"'YOU ARE AWARE,' SAID HE, 'THAT YOU WILL BE POSTED?'"
"'YOU ARE AWARE,' SAID HE, 'THAT YOU WILL BE POSTED?'"
"'YOU ARE AWARE,' SAID HE, 'THAT YOU WILL BE POSTED?'"
"In any action that is taken against me," said Anthony, "I shall know how to defend myself."
"In all likelihood, the first time Tarrant meets you in a public place he'll brand you a coward."
Anthony looked up at the speaker, and replied quietly:
"If he does, I'll beat him like a dog."
The other stood for a moment, as though waiting for something more; but, as Anthony was silent, he turned, and in a moment the door which had admitted him to the public room closed behind him. Whitaker spoke in a low voice.
"Of course I do not know what is usual in New Orleans. But it must be the same as anywhere else. Tarrant is held a man of consequence here, and to refuse him satisfaction would be a grave thing socially. Is your mind completely made up?"
"Dueling," spoke Anthony, "is a code that has no place in the modern world; it is murderous and preposterous."
Whitaker shook his head.
"There is a law against it, but the man who refuses a challenge is marked."
Anthony looked more grim than ever.
"I am never troubled," said he, "by the way people regard me. And fear of society's disapproval is only entertained by those who value its countenance. There is no force that I know of that can make me place my life in jeopardy at the hands of a practised man-killer; neither can it compel me to go out in cold blood and kill him."
Whitaker wriggled in his seat.
"I'm afraid your uncle—" he began.
"I have not seen my uncle in fifteen years," said Anthony, coldly; "and his opinions in the matter can have no weight with me." Then he leaned across the table, seeing the grave look in the face of Whitaker, and said kindly: "I think my attitude troubles you. Please do not allow any duty which you think due me as a chance acquaintance to entangle you in a disagreeable situation."
Whitaker swallowed hard, but he was firm.
"You see," said he, and his voice was so pitched as to be unheard by the curious ones about him, "my group is the gayer one,—Tarrant and his kind,—and it holds to certain things as necessary in a position of honor! But, damn it all, Stevens! I'll overboard with the whole lot of it; for, after all, what you say is nearer the truth; only most of us have never had the courage to admit it."
A door was heard to close sharply. Tarrant was in the public room, his eyes going about, his face flushed with passion. At sight of him a murmur arose; then it grew until it was a sort of subdued roar, shot through with startled cries; for the duelist had sighted his man and was advancing swiftly toward him between the rows of tables. Whitaker said to Anthony:
"You had better get up. He means to strike you!"
Anthony made no reply; he sat still and glowered at his plate. A close observer would have noted, though, that his swift, powerful body was adjusted for a sudden leap and a tigerish lashing out. Tarrant reached his side.
"Mr. Stevens," said the man, fury shaking his voice, "I have received your message."
Anthony turned his head and waited.
"Let me say to you," proceeded Tarrant, "that while your attitude may serve in a mongrel community like New Orleans, it will not be tolerated here." Anthony was silent, but Whitaker saw his rigid jaw, and noted his back hunch as the great muscles grew tight. "For the last time," said Tarrant, "will you—"
"One moment, please," said a hard, quiet voice.
The duelist turned, and saw the mask-like face of Weir, and a pair of eyes that were as cold as ice.
"I would advise, Mr. Tarrant," said Weir, "that you carry this matter no further. When the facts are known, it will be generally seen that you cannot require any action from this gentleman except that which he is giving you."
The eyes of Tarrant seemed to dart flame.
"What! What!" breathed Whitaker in Anthony's ear. "He'll not dare face Weir! He'll not dare!"
But before it was made clear what was in Tarrant's mind he was surrounded by a sudden surge of people. There was a hubbub of voices; doors slammed, other people hurried forward; there were oaths and bitter vows, and the pleading of the tavern's people for order. Then Tarrant was led away. Weir bowed to Anthony in return for some word of thanks, and turned back to Dr. King. Whitaker, a little later, with a most leisurely air, settled the bill; then he and Anthony got up, passed through the staring groups about the tables, and left the place.
