Mr. Heidlemann seemed to consider this for a moment. "We've had this
matter before us almost constantly since the report of the storm," he
said, at length, "and after deliberation our directors have voted to do
nothing just yet."
O'Neil opened his eyes in amazement.
"I don't understand."
"It's this way. Our engineers first recommended Cortez as a
starting-point, and we spent a fortune there. Then you attacked the
other route, and we sent Trevor up to find if you were right and we
were wrong. He recommended the Salmon River valley, and told us he
could build a breakwater at Kyak. You know the result. We relied upon
him, for he seemed to be the best man in the country, but as a matter
of precaution we later sent other engineers. Their reports came in not
three months ago, and, while all seemed confident that the breakwater
could be built, none of them were certain about the bridge. One, in
fact, condemned it absolutely. Now on the heels of their statements
comes the news that the very work they united in declaring feasible has
been undone. Naturally, we don't know where we are or whom to believe."
"They simply didn't know the conditions at Kyak," argued O'Neil, "and
they evidently haven't studied the bridge as I have. But you'll have to
go at the breakwater again or build in from Cortez or give up."
"No, we have decided to mark time until that crossing is proved
feasible. Understand, I voice the sentiment of the majority."
"If I build that bridge you may find it more difficult to buy me out,"
said O'Neil, quietly.
"We'll have to take our medicine," Mr. Heidlemann replied, without
heat. "We cannot afford another mistake."
"This is definite?"
"Oh, absolutely! We're going slow for a time."
A blow in the face could not have affected O'Neil more disagreeably
than this statement. Fortune had seemed within his grasp when he
entered the room; now ruin was more imminent than it had ever been
before. The ground seemed to be slipping from beneath his feet; he
discovered that he was dizzy. He felt himself utterly incapable of
raising the two million dollars necessary to carry his road to a point
where the Trust would consider a purchase, yet to fail meant the loss
of all he had put in. He knew also that these men would never recede
from a position once taken.
"Hasn't this public clamor had something to do with your
determination?" he asked.
"A great deal. We had the best intentions when we started--we still
have--but it's time to let the general sentiment cool. We thought we
were doing a fine thing for the country in opening Alaska, but it seems
we're regarded as thieves and grafters. One gets tired of abuse after a
while."
"Will you take an option on the S. R. & N. conditional upon the
building of the bridge?"
"We couldn't very well do that. Remember you are our rival."
Heidlemann smiled in his recognition of the fact that the rivalry was
friendly. "To do so would fan excitement at Washington to a white heat.
We'd then be in the position they now accuse us of occupying, and that
would have a serious bearing upon the coal situation. No, we can't help
you, O'Neil, but rest assured we won't do anything to hinder you. You
have treated us fairly; we will reciprocate. Once you have built your
bridge we can discuss a purchase and the abandonment of our original
enterprise, but meanwhile we must proceed cautiously. It is unfortunate
for us all."
"Especially for me."
"You need money badly, don't you?"
"I'm worse than broke," O'Neil admitted.
"I'd really be sorry to take over the wreck of your enterprise,"
Heidlemann said, earnestly, "for you have made a good fight, and your
ideas were better than ours. I'd much prefer to pay your price than to
profit by your misfortune. Needless to say we don't feel that way about
Gordon."
"There would be no uncertainty about the bridge if I had the money.
With your means I could build a road to the moon, and double-track it."
Although Murray felt that further effort was useless, he continued to
argue the matter from various angles, hoping against hope to sway
Heidlemann's decision. But he gave up at last. Out in the marble hall
which led to the elevators he discovered that all his vigor of an hour
ago had passed. The spring was out of his limbs; he walked slowly, like
an old man. A glimpse of his image in the mirrors of the car as he shot
downward showed him a face grave and haggard. The crowds jostled him,
but he was hardly conscious of them. The knowledge that his hardest
fight was yet to come filled him with sickening apprehension. He was
like a runner who toes the mark for a final heat knowing himself to be
upon the verge of collapse.
The magnitude of the deal narrowed his field of operations alarmingly,
and he had already learned what a serious effect upon capital the
agitation about Alaska had produced. More than once he had found men
who were willing to invest but feared the effect of public sentiment.
