Nat had a busy day or two after that, trying to set things to rights in
the store for the better reception and display of the new stock. Sperry
dropped him a line saying that the goods would arrive on the third day,
and there was much to do to make way for it. He managed to get the shop
cleaned up thoroughly with Betty's not unwilling but distinctly
suspicious aid; the girl was apparently convinced that Duncan meant
business, and that this would ostensibly work for her father's benefit,
but she was distinctly dubious as to the _deus ex machina_. Duncan
now and again would catch her watching him, her eyes dark with
speculation; but when she detected his gaze her look would change
instantly to one of hostility and defiance. He suspected that only her
father's wishes prevented an open break with her; as it was he was
conscious that there was no more than an armed truce between them. And
he did not like it; it made him uncomfortable. He wasn't hardened
enough to have an easy conscience, and Betty's open doubts as to the
reason for his coming to Radville disturbed Duncan more than he would
have cared to own.
For all that, they worked together steadily, and accomplished a rather
sensational transformation in the appearance of the place. The floor,
counter and shelves were swept, washed, dusted and garnished with
paint; that is, all but the floor received the attention of the
paint-brush; Duncan managed to smuggle a quantity of oil-cloth into the
shop and get it down before Graham could enter any protest: the effect
approximated tiling nearly enough to brighten the room up wonderfully.
Aside from this the old stock was routed out and, for the greater part,
donated to the rubbish-heap. Teddy Smart, the glazier, was commissioned
to repair the broken window-panes and show-cases. A can of metal polish
freshened up the nickel and brass trimmings and rendered the single
upright of the soda fountain almost attractive. The stove was uprooted
and stored away, and its aspiring pipes dispensed with. Finally, after
considerable argument, Graham consented to the removal of his
work-bench to a shed in the back-yard. The model was suffered to
remain, the tanks and burner being stored out of sight beneath one of
the window-seats, more because Duncan considered it would be a good
thing to have the light than because he understood or attached much
importance to the contrivance. For that matter, he hadn't the time to
listen to an exposition of its advantages, and Graham, recognising
this, was content to abide his time, serene in the conviction that he
would presently find in his assistant a willing and sympathetic
listener.
Between spasms of work Duncan had his hands full attending to the soda
fountain. Soda water being practically the only salable thing in the
store, it had to serve as an excuse for the inquisitiveness of many of
my fellow-citizens, to say nothing of--I should put it, but
especially--their wives and daughters. The consumption of vanilly sody
in those two days broke all known Radville records, and stands a
singular tribute to the Spartan fortitude of Radville womanhood,
particularly the young strata thereof. Duncan, after he had succeeded
in taming the fountain, seemed rather to enjoy than object to
dispensing sody, standing inspection and receiving adulation and
nickels in unequal proportions. By the end of the second day he could
not truthfully have told his friend Willy Bartlett: "The list has
shrunk." It had swollen enormously. There isn't any doubt but that he
had a nodding acquaintance with every pretty girl in town, as well as
with most not considered pretty.
From my window in the _Citizen_ office I was able to keep a
tolerably close account of events and obtain a consensus of public
opinion. So far as the latter bore upon Duncan, it was divided into two
rather distinct parties, one of course favouring him; and this was
feminine almost exclusively. Tracey Tanner, to be sure, confessed
within my hearing to a predilection for the Noo York dood, but was
inclined to hedge and climb the fence when assailed by Roland's
strictures. Roland, I suspect, was a wee mite jealous; he had been
paying attention to--I mean, going with--Josie Lockwood for several
months. Instinctively he must have divined his danger; and it's not in
reason to exact admiration of the usurper from the usurped, even when
the act of usurpation has not yet been definitely consummated. Roland
went to the length of labelling Duncan "sissy," and professed to
believe that Hiram Nutt was justified in calling him a "s'picious
character"; Roland hinted darkly that Duncan knew New York no better
than Will Bigelow.
"And if he did come from there," he asseverated, "I betcher he didn't
leave for no good purpose."
His temper inspired me with the sapient reflection that it's a terrible
thing to be in love, even if only with an old man's millions.
"There's goin' to be a real Noo Yorker here before long," Roland
boasted; "he's comin' to see me on some 'special private bus'ness of
ourn."
"Huh," commented Tracey, the sceptical. "What kind of a Noo Yorker'd
come all the way here to see you?"
"That's all right. You'll see when he gets here. He's a pro-motor."
"A what?"