As the dandy was parting from Anthony at the door of the Half Moon he said:
"Well, I think Weir has ended the matter as far as you are concerned; for, once he's pronounced a judgment on a thing of this kind, no one will think of taking it otherwise. He's an authority. And it will be easier for you, too. As it stood, though I think you were right, you'd have had an extraordinary position to maintain."
"I am much in Mr. Weir's debt," said Anthony.
Whitaker nodded.
"When I heard his voice," he said, "I knew that was the end of it. No matter what Tarrant's state of mind, he'd never try to face down Weir."
"Why?" asked Anthony.
"Well, any man who knows Weir properly—and Tarrant does, for he once sailed under him—would not care to measure skill with him in a struggle. Tarrant is a swift, courageous blade, and like a whip for giving offense or taking it. But Weir is of another kind. He has something in him," and Whitaker shook his head, "that most rufflers, no matter how desperate, fear."
Not a great while after Anthony and Whitaker had left the Crooked Billet, Monsieur Lafargue and his daughter, in the private supper-room, off at one side, also stood up to go. Tarrant, now recovered from his rage, was beside them; and the big young man smiled good-humoredly in the background.
"I am greatly in your debt, sir," said Monsieur Lafargue, to Tarrant. "You have shown yourself a friend, at a time when a friend was greatly needed."
"Sir," said Tarrant smoothly, "I am glad to have been of service to you, and to mademoiselle. For no gentleman could have witnessed what I have witnessed in your affairs and not come forward. I saw you about to fall in the hands of Anthony Stevens, the most subtle of double-dealers, and of course," with a gesture, "I had to do what I could to prevent it."
"But, sir," and it was the girl who spoke, "are you quite sure of all you say?"
"Mademoiselle," said Tarrant, "what I have stated is a very grave thing; and so, before saying it, I considered it very carefully. As your father will tell you, the house of Rufus Stevens' Sons has long been engaged in commercial practice which cannot be sanctioned by honest men; things have been done with insurance, and with merchant moneys adventured in their care, which no one of shrewdness can overlook. Is not your father's money in some of the dealings of this house? Has he not persuaded his friends at Brest to venture theirs?"
"That last," said the old Frenchman, "is the worst of it." He shook his head, and his hand gestured helplessly. "If loss comes, I will never forgive myself."
"There was another who had risked his money, one who knew how your father was situated with the firm, one who wrote him a letter," said Tarrant, still addressing the girl. "I refer to Magruder. He saw how matters were going with the house and feared the result. Magruder somehow knew—he was a cunning, ratty kind of a man, who knew many things he was not credited with—that your father had moneys involved, and so wrote him a letter of warning. Is it not so? It was this letter that brought you and your father to this country? Am I right? But for all his writing Magruder was afraid; he'd not meet your father openly; he dreaded some unseen danger."
"And it seems he was right in that," spoke the big young man, his smile growing broader. "Events, I think, have proved he had reason for his dread."
"Before you could arrange to speak with him," said Tarrant to the old man, "he was done to death." And as Lafargue shuddered, and the girl turned away, Tarrant went on: "Who was interested in having this man die at this particular time? Could you say? Who stood in fear of what Magruder might tell? Whose rascally dealings were about to be exposed? The people most interested in the house of Stevens, as you know very well!"
"I thank you," said Monsieur Lafargue tremblingly. "You have gone to a deal of trouble, sir, for our sakes, and have probably saved me from a great mistake."
"Avoid all conferences with the Stevens firm, or any one bearing the Stevens name," said Tarrant, shaking his hand. "To deal with them in any way will bring you and your daughter, both, misfortune."
"But how is my business here to be carried forward?" asked the old man.