Popular magazines, newspapers like The Review, and writers like Eliza
Appleton had been largely to blame for the wrong. They had
misunderstood the problem and misinterpreted the spirit of commercial
progress. But, strangely enough, he felt no bitterness at thought of
Eliza. On the contrary, his heart softened in a sort of friendly
yearning for her company. He would have liked to talk the matter over
with her.
Looking the situation squarely in the face, he realized that he must
face a crash or raise two million dollars within the next month. That
meant seventy thousand dollars a day. It was a man-sized task.
He bought himself a cigar at the corner, hailed a taxicab, and was
driven all the way up town to the Holland House. Once there, he
established himself in that corner of the men's cafe which he always
frequented.
The waiter who served him lingered to say:
"It's good to see you back in your 'office' again. You've been a long
time away, sir."
O'Neil smiled as he left a silver dollar on the tray.
"It's good to be back, Joe," he said. "This time I may not leave."
XVIII
HOW THE MAN BECAME A PRINCE AGAIN
O'Neil had the faculty of sleeping well, in spite of the most
tormenting worries. He arose on the morning after his interview with
Mr. Heidlemann, ready to begin the struggle with all his normal energy
and confidence. But the day brought him only discouragement. He had a
large acquaintance, the mention of his name in quarters where he was
not personally known gained him respectful attention; but he found
himself working in the shadow of the Copper Trust, and its silent
influence overcame his strongest arguments. One banker expressed the
general attitude by saying:
"If the Heidlemanns were not in the field we might help you, but it
would be financial suicide to oppose them."
"There's no opposition about it," Murray assured him. "If I build that
bridge they'll buy us out."
At this his hearer very naturally wished to know why, if the bridge
were indeed feasible, the Heidlemanns delayed action; and O'Neil had to
fall back upon a recital of the facts, realizing perfectly that they
failed to carry conviction.
No one, it seemed, cared to risk even a semblance of rivalry with that
monstrous aggregation of capital, for the interlacing of financial
interests was amazingly intricate, and financiers were fearful of the
least misstep. Everywhere O'Neil encountered the same disheartening
timidity. His battle, it seemed, had been lost before it was begun.
Days passed in fruitless endeavors; evenings found O'Neil in his corner
of the Holland House Cafe racking his brain for some way out of his
perplexities. Usually he was surrounded by friends, for he continued to
entertain in the lavish fashion for which he had gained a reputation;
but sometimes he was alone, and then his solitude became more
oppressive than it had ever been even in the farthest wastes of the
northland. He was made to feel his responsibility with dreadful
keenness, for his associates were in a panic and bombarded him with
daily inquiries, vexatious and hard to answer. He had hoped that in
this extremity they might give him some practical help, and they did
make a few half-hearted attempts, only to meet the same discouragements
as he. At last they left him to carry the burden alone.
A week, two weeks went by. He was in constant cable communication with
Omar, but not even the faithful Dr. Gray knew the dire straits in which
his chief was struggling. Work on the S. R. & N. was going forward as
usual. The organization was running at its highest efficiency: rails
were being laid; gangs of rock-workers were preparing the grade beyond
the glaciers. Yet every day that passed, every pay-check drawn brought
ruin closer. Nevertheless, O'Neil continued to joke and chat with the
men who came to his table in the cafe and kept his business
appointments with his customary cheerfulness. The waiters who attended
him rejoiced in his usual princely tips.
One evening as he ran through his mail he found a letter in a woman's
handwriting and, glancing at the signature, started. It was signed
"Gloria Gordon." Briefly it apprised him of her marriage and of her and
Natalie's return to Hope. Gloria thanked him perfunctorily for his many
kindnesses, but she neither expressed nor implied an invitation for him
to visit them. He smiled a little grimly--already her loyalty had
veered to Gordon's side, and Natalie no doubt shared her feeling. Well,
it was but natural, perhaps. It would be unreasonable to expect them to
sacrifice their desires, and what they now seemed to consider their
interests, to a business quarrel they could hardly be expected to
understand. He could not help feeling hurt that the women should so
readily exchange his friendship for the protection of his bitterest
enemy, but--they were helpless and he had helped them; let it rest at
that. He was really troubled, however, that they had been so easily
deceived. If they had only waited! If he had only been able to advise
them! For Gordon's intention was plain. He was aroused from his train
of thought by a stranger whom he found standing beside his table and
looking down at him with wavering eye.
"Misser O'Neil, ain't it?" the fellow inquired. "Sure! Thought I knew
you. I'm Bulker, of the old North Pass. Remember me?"
