Once the proposition of the new camp was settled, and Tom and his hardy
adventurers had gone to brave the winter in those howling wilds, I
forgot all about the enterprise which now seems likely to mean so much
to scouting. Tom wrote me twice, mailing his letters at Harkness on the
Ausable River, about eight miles east of the camp. He told me that they
had a storehouse and two cabins up. His letters breathed a warmth of
enthusiasm which I suppose helped to palliate the rigors of the biting
winter. I inferred that they were working hard and withal having a good
time of it. He wrote that the game wardens made free with his
hospitality and were always welcome with their fireside yarns.
I must confess that when I thought of the spot at all it was as the
deserted camp of the bereaved leather king; not all the pother about the
new enterprise could drive from my memory the vivid picture of the
tragic accident which had occurred there. To me, that would always cast
a shadow over the place. That fine youth (fond of sport and the great
outdoors, as I pictured him, and with a vast fortune to make the path of
life easy) shot through the head as he took an early morning swim in the
lake! And the bereaved father, to whom the spot was now become a place
of sorrowful memory! It seemed almost like taking advantage of his grief
to buy the property at a sacrifice figure. But Mr. Temple only laughed
at me when I spoke to this effect.
Now toward the end of the winter I did something which I suppose was a
trifle presumptuous. This was, I think, a couple of months before I went
up to the camp. I have a little place in Cedarville, a slight distance
inland from Long Branch which, as you know, is on our New Jersey coast.
Here I while away the summer months playing golf. At that time the
Cedarville Golf Club was having a campaign for membership, for its
exceptionally fine course had begun to attract the attention of golf
enthusiasts in other communities.
Well, not to make a long story of it, I was struck by an inspiration.
Tom had mentioned that Mr. Harrison McClintick had a place at Long
Branch. Here would be a fine name to juggle with in our campaign. Surely
he played golf; all millionaires play golf. He must join the Cedarville
Club, and lend his name to our intensive drive.
So when I was down at my little place on a week-end I ran over to Long
Branch. I only suspected that Mr. McClintick would be there; finding
millionaires in their homes is a kind of hunting sport in itself. I was
somewhat crestfallen to learn that Seven Towers, his magnificent place,
had been sold. I have seen few houses so palatial. It was a young man on
the adjoining estate, a gardener or perhaps superintendent, who told me
of the sale of the place. And he told me of other matters which somewhat
changed the color of my thoughts.
Leaning against my car with one foot on the running board he chatted
quite freely about the McClintick fortune. “Why, as I understand it, he
sold out because he couldn’t keep it up,” said he. “He used to have a
place in Newport too, but I heard that’s been sold. Easy come and easy
go, you know. He made it all in the war.”
“So I heard,” I said. “I happen to know the interests that bought his
camp in the Adirondacks. He had a sadder reason for selling that.”
To my astonishment the young man only pursed his lips and looked rather
quizzical. “Guess the old gent was glad enough to get the money,” he
said.
“He’s had reverses then?”
“That’s what they say,” my informant replied.
“Hard luck,” I mused aloud in a kind of half interest. “To lose his son
that way was bad enough----”
“Sure was,” the young fellow agreed. “Rolly, he didn’t amount to much
though. It was a terrible thing just the same.”
At this casual observation I experienced almost a shock. Perhaps I have
a too ready fancy, but I had pictured young McClintick as a splendid and
beloved son cut down by a horrible accident in the bloom of youth.
“So?” I queried. “Why,--what was the matter with him? He certainly had a
sad enough end.”
“Come through the fighting on the other side all right, and then got
shot,” my chance acquaintance commented. “That’s the way it is,” he
added. Then, as if to modify his criticism of the victim, he said, “Oh,
I don’t know; Rolly wasn’t so bad, I suppose. They had their place here
when we got into the war, only it wasn’t anything like the way you see
it now; that whole left wing and both towers were added. Yes, the old
man made quite a place of it. He sure knew how to spend it.”
By way of prolonging our casual chat I offered him a cigarette and
lighted one myself. And so we both lingered for still a few minutes, he
with a foot on the running board, I resting my arms on the steering
wheel.
“You connected with this other estate?” I queried.
“Oh yes.”
“What was the matter with young Mr. McClintick?” I ventured.
“Well, I don’t know as there was anything much. I remember once he was
in some kind of a raid--gambling place down in Atlantic City, I think it
was--and he gave the name of the family’s butler. They came up here
after the butler, I remember.” He recalled the incident with a chuckle.
“Worked out all right,” he added. “The McClinticks paid the fine and I
heard they gave the butler a good fat tip for his wounded feelings. I
guess Pete was satisfied. Oh, Rolly wasn’t so bad, I suppose; guess he
was like a good many millionaires’ sons.”
“Just a little skittish,” I commented.
“Hm, ’bout the size of it. Then there was some trouble when he was
drafted for service; I don’t know just what it was. Old man tried to get
him off on the grounds of his being in war work already--leather. But
they didn’t put it over. I guess Rolly made out all right enough on the
other side. I was over there myself when he was drafted. Let’s see,
Rolly would have been--he must have been--maybe a little over thirty
when he was killed. Funny, huh, how a fellow goes through a war and then
comes back and gets bumped off by some fool of a hunter.”
“It’s a funny world,” said I.