"Take heed! If you went to them now, you could merely state what you suspect," said Tarrant. "You would be placing yourself in their hands, for you have no proof of anything. My advice to you is to wait." He nodded to the old man understandingly. "Of course, an indefinite stay here will be expensive, and your means are limited; I know that. But I have suggested a way of surmounting the difficulty. Money can be had readily; old Bulfinch is your man; you have only to ask him for it."
"You are kind," said Monsieur Lafargue. "I should feel helpless and alone, indeed, without you."
Tarrant went with them to their carriage; and when he had handed them in, and their driver sat with the reins in his hands, he said:
"Remember what I have told you—both to-day and to-night. I repeat it all now. Keep to yourselves. Do not trust the firm of Stevens—especially do not trust young Anthony of that name; he is, as I have shown you, the most ruthless of them all. Have no confidences with any one; be silent, and you will win through."
Then Tarrant went back to the supper-room; the big young man was seated at the table; and across from him was a white-haired old man, with the rosy, gentle face of a saint.
"Good!" said Tarrant, at sight of the old man. "I had hoped you'd not keep us waiting, old moneybags!"
The new-comer laughed; it was a laugh that had a soothing, oily quality; one white hand stroked his well-shaven chin.
"I strive to be prompt," said he. "It's a virtue that has a deal of value in a business way. And being early to-night repaid me in an unexpected way; for while I waited in the public room I witnessed your encounter with Captain Weir."
Tarrant sat down; with his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, he cursed in cold anger.
"Some day," he said, "I'll drive a bullet through that man's skull, so help me God!"
But the saintly old man held up a protesting hand.
"No, no!" said he. "Oh, no! We are friends. We are all friends together. We have business relations with Captain Weir. No violence; no discord. It would be to the disadvantage of us all."
"My thought!" said the big young man. "My thought, exactly, Mr. Bulfinch. Let us put all private matters to one side; for the present, at least, let us work for the common good."
Tarrant regarded them both with cold eyes.
"Is it for the common good that Weir affronts me at almost every turn?" said he. "Am I possessed of more patience than the run of men, that I'm continually asked to bear his impertinence?"
"Do not forget," said the old man in his soothing voice, "that the plan we are working under is, in a general way, one laid down by him. And he disapproves of the way you have selected in dealing with young Anthony Stevens; he fears it is not a good way."
Tarrant sneered; but it was the big young man who spoke.
"I have no good reason to hold my hand where this same Anthony Stevens is concerned," said he. "But, on the whole, I agree with Weir. Keen young blades like this are not apt to be budged by hostile talk, or the threat of blows. It only makes them all the more resolved."
"It is the captain's desire," said old Bulfinch, "to manage the matter carefully; he plans to be friends with this young man, to encourage him, to support him. And, then, one day will come an occasion when what is necessary can be done with safety. And itwillbe done."
"I have no stomach for craft when a smart blow or two will serve as well," said Tarrant bitterly.
But the big young man wagged his head in disagreement.
"I once thought that, myself," he said, "and risked my bones every day for a little gain. But Weir's way gives fine profits and no risks; we squeeze our toll out of shipmen and need never even take to sea. Instead of facing a roused captain, with a ship's company behind him, on his own deck, we now, thanks to Weir's brains, make a little arrangement with that same captain before he goes on board; and the ship and cargo are ours at whatever place we say, and without striking a blow."
Old Amos Bulfinch smiled; his rosy, saint-like face glowed with mildness.
"Could anything be better put?" he asked of Tarrant. "Would it be possible to state a perfect case in more comprehensive words? Sir," to the big young man, "I thank you."
"But even in the thing you give Weir so much credit for," said Tarrant, "all is not done that could be done. Why are our operations held to a single house? Why should we be forced to be content with Rufus Stevens' Sons alone? There is Girard; there is Crousillat; there is a half-dozen more. Good profit is to be had by extending our operations to all of these—"
But the smooth tones of Amos Bulfinch checked him.
