THE next day I returned to the warehouse, and with great formality drew
samples from both ends of the barrel into small manila envelopes and, as
anticipated, this resulted in quite a talk with the owner of the place,
whom I interrogated closely, for I wanted to learn just what kind of a
business he was doing, although it seemed legitimate enough. The
Department said it was worth seven dollars to get that information, and
I intended to return Hiram's money.
The presumption was that some frugal machinist had saved his bench
filings until he had a barrel full and sold it as junk. But how did it
get there without an address marking?
The big interrogation point was up on everything at that time, owing to
the acute stage of the war. Steel filings were not soluble and would not
blacken my finger. The stuff looked more like rifle powder. I finally
decided to mail a sample to a chemist in New York for analysis.
The whirligig of events took me out of New Orleans the next day to
various Gulf ports and along the coast as far north as New York. In his
first communication Hiram said he was doing fine, and the remainder of a
six-page letter was a laudation of the charms of Anna Bell Morgan. There
in New Orleans she was realizing her lifelong ambition, and taking a
course, but he did not say what kind. Soon after I heard from him again
and he hinted at trouble, but finished with a lengthy encomium of the
Quarrytown young woman.
The third letter was unmistakably a storm signal, a cry for relief he
was sure I could give were I there; not a wail, but a courageous man's
request for suitable weapons with which to battle. "When did I expect to
get back?" Directly or indirectly he asked this question several times
in his communication, but did not mention Anna Bell Morgan, and by which
token I concluded his trouble lay in that quarter. When we did meet
again there was no mistaking his concern about his troubles, and his
esteem of my ability to aid him.
Three months had worked a most remarkable change. There was no doubt
that his buoyant optimism and sense of humor had received a shock.
About his up-curving, laughing, clean-chiseled mouth had crept a curious
drooping tendency. Fear, corroding, soul-destroying fear, had found a
footing there. His eyes had retreated under a shelf and his black brows
moved down, while his remarkably straight nose appeared more prominent;
his upstanding, wavy raven hair evidenced neglect, and instead of a
resounding whack on my back came the firm, sure, hearty grip of a man.
He would not let me look over my hat full of mail, much of which bore
many redirections and additional post-office stamps. I had retained my
room adjoining his while away, and it was there we were now seated.
"You know, Ben," he began, after leaning his chair back against the
window sill--there was a sort of dogged intensity in the manner he
raised both his feet to the corner of the table--"the general freight
agent hinted at trouble down on the wharf when I went there. I didn't
pay much attention because I knew I could do the work, and, being on the
level, why should I care what had happened previously?
"Well, for a month or more everything went on splendidly. Then I became
aware that my work was being scrutinized closely. I learned by accident
that all my records were checked and double checked, which was
altogether unusual. I seemed to be getting under a cloud, and the cloud
kept getting darker all the time. The specials came nosing about, first
from the consigning packing houses, then the railroad and finally the
Government inspectors from the Bureau of Animal Industry, under whose
supervision all meat is shipped interstate. I paid no attention except
to be more careful. If I did my work right, why should I care if the
packing-house agents and meat inspectors that break the seals on the
cars with me in the morning began looking at me as though I had horns
and a forked tail concealed about me?
"I lived quietly--in fact I had to. When you get out at three-thirty in
the morning, you've got to be in bed before nine; besides, the old life
doesn't appeal to me any more. In fact, I experience loathing and actual
nausea when I happen to think of it. And then, while my salary is pretty
good now, I had no money to spend when trying to save every cent. It is
true that for a long time I had my dinners with Anna Bell--you know she
is here--but lately I don't even do that.
"Now the losses run up into the thousands--and--and I am
suspected--suspected of being a thief, Ben----"
"How do you know you are?" I asked abruptly.
"Well, after a lot of this mysterious stuff, the agent, Mr. Powell--who
appears to be a pretty nice fellow--came over to my office and let it
out. He said he believed in me and had decided to tell me, but I think
it was just a smooth plan to trap me--to make me the goat. I was shy and
chary of him, and am yet.
