick watched him, surprised by the unexpected
vehemence of the outburst. After a turn or two he stopped directly in
front of his nephew, and in his eyes was a strange look.
"There are many things, my boy, which you cannot be expected to
understand without a lot of explanation," he said more quietly. "I
cannot go into any of these things now. If you ever accept a public
office in later life try to look upon it as a sacred trust to be
fulfilled according to the dictates of conscience. Then you will begin
to understand what is meant by 'burden of effort' and 'the heat of the
day.' I want you to believe that even one man against a pack of wolves
can put up at least some kind of a fight, even though he knows that
sooner or later he is doomed to go down. I have tried conscientiously
to do what I thought was my duty. Do you believe that?"
"Certainly," nodded Kendrick without hesitation.
"Thank you, Philip. No matter what happens I want you to continue to
believe that."
"Look here, Uncle Milt, if anybody is trying to put anything over on
you, why not let me in on the scrap?" urged Phil eagerly. "I meant
what I said a moment ago. What is it? What's the matter? Finances?
Let me help. I'll write you a cheque for what I have in the bank and
we can raise something on my Parkview property----"
The Honorable Milton tossed his head in a chuckle of amusement.
"How much have you got?" he smiled.
"About two thousand in the bank, another couple of thousand in
negotiable securities--oh, about ten thousand, roughly, including the
real-estate. We could sell that. I'll look after it first thing after
breakfast."
"Ten thousand dollars is neither here nor there, Philip," said his
uncle, shaking his head slowly. "I could raise such a sum by the mere
request. Perhaps if it were five times the amount---- Just the same I
am grateful for your offer, my boy."
"Fifty thousand dollars!" murmured Phil. "It's a lot of money when you
haven't got it."
The Honorable Milton glanced at the clock on the mantel and gave an
exclamation.
"It's time you and I were in bed. I hear Stinson just coming in.
Everything's all right. I'm going to turn in now."
At the foot of the stairs he paused to lay a hand on his nephew's
shoulder and there was unwonted gentleness in his manner.
"Good-night, Philip. And thank you for the--the 'flower of folly,'" he
said awkwardly.
For a moment Kendrick stood watching the Honorable Milton Waring as he
mounted the stairs slowly, a heavy hand upon the banister rail. The
gray head was bowed. There was an air of dejection in the whole figure
as of one who tastes the bitterness of defeat.