"Rich they are, those merchants," agreed old Amos, "and their ships are many. But each man of them is as keen as a knife-blade; each has a thousand eyes! Where a thing can be done in the shadow of Rufus Stevens' Sons with ease and comfort, it could only be undertaken, in the case of these others, with much danger; at almost any moment we could expect to be laid by the heels."
"Weir is a dog-fox; I'd follow his plan without question where I'd not even listen to another," said the big young man. "Leave the other houses alone. This one is rich enough, for the time, at least."
Tarrant regarded the younger man, and then the elder one, with a curl at his lip.
"You both have a deal of respect for Weir's opinions in some things," he said. "And yet, strangely enough, you have very little in others. There is no thing which he has spoken more sharply against than the proposed dealing with the French agent, now on his way here, in the matter of letters of marque. And yetyoustrongly favor the project."
"The matter of the letters of marque is to be a venture of our own," said the big young man. "That is, if the captain is disinclined to join us."
Old Bulfinch nodded.
"Quite right," he said. "It is to be an affair of our own. But we shall be prudent, for all that. We shall be exceedingly careful that every legal aspect be observed."
Tarrant laughed.
"A saying like that has an odd sound," said he, "when I remember that Blake here," and he pointed to the big young man, "was brought north to take active charge of the matter—Blake, who for years has given as much thought to the legality of any action as he would to a snap of his fingers."
The big young man smiled; but it was old Amos who spoke.
"Blake," said the old man, "is to take charge when all is said and done; the legal status of French privateers, recruited and armed in our ports, will have been passed upon when he sends out the first of them."
"And when they are passed upon and take to sea," smiled the big young man, "then will come the time to forget legal forms; rich merchantmen will be our only need, and the seas between here and Rio are crowded with those."
"Well," said Tarrant, "God knows I don't want to put myself in a position to block any such flow of circumstance. If there are prizes to be had, let us have them. If we get Weir's help in the matter, well and good. If we do not, we can, as you suggest, go on without it."
"This Frenchman, Lafargue, was an excellent thought," said old Bulfinch. "Oh, excellent! He can do much for us if properly managed."
"I have found a way for that," said Tarrant. "He is without money; I have recommended that he go to you."
"I am always ready to accommodate gentlemen, upon good security," said the old money-lender smoothly. "A good name or two on the back of a bill will go far with me."
"His bill will have no name upon it," said Tarrant. "And he has no security."
Old Bulfinch looked at the speaker, astonished.
"What?" said he. "What? Oh, surely, now!"
"In the matter of Lafargue," said Tarrant, "names and securities must be forgotten. You must only remember that Lafargue is a man to receive special treatment."
"Very careful, special treatment," agreed the big young man, nodding. "He must be beholden to us, he must be tied to us, tightly, in some way; and, of all ways, to have him owe you money is the readiest and best."
"In the matter of money," said old Bulfinch, wincing, "it is wise to use care. Money is not easily come by; and it should not be too easily parted with."
"Any money spent in the matter of Lafargue will be well spent," said Tarrant. "We must have his friendship; for through him we hope to gain the countenance of this other Frenchman, Genêt."
"And keep well to mind who and what Genêt is; he is the French minister, now on his way here for the sole purpose of arming American ships to sail under the French flag. He was Lafargue's friend in France," said the big young man, "and we must see to it that he is our friend here."