"A pro-motor, a financier." Roland pronounced it "finnan seer," thus
betraying symptoms of culture and bewildering Tracey beyond expression.
"What's that?" he demanded aggressively.
"That's a feller 't can take nothing at all and incorporate it and make
money out of it," Roland defined with some hesitancy.
"And that's why he's coming down here to take a look at you?" inquired
Tracey, skipping nimbly round the corner.
Curiously enough in my understanding (for I own to no great faith in
Roland's statements, taking them by and large) his friend from New York
put in an unheralded appearance in Radville that same night, on the
evening train. The Bigelow House received him to its figurative bosom
under the name of W.H. Burnham. He sent for Roland promptly and treated
him to a dinner at the hotel; something which I have always regarded as
a punishment several sizes too large for the crime. Later, having
displayed him on the streets in witness to his good faith, Roland spent
the evening with Mr. Burnham mysteriously confabulating behind closed
doors in the hotel. Speculation ran rife through the town until nine
o'clock, and land for several days basked in the heat of public
interest.
I happened accidentally to get a glimpse of Mr. Burnham after supper,
although I had to miss my baked apple in order to get down town in
time. He was a disappointment to some extent, although his mode of
dress attracted much comment as being far more sprightly than Duncan's
and less startling than Roland's. He had a self-confident air and a bit
of swagger that filled the eye, but a face and a voice that detracted,
the one too boldly good-looking, with eyes roving and predaceous, the
other a suggestion too loud and domineering. ... I fear association
with Duncan had vitiated my taste.
However that may be, Roland got an hour off at the bank the following
morning, and the pair of them, after wandering with evident aimlessness
round the town, drifted as it were on the tide of hap-chance into
Graham's drug-store.
Duncan was at the station, superintending the transportation of the new
stock, which had come by the early local; Betty was busy with her
housework upstairs; and only old Sam kept the shop.
Sam wasn't in the best of spirits. His evergreen optimism seldom
withered, but in spite of all that had already been accomplished in
behalf of the store, in spite of the rosier aspect of his declining
fortunes and his confidence in and affection for Duncan, Sam was
worried. He had been over to the bank once, even at that early hour,
but Blinky Lockwood had driven out of town to see about foreclosing one
of his numerous mortgages in the neighbourhood, and his note, which
fell due at the bank that day, was still a weight upon Sam's mind.
Roland and Burnham found him wandering nervously round the store,
alternately taking his hat down from the peg, as if minded to make a
second trip to the bank, and replacing it as he realised that patience
was his part. He looked older and more worn than ordinarily, and seemed
distinctly pleased to be distracted by his callers.
"Why, hello, Roland!" he cried cheerfully, hanging up his hat for
perhaps the twentieth time. And, "How de doo, sir?" he greeted the
stranger.
"Good-morning, sir," said Burnham pleasantly.
"Say, Sam," Roland blundered with his usual adroitness, "this
gentleman------"
Burnham's hand fell heavily on his forearm and he checked as if
throttled.
"What's that, Roland?" Sam turned curiously to them.
"Oh, nothin'; I was--er--just going to say that this gentleman's my
friend from Noo York, Mr. Burnham. I was showin' him round the town and
we just happened to look in."
"The friend you were going to write to about my burner?" inquired Sam.
"Well, I'm right glad to meet you, sir."
It was here that Roland got a look from Mr. Burnham that withered him
completely. His further contributions to the conversation were somewhat
spasmodic and ineffectual.
"Why, no, Mr. Graham," Burnham interposed deftly. "Mr. Barnette must've
been talking of someone else he knew in New York. I----"
"Didn't know he knew more'n one there," Sam observed mildly.
Burnham's glance jumped warily to Sam's face, but withdrew reassured,
having detected therein nothing but the old man's kindly and simple
nature. "At all events," he continued, "I don't remember hearing
anything about the matter (what did you call it? A burner, eh?) from
Mr. Barnette."
"I s'pose Roland forgot," Sam allowed. "He's so busy courtin' our
pretty girls, Mr. Burnham----"
"Yes, that was it," Roland put in hastily, seeing his chance to mend
matters. "I did intend to write you about it, Mr. Burnham, but it kind
of slipped my mind. We've had a lot of important business over to the
bank recently."
"By the way, Roland, did you just come from the bank? Is Mr. Lockwood
back yet?"
"No; I got off this morning. I don't think he is, Sam. Did you want to
see him?"
"Well, yes," Sam admitted. "I guess you know about that, Roland."
"Mean business, sometimes, asking favours of these bankers, eh, Mr.