Mr. Bulker had been imbibing freely. He showed evidences of a
protracted spree not only in his speech, but in the trembling hand
which he extended. His eyes were bloodshot, and his good-natured face
was purple.
O'Neil greeted him pleasantly, and, considering himself
enthusiastically welcomed, the new-comer sat down suddenly, as if some
one had tripped him.
"Been washing you for ten minutes."
"Washing me?"
"No! WASHING you. Couldn't make you out--eyesight's getting bad. Too
many bright lights in this town. Ha! Joke! Let's have a gill."
"Thank you, no."
"Must have a little dram for old time's sake. You're the only one of
the North Pass crowd I'll drink with." Mr. Bulker gestured
comprehensively at a group of waiters, and Murray yielded. "You were my
friend, O'Neil; you always treated me right."
"What are you doing now?" asked O'Neil, with the interest he could not
refuse to any one who had ever worked with him. He remembered the
fellow perfectly. He had come on from the East as auditor, and had
appeared to be capable, although somewhat given to drink.
"I'm a broker. Wall Street's my habitat. Fine time to buy stocks,
Misser O'Neil." Bulker assumed an expression of great wisdom. "Like to
have a tip? No? Good! You're a wise man. They fired me from the North
Pass. Wha'd you know about that? Fired me for drinking! Greatest
injustice I ever heard of, but I hit running, like a turkey. That
wasn't the reason they let me go, though. Not on your life!" He winked
portentously, and strangely enough his eyelid failed to resume its
normal position. It continued to droop, giving the appearance of a
waggish leer. "I knew too mush! Isn't healthy to know too mush, is it?"
"I've never had a chance to find out," smiled Murray.
"Oh, don't be an ingenue; you savvied more than anybody on the job.
I'll admit I took a nip now and then, but I never got pickled. Say! Who
d'you s'pose I saw to-day? Old man Illis!"
O'Neil became suddenly intent. He had been trying to get in touch with
Poultney Illis for more than a fortnight, but his cables to London had
brought no response.
"When did he arrive?"
"Just lately. He's a game old rooster, ain't he? Gee, he's sore!"
"Sore about what?"
Bulker winked again, with the same lack of muscular control.
"About that North Pass deal, of course. He was blackmailed out of a
cold million. The agreement's about up now, and I figure he's over here
to renew it."
"You're talking Greek," said O'Neil; but his eagerness was manifest.
"I s'posed you knew. The North Pass has been paying blackmail to the
Yukon steamboat companies for three years. When you built the line it
practically put 'em out of the Dawson market, understand?"
"Of course."
Now that Mr. Bulker's mind was running along well-worn grooves, his
intoxication became less apparent.
"Those Frisco steamboat men got together and started a rate war against
the railroad; they hauled freight to Dawson by way of St. Michaels at a
loss. Of course Illis and his crowd had to meet competition, and it
nearly broke 'em the first two seasons. Gee, they were the mad ones!
Finally they fixed up an agreement--had to or go bust--and of course
the Native Sons put it over our English cousins. They agreed to restore
the old rate, and each side promised to pay the other a royalty of ten
dollars a ton on all the freight it hauled to Dawson and up-river
points. You can guess the result, can't you? The steamboat companies
let Illis haul all the freight and sat back on their haunches and took
their profit. For every ton he hauled he slipped 'em ten round American
dollars, stamped with the Goddess of Liberty. Oh, it was soft! When
they had him fairly tied up they dry-docked their steamboats, to save
wear and tear. He paid 'em a thousand dollars a day for three years. If
that ain't blackmail, it's a first cousin to it by marriage."
"Didn't the Interstate Commerce Commission get wise?"
"Certainly not. It looks wise, but it never GETS wise. Oh, believe me,
Poultney Illis is hopping mad. I s'pose he's over here now to renew the
arrangement for another three years on behalf of his stock-holders.
Let's have a dram." Bulker sat back and stared as through a mist at his
companion, enjoying the effect of his disclosure.
O'Neil was indeed impressed--more deeply than his informant dreamed.
Out of the lips of a drunken man had come a hint which set his nerves
to tingling. He knew Illis well, he knew the caliber of the Englishman,
and a plan was already leaping in his brain whereby he might save the
S. R. & N.
It lacked an hour of midnight when O'Neil escaped from Bulker and
reached his room. Once inside, he seized the telephone and rang up
hotel after hotel, inquiring for the English capitalist, but without
result. After a moment's consideration he took his hat and gloves and
went out. The matter did not permit of delay. Not only were his own
needs imperative, but if Poultney Illis had come from London to confer
with his rivals there was little time to spare.