Tumblers of hot drink were brought them, and, with the plates and cups pushed to one side of the table, they talked and drank and planned. The coming of Lafargue to the city, so it seemed, had startled them, at first. Untold harm might have been done by it, had not Charles Stevens happened to be away. But now, on the whole, they were pleased with the old Frenchman's arrival. Monsieur Lafargue had no legal proof of any slack dealing, and so he could not appeal to the law; they had so filled his mind with apprehension that he'd not dare enter the counting-room of Rufus Stevens' Sons and frankly tell what he thought of the various transactions that troubled him. Altogether it was agreed, they were safe from him. And his tightened circumstances now delivered him into their hands; being a friend to the French agent, he'd have much influence. Legalized piracy! By God, it was like a dream of paradise! You sailed the seas with a good ship under you; you took what you liked, and the law supported you! Oh, yes, on the whole they were now pleased with the old Frenchman's coming. They had hoped in the regular course of things to get commissions for a vessel or two from Genêt; but now, look you, a fleet was not impossible. Give them the harrying of the seas for three months' time, and you, or any one else, could do what you pleased. They would be satisfied.
"But," said old Amos Bulfinch, as he was about to go, "I have seen Lafargue's daughter. She is not one to be easily misled. By some chance she might distrust this matter of ours, and might warn her father away."
"Never fear for that," said Tarrant, as he rang the bell for more drink. "That event has been provided for, and by no less a person than Weir himself. He has suggested a little ruse, to safeguard those things in which he is interested; but it so chances that it safeguards our venture as well. You need fear nothing from the girl; she will have her mind filled with other matters, I promise you that."
"Keep your ears open in the next few days," smiled the big young man. "Common gossip will tell you much."
Old Amos wore the look of a peaceful saint, so calm was he of face, so rosy of color, so white of hair, as he bade them good night; and then he went out, leaving them together at the table awaiting the liquor they had ordered.
The next morning as Anthony ate his breakfast at the inn he noticed many glances cast in his direction; waiters spoke to each other behind their hands, while they watched him out of the tails of their eyes. He smiled, even while he frowned.
He had finished, and was seated, with a journal, at a window in the public room, when he noted a slight man of middle age come in, look about, and ask a question of a porter.
"Mr. Stevens," said the man, in a hushed sort of voice, as he came forward. "I am from the counting-house of Rufus Stevens' Sons, and have been sent to say that Mr. Charles Stevens is now in the city."
Anthony felt a thrill of satisfaction.
"Thank you," he said. And then, "Did Mr. Stevens direct you to bring me word?"
"No," said the man. "Not Mr. Stevens—Captain Weir."
"I see," said Anthony.
There was something fragile about the man; his skin had a transparent quality, his hands were thin and nervous, his whole aspect was worn. As Anthony looked at him, he became aware of something that impressed itself upon him as a glow—a pallid, luminous something—white, like moonlight.
"I will step down to the counting-house during the course of the day," said the young man. "I trust Mr. Stevens is well?"
"Quite well," said the man.
This luminous quality which Anthony felt the man threw off also lit up his eyes. They were deep-set eyes, light in color and full of pain; in them a pale hope seemed constantly lifting itself through shadows, only to sink again.
"Is there anything more?" asked Anthony, as the other lingered.
The man shook his head, but did not move.
"I am Tom Horn," said he. "As a boy, I worked as clerk for your grandfather. And now I am clerk again."
There was an oddity in this simple statement that supplied a missing portion of Anthony's conception of the man. Surely he was not quite firm in his mind.
"In your grandfather's time," said Tom Horn, "the circles flowed freely about the world. They were wide and wonderful, and the sun and the wind and the stars were in them." He bent closer to Anthony: "Do you know what makes the wind to blow?" he asked.
"No," said Anthony.
"No more does any one else," said Tom Horn. "No one in all the world knows what makes the wind to blow. And no one knows why water flows in circles, and rings in every ship, every island, and every man. Once," he said, "I saw a circle around the moon. The world moves in a circle. I do, too. I began as a clerk; and I am a clerk once more."
"You held a better position once, then," said Anthony.
"I was supercargo in theWilliam and Mary," said Tom Horn. "Three voyages in all. She was a stout ship, and well officered. But what can wooden planks and good intentions do when once the circle begins to narrow? Nothing. It is like one man setting his strength to prevent the world turning over. All circles move. There is no power under God's that can stop them."