Graham?" Burnham remarked, much too casually to have deceived anybody
but old Sam.
Graham nodded, dolefully. "Yes, it is unpleasant," he admitted
confidingly. "You see, there's a note of mine come due to-day, and I'm
not able to take care of it or pay the interest just now...." He
thought it over gravely for a moment, then brightened. "But I guess
it'll be all right. Mr. Lockwood's kind, very kind."
"I'm afraid you're a little too sure, Sam," Roland contributed
tactfully. "When there's money due Lockwood, he wants it, and most
times he gets it or its equivalent."
"Yes," Sam assented sadly, "I guess he does, mostly."
"But," Burnham changed the subject adroitly, "what was this--burner,
did you say?--that Mr. Barnette forgot to tell me about?"
"Oh, just one of my inventions, sir."
"I understand you're quite an inventor?"
Sam's smile lightened his face like sunlight striking a snow-bound
field. He nodded slowly, thinking of his past enthusiasms, his hopes
and discouragements. "I've spent most of my life at it, sir, but
somehow nothing has ever turned out well... not so far, I mean. But I
mean to hit it yet."
"That's the way to talk," Burnham cried heartily; "never give up, I
say!... But tell me about some of these inventions, won't you?"
"Wel-l"--Sam knitted his fingers and pursed his lips reflectively--"I
patented a new type threshing machine, once, but I couldn't get anybody
to take hold of it. You see, I haven't any money, Mr. Burnham."
"How would you like to talk it over with me, some time? I'm interested
in such things--as a sort of side issue."
"Will you?" Sam's eagerness was not to be disguised.
"Be glad to. Tell me, how did you get your power?"
"From gas, sir--though coal will do 'most as well. You see, I've got
this burner patented, that makes gas from crude oil--no waste, no odour
nor trouble, and little expense. It'd be cheaper than coal, I thought;
that's why I invented it. I could get steam up mighty quick with that
gas arrangement. I use it for lighting here in the store, now."
"Do you, indeed?" Burnham's tone indicated failing interest, but such
diplomacy was lost on Sam.
"If you've got time, I could show you; it's right over here."
A glance at his watch accompanied Burnham's consent to spare a few
minutes. "There's a telegram I must send presently," he said. "But I'd
like to see this burner, if it won't take long."
"No, not long; just a minute or two." Sam was already dragging the
affair out from under the window box. "You see..."
He went on to expound its virtues with all the fond enthusiasm of a
father showing off his firstborn, and wound up with a demonstration of
the illuminating appliance. I'm afraid, though, he got little
encouragement from Mr. Burnham. He considered the machine with a
dispassionate air, it's true, and admitted its practical advantages,
but wasn't at all disposed to take a roseate view of its future.
"Yes," he grudged, when Sam put a match to the jet, "that's certainly a
very good light."
"All right, ain't it?" chimed Roland, enthusiastic.
"Oh, it may amount to something. It's hard to tell. Of course you know,
sir," he continued, addressing Graham directly, "you've got competition
to overcome."
Sam's old fingers trembled to his chin. "No-o," he said, "I didn't know
that. I've got the patent----"
"Of course that's something. But the Consolidated Petroleum crowd has
another machine, slightly different, which does the same work, and, I
should say, does it better."
"Is--is that so?" quavered Sam. "My patent----."
"Now see here, Mr. Graham," Burnham argued, "we're practical men, both
of us----"
"No; I shouldn't say that about myself," Sam interrupted. "Now you,
sir----I can see you're a man who understands such things. But I----"
"Nevertheless, you must know that a patent isn't everything. You said a
moment ago a man had to have money to make anything out of his
inventions."
"Did I?" Sam interjected, surprised.
"Certainly you did; and dead right you are. A patent's all very well,
but supposing you're up against a powerful competitor like the
Consolidated Petroleum Company. They've got a patent, too. Granted it
may be an infringement of yours even--what can you do against them."
"Why, if it's an infringement----"
"Sue, of course. But do you suppose they're going to lie down just
because an unknown and penniless inventor sues them? Bless you, no!
They'll fight to the last ditch, they'll engage the best legal talent
in the country. You'll have to carry the case to the Supreme Court of
the United States if you want a winning decision. And that's going to
cost you thousands--hundreds of thou-sands--a million----"
"Never mind; a thousand's enough," said Sam gently. "I see what you
mean, sir. It's just another case where I've got no chance."
"Oh, I wouldn't put it as strong as that------"
"But I have no money."