Remembering the Englishman's habits, O'Neil turned up the Avenue to the
Waldorf, where he asked for the manager, whom he well knew.
"Yes, Mr. Illis is here," he was informed, "but he's registered under a
different name. No doubt he'll be glad to see you, however."
A moment later Murray recognized the voice of Illis's valet over the
wire and greeted him by name. Another brief delay, and the capitalist
himself was at the 'phone.
"Come right up," he said; and O'Neil replaced the receiver with a sigh
of relief.
Illis greeted him warmly, for their relations had been close.
"Lucky you found me," he said. "I'm going back on the next sailing."
"Have you signed up with the Arctic Navigation Company?" Murray
inquired; and the other started.
"Bless me! What do you mean?"
His caller laughed. "I see you haven't. I don't think you will, either,
after you've talked with me."
Without the tremor of an eyelash Illis exclaimed:
"My word! What are you driving at?"
"That agreement over freight rates, of course."
The Briton eyed him for a moment, then carefully closed the door
leading from his sitting-room, and, seating himself, lit a cigar.
"What do you know about that matter?" he asked, quietly.
"About all there is to know--enough, at least, to appreciate your
feelings."
"I flattered myself that my affairs were private. Where did you get
your information?"
"I'll tell you if you insist, although I'd rather not. There's no
danger of its becoming public."
Illis showed his relief. "I'm glad. You gave me a start. Rotten fix for
a man to be in. Why, I'm here under an assumed name! Fancy! But--" he
waved his hand in a gesture which showed his acceptance of the
inevitable.
"You haven't made your new agreement?"
"I'm to meet Blum and Capron to-morrow."
"Why didn't you take the S. R.& N. when I cabled you last month?"
"I couldn't. But what has that to do with the matter?"
"Don't you see? It's so plain to me that I can't understand how you
failed to realize the value--the necessity of buying my road."
"Explain, please."
"Gladly. The North Pass & Yukon is paying a fabulous blackmail to the
river-lines to escape a ruinous rate war."
"Right! It's blackmail, as you say."
"Under the present agreement you handle the Dawson freight and keep out
of the lower river; they take the whole Tanana valley and lower Yukon."
"Correct."
"Didn't it occur to you that the S.R.& N., which starts four hundred
miles west of the North Pass and taps the Tanana valley, can be used to
put the river steamers of that section out of business?"
"Let's have a look at the map." Mr. Illis hurried into an adjoining
room and returned with a huge chart which he unrolled upon the table.
"To tell you the truth, I never looked at the proposition from that
angle. Our people were afraid of those glaciers and the competition of
the Copper Trust. They're disgusted, too, with our treatment."
"The Trust is eliminated. Kyak harbor is wiped off the map, and I'm
alone in the field."
"How about this fellow Gordon?"
"He'll be broke in a year. Incidentally, that's my trouble."
"But I'm told you can't pass the glaciers."
"I can. Parker says he'll have the bridge done by spring."
"Then I'd bank on it. I'd believe Parker if I knew he was lying. If you
both agree, I haven't the slightest doubt."
"This is a bigger proposition than the North Pass, Mr. Illis. You made
money out of that road, but this one will make more." He swiftly
outlined the condition of affairs, even to the attitude assumed by the
Heidlemanns; and Illis, knowing the speaker as he did, had no doubt
that he was hearing the exact truth. "But that's not all," continued
O'Neil. "The S. R. & N. is the club which will hammer your enemies into
line. That's what I came to see you about. With a voice in it you can
control the traffic of all central Alaska and force the San Francisco
crowd to treat the N. P. & Y. fairly, thereby saving half a million a
year."
"It's a big undertaking. I'm not sure our crowd could swing it."
"They don't have to. There's a quick profit of two million to be had by
selling to the Trust next spring. You can dictate your own terms to
those blackmailers to-morrow, and then make a turn-over in nine months.
It doesn't matter who owns the S. R. & N. after it's completed. The
steamboat men will see their profits cut. As it is now, they can make
enough out of their own territory to haul freight into yours for
nothing."