With that he turned and went out; but in a few moments Anthony saw him peering in at one of the windows, and in his eyes were at once the hope and fear that, perhaps, marked his madness.
It was well toward the middle of the afternoon when Anthony arrived at Rufus Stevens' Sons and was received by the affable clerk.
"Yes, Mr. Stevens is in, sir," said this personage. "I will speak to him."
He hastened through a doorway, and in a moment hastened out again.
"You are to go right in, sir," said he.
Anthony entered. The room that Charles Stevens had fitted up for himself was low-ceilinged like the others; its width and breadth were great; the floor was laid with rugs of marvelous colors and texture, and the walls were hung with rich draperies, pictures, and strange-looking arms. The furniture was all of far-off lands; there were things of ebony, and ivory, of silk and gold, and the breath of the place was vital with rich essences.
Charles sat upon a divan and nursed his lame foot; he was a young-looking man; his color was fresh, and his hair as dark and thick and vital as it had been at twenty-five. He was talking with a settled-looking person who sat at a table with a quill and an ink-pot, scrawling figures upon a sheet of paper.
"I would not lay out another groat," Charles was saying, "upon a ship of the build and stowage-room such as we now have. They are cramped, they are slow, they are tricky. What we want is vessels that will carry both cargo and canvas, and will stand up under a wind that blows above the ordinary."
The settled man looked up from his figures.
"What results I have reached—what results every ship-builder has reached—are reared upon tried and tested things. Little by little we learn how to improve a hull so that it gives less and less resistance to the water; and carrying-room, Mr. Stevens, is largely dependent upon the shape of this hull. A ship is a ship; it is not a hogshead with masts in it."
Charles Stevens's laugh was singularly young. He got up and limped up and down the floor, both hands waving.
"Siddons," said he, "I have the same struggle with you every time I ask anything that is not customary. It's in the records of the house that my father went through the same thing with your father. But keep this in your mind: it is the necessities of trade that improve ships; if their advance had been left to the builders, we'd still be hugging the coasts in galleys and afraid to venture out of sight of land. The Yankee ships are making ours look like Venetian caracks; they have moved ahead of us, Siddons; they are winging it into Calcutta carrying almost twice our merchandise, and doing it in less time."
The settled man consulted his figures.
"You talk of vessels of seven hundred tons burthen," he said, plaintively. "Who ever heard of such things?"
"In New England," said Charles, "they not only have heard of them but have built them." He held up two fingers of his left hand and pointed to them with the forefinger of his right. "Build me two ships, Siddons,—twins,—of live-oak, clear of all defects, bolted well, with all clamps and spirketings and braces of the best metal, and give me room in their bellies to stow cargoes that'll open the eyes of all Massachusetts."
"But seven hundred tons!" complained Siddons. "Is there water enough in the ocean to keep such a monster afloat?"
"Who said anything of seven hundred tons?" demanded Charles. "It was the Salem ship that measured that. The pair you are to build for me are to be of a thousand tons."
Siddons gasped and curled up in his chair.
"A thousand tons! The seas would break their backs in the first blow."
"Ship-builders have been saying that with each additional inch since the beginning. So don't worry me with it; I want the vessels, and they are to be built on this river. The Siddons yard has always laid down the keels for Rufus Stevens' Sons; so get your computers to work; see that the timbers are properly seasoned, and the ironmongery gotten under way."
"There must be new ways erected; there must be new docks," complained the ship-builder. "The outlay will be frightful."
"But think of the income, Siddons," said Charles. "Think of passing the Delaware Capes, inbound from Calcutta, in seventy days." And as Siddons paused in the act of gathering up his sheets of paper, and gazed at him, his jaw hanging slack, Charles laughed and said, "How old is your son, Siddons?"
"Twenty, passed."