"He told me that since I came the meat cars were checking up short, and
in one instance fresh hams were short ten or fifteen tons, and the
packing-house people, the Government, and the road's inspectors, who
have been working on it for months, were stumped.
"No, he didn't accuse me--he asked me to see if I couldn't help find
some clew to the crimes. But, Ben, maybe you can't quite see how much
alone I feel. You were away, I don't see Anna Bell any more, and I
haven't a soul to talk with about it."
"Where is Anna--Miss Morgan--now?"
"Oh, she's right here, and that is the devil of it. I was getting along
fine and so was she, and she promised, after she got a little further
advanced and I had saved a little money on which to start, we were to be
married. But, after this infernal thing came up, I not only stopped all
plans, but quit going to see her. I made up my mind not to go near her
as long as I was suspected of being a thief."
"Maybe you are going too far--are you sure she could not----"
"This is no youthful escapade, to make young women smile and older ones
nudge each other and the Gold-Beater pull his check book with a half
hearted protest. This is a felony, a penitentiary offense. I may be
railroaded up against bars and perhaps stripes.
"Anna Bell Morgan is as pure as she is beautiful, and if I don't get out
of this clean, I love her so much that I don't want it known that she
ever knew me. It would be the act of a dog, and a downright
coward--and, I am not a coward." He ended by glaring at me with burning
eyes, as though I might have been the author of his troubles.
"But, Hiram--it may be you are somewhat morbid, and magnify the gravity
of the matter--there is always a way out for clean hands--pinch and kick
yourself into a normal condition and answer a few questions as though it
were another man's trouble."
"Well, I will admit at the sight of you I do feel better," he said,
still keeping his feet almost as high as his head, on the corner of my
table. "I am on the rack--go ahead with your third degree stuff," he
said, with a trace of a smile as though daring me, and pulling out a
plebeian pipe, began filling it.
"When did you see Miss Morgan last?"
"Five weeks ago to-morrow."
"Have you written or telephoned?"
"Neither, I tell you----"
"All right," I said, raising my hand in tolerant good humor; "you feel
certain there were shortages before your time on the wharf?"
"Yes, I know it--that's why my predecessor lost his job."
"But you don't know just what has been done?" I asked, idly fingering my
mail before me.
"No, I don't; but Mr. Powell, the agent, said the packing-house and
railroad specials were at a standstill, and the government was so short
of men they could not do anything just now. He also said that he had
personally asked the local office of the Department of Justice to take
it up, and while it was something outside of their line, they promised
to coöperate as soon as they had men available. Hang it!" he exclaimed,
passing his fingers through his hair, "it ought not to be so hard to
smoke 'em out."
"Hiram, I will see what can be done to-morrow. In the meantime lose that
'going-to-hell-sure' long face, and cheer up. I've been living at Barns
& Sheds for three months, taking Greek insolence and grease at Greek
restaurants until I feel polluted inside, and want one of those----"
"Real porterhouse steaks," he interrupted, laughing as though they had
become only a memory.
"Give me a few moments to glance over this mail before we go--here,
this ought to interest you, Hiram," I said, discovering one from the
chemist to whom I had sent a sample from our partnership barrel in
storage.
"Why--how?" he asked, looking sharp as though expecting a joke.
I tore open the letter, first noticing it was nearly three months old.
The chemist had replied promptly. I read aloud:
"Your sample suffered a little in the mail and is too small. Will
you oblige me by forwarding a larger one by parcel post? If my
guess is right, the market is particularly bare of this class of
goods, and I can assure a prompt sale at fancy prices."
"You mean that old barrel of junk--those filings you made me pay
three-fifty for a half interest in your foolishness?" he asked, with an
incredulous smile.
"Hiram," I began jestingly, "that barrel will make us rich some day; but
seriously, I do know it is not castings nor junk. However, this letter
is now three months old, and perhaps our best chance has gone."
That night I wired a certain person a code message to the effect that I
was willing to handle the New Orleans case. It was either that or some
day I'd miss being made best man at Anna Bell's wedding.