"Still, you never can tell. I'll think it over, if I get time."
"Why, that's kind of you, sir, very kind."
It was at this point that Roland rose to the occasion like the noble
ass he is. Roland never could see more than an inch beyond the end of
his nose.
"Say, Mr. Burnham," he floundered, "don't you think you could help Sam
to----"
"I think," said Mr. Burnham, with additional business of looking at his
watch, "I'd like to send that wire I spoke of."
"Yes, Roland," Sam agreed meekly; "you mustn't keep your friend from
his business. I'm glad you looked in, sir. You'll call again, I hope."
"Thank you," said Burnham, moving toward the door.
It was too much for Roland's sense of opportunity. He rolled in
Burnham's wake, sullenly reluctant. "Say, Mr. Burnham," he exploded as
they got to the door, "if you'll just offer Sam five----"
_"That will do!"_ Roland collapsed as if punctured. Burnham turned
to Graham with a wave of his hand. "I'm leaving on the afternoon train,
but if I get time I may drop in again and talk things over with you.
There might be something in that threshing machine you mentioned."
"I'll be glad to show you anything I've got here..."
"All right. Good-day. I'll see you again, perhaps."
This cavalier snub was lost on Sam, an essential of whose serene soul
is the quality of humility. He followed them to the door, as grateful
as a lost dog for a stray pat instead of a kick. "Good-day, sir.
Good-day, Roland," he sped their parting cheerfully.
But it was a broken man who shut the door behind them and turned back,
fingering his grey chin. There must have been a dimness in his eyes and
a quiver to his wide-lipped, generous mouth.
"Perhaps Mr. Burnham was right. Only I was kind of hopin'... Now Mr.
Lockwood over there..."
He shook himself to throw off the spell of depression and somehow
managed to quicken again his abiding faith in the essential goodness of
the world.
"Well, well! He's kind, very kind."
He began to restore his model to its hiding place, musing upon the
ebb-tide in his affairs in his muddle-headed way, and in the process
managed to convince himself that "it 'ud all come right."
"With this young man in here, and everythin' gettin' fixed up, and new
stock comin' in ... I'm sure Mr. Lockwood'll see it the right way ...
for us.... He's kind, very kind."
Thus it was that he presently called up the stairs in a very cheerful
voice: "Betty, are you pretty near through up there?"
The girl's weary voice came down to him without accent: "Yes, father,
almost."
"Well, then, you keep an eye on the store, please. I'm goin' to step
out for a minute."
"Yes, father."
"And if--if anybody asks for me, I'll most likely be down to the depot,
with Mr. Duncan."
He didn't mention that he contemplated calling on Lockwood, because he
feared it might worry Betty. ... As if a woman doesn't always
understand when things are going wrong!
Betty knew, or rather divined. And she had no hope, no faith such as
made Sam what he was. She came down the steps listlessly, overborne by
her knowledge of the world's wrongness. The glance with which she
comprehended the renovated shop was bitter with contempt. What was the
worth of all this? Nothing good would come of it; nothing good came of
anything. Life was drab and dreary, made up of weary, profitless years
and months and weeks and days, to each its appointed disappointment.
Only her sense of duty sustained her. She owed something to old Sam for
the gift of life, dismal though she found it. He needed her; what she
could do for him she would. I have always thought that her affection
for her father was less filial than maternal. He seemed such a child,
she--so very old! She mothered him; it was her only joy to care for
him. Her care was constant, unfailing, omniscient. In return she got
only his love. But it was almost enough--almost, not quite, dearly as
she prized it. There were other things a girl should have--indeed, must
have, if her life were to be rounded out in fulness. And these, she
understood, were forever denied her: apples of Paradise growing in her
sight, heartrending in their loveliness so far beyond her reach....
Sighing, she went to work. In work only could she forget.... The soda
glasses needed cleaning, and the syrup jars replenishing (for the new
order of syrups had come in the previous evening).
After a time, to a tune of pounding feet, Tracey Tanner pranced into
the shop with all the graceful abandon of a young elephant feeling its
oats. His face was fairly scarlet from exertion and his eyes bulging
with a sense of importance. The girl looked up without interest,
nodding slightly in response to his breathless: "'Lo, Betty."
"Father's gone out," she said, holding a glass to the light, suspicious
of the lint from her dish towel.
"I know--seen him down the street." The boy halted at the counter,
producing a handful of square envelopes. "Note for you from the
Lockwoods, Betty," he panted. "Josie ast me to bring it round."