"Get him into the yards as quickly as you can. You need a fresh eye. Before he has reached your limitations, a two months' trip from the same port will be thought a long one." As the ship-builder moved toward the door, Charles added, "When can you give me the figures?"
"In a week," replied the man.
"Excellent! In a week I shall expect them."
A number of times in his limping up and down the floor, Charles had passed within a few feet of Anthony, but he had not paid the slightest attention to him; now, as he closed the door upon Siddons, he turned with a boyish smile and looked at him.
"Anthony!" said he. "Robert's Anthony!" And, as he looked, the smile changed in character; the pleased look in his eyes became one of wonder. "You should have been called Rufus, for your grandfather," he said. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-five," said Anthony.
"At that age your grandfather was master of a ship voyaging half across the world," said Charles, "God was in the same mood when he fashioned you two." He looked for another space, and then added, "Yes, they should have called you after him."
Emerging from the surprise, he shook Anthony's hand with great warmth.
"I'm greatly pleased," said he, his face a shining proof of it; "I'm amazingly pleased. I had no thought that such a pleasure as this awaited me. So your father and mother are both dead." He nodded at his nephew wistfully. "Both dead and gone. And you left alone, and I never so much as sending you a line of writing."
"These things escape one," said Anthony; "especially when they happen so far away."
"A brother is a brother, no matter what the distance; and you were of my own blood. There was never a time when I did not hold your mother as the most beautiful and best of women; there was no reason why all these years should have gone by, and I holding my tongue; no reason at all."
They sat down.
"Have you been in the city long?" asked Charles.
"Less than a week. I inquired here for you, but learned you were away."
"And you've had a devil of a dull time, I know, going about in strange places."
"Why, fortunately, no. I dropped in on Christopher Dent—"
"What—old Kit!" Charles laughed, and curled himself up in a corner of the divan, nursing his lame foot. "Good soul! I'm glad you thought of him."
"And while I was there who should come in but Dr. King, and he, when he found who I was, instantly invited me to supper."
"Excellent!" approved Charles. "It couldn't have been better."
They talked for some time of Dr. King and of the city and its changes; then there came a tap upon the door, and the affable clerk put in his head.
"Mr. Clark, of theStarry Cross, sir, when you are at leisure."
"I'll speak to him in a few moments." Then, as the clerk withdrew, Charles said to Anthony. "The skipper of one of my tea ships. He reached port while I was away."
"I'm afraid I've come in on you at a time when your attention is much engaged." Anthony got up. "Perhaps to-morrow or next day you'll not be so pressed."
"Sup with me to-night," said Charles, putting his arm about Anthony's shoulders. "I want you to make the acquaintance of Captain Weir."
"I've met the captain already," said the young man.
"You've not wasted your time, at any rate," smiled his uncle. "But sup with me, anyhow; there's thousands of questions I want to ask, and to answer."
"Thank you," said Anthony. "I shall be glad to."
He shook hands with Charles once more and then left the counting-house. At the Half Moon, he encountered the round-faced coachman, seated upon his bench in the passage.
"Good even, sir," said the man. "I suppose they are well settled by this." And then, as Anthony looked at him questioningly, he added. "I mean Mr. Lafargue and his daughter—in their new place."
"New place!" said Anthony. "Have they gone?"
"Why, yes; this morning," said the coachman. "And all their luggage with them. But I couldn't say where. Seeing as they're friends of yours, I thought you knew."
"No," said Anthony, "I didn't."
And then he went, in a heavy-footed way, up the stairs to his room.
The house of Charles Stevens stood in Ninth Street, close to Chestnut. The building was set back from the street and in the midst of a garden which even now, in the bareness of the autumn, looked pleasant with its tall trees, its neat walks, its sun-dial and dove-cote. A black servant in a livery coat admitted the young man; and from the passage he heard the voices of his uncle and Dr. King.
He was shown into a large room on the second floor. This was crowded with rare furniture; its hangings were rich and delightful to the eye; upon stands and shelves were examples of