"I dare say you'll go to them if we don't take you up, eh?"
"My road has its strategic value. I must have help. If you don't come
to my rescue it will mean war with your line, I dare say."
Mr. Illis sat back, staring at the ceiling for a long time. From the
street below came the whir and clatter of taxicabs as the midnight
crowd came and went. The city's nocturnal life was at its height; men
had put aside the worries of the day and were devoting themselves to
the more serious and exhausting pastimes of relaxation. Still the
white-haired Briton weighed in his mind the matter of millions, while
the fortunes of Murray O'Neil hung in the balance.
"My people won't buy the S. R. & N.," Illis finally announced. "But
I'll put it up to them."
"I can't delay action if there's a chance of a refusal. I'll have to
see Blum and Capron," said O'Neil.
"I'll cable full details within the hour. We'll have an answer by
to-morrow night."
"And if they refuse?" O'Neil lit a cigar with steady fingers.
"Oh, if they refuse I'll join you. We'll go over the matter carefully
in the mean time. Two million you said, didn't you?"
"Yes. There's two million profit for you in nine months." His voice was
husky and a bit uneven, for he had been under a great strain.
"Good! You don't know how resentful I feel toward Blum and his crowd.
I--I'm downright angry: I am that."
Illis took the hand which his caller extended, with an expressionless
face.
"I'm glad I found you," confessed O'Neil. "I was on my last legs.
Herman Heidlemann will pay our price when the last bridge-bolt is
driven home, and he'll pay with a smile on his face--that's the sort of
man he is."
"He won't pay if he knows I'm interested. We're not exactly friendly
since I sold out my smelter interests. But he needn't know--nobody need
know."
Illis called his valet and instructed him to rouse his secretary and
ring for some cable blanks.
"I think I'll cable, too," Murray told him. "I have some 'boys' up
there who are working in the dark with their teeth shut. They're
waiting for the crash, and they'd like to hear the good news."
His fingers shook as he scrawled the name of Doctor Gray, but his eyes
were bright and youth was singing in his heart once more.
"Now let's get down to business," said Mr. Illis. "We'll have to talk
fast."
It was growing light in the east when O'Neil returned to the Holland
House; but he felt no fatigue, and he laughed from the pure joy of
living, for his dream seemed coming true.
XIX
MISS APPLETON MAKES A SACRIFICE
Tom Slater came puffing up the hill to the Appleton bungalow, plumped
himself into a chair, and sighed deeply.
"What's the matter? Are you played out?" asked Eliza.
"No. I'm feeling like a colt."
"Any news from Omar Khayyam?"
"Not a word."
Eliza's brows drew together in a worried frown, for none of Murray's
"boys" had awaited tidings from him with greater anxiety than she.
It had been a trying month for them all. Dr. Gray, upon whom the
heaviest responsibility rested, had aged visibly under the strain;
Parker and Mellen and McKay had likewise become worn and grave as the
days passed and they saw disaster approaching. Even Dan was blue; and
Sheldon, the light-hearted, had begun to lose interest in his
commissary duties.
After the storm at Kyak there had been a period of fierce rejoicing,
which had ended abruptly with the receipt of O'Neil's curt cablegram
announcing the attitude of the Trust. Gloom had succeeded the first
surprise, deepening to hopeless despondency through the days that
followed. Oddly enough, Slater had been the only one to bear up; under
adversity he blossomed into a peculiar and almost offensive
cheerfulness. It was characteristic of his crooked temperament that
misfortune awoke in him a lofty and unshakable optimism.
"You're great on nicknames, ain't you?" he said to Eliza, regarding her
with his never-failing curiosity. "Who's this Homer Keim you're always
talking about?"
"He isn't any more: he WAS. He was a cheerful old Persian poet."
"I thought he was Dutch, from the name. Well! Murray's cheerful too.
Him and me are alike in that. I'll bet he isn't worrying half so much
as Doc and the others."
"You think he'll make good?"
"He never fails."
"But--we can't hold on much longer. Dan says that some of the men are
getting uneasy and want their money."
Tom nodded. "The men are all right--Doc has kept them paid up; it's the
shift bosses. I say let 'em quit."
"Has it gone as far as that?"
"Somebody keeps spreading the story that we're busted and that Murray
has skipped out. More of Gordon's work, I s'pose. Some of the
sore-heads are coming in this evening to demand their wages."
"Can we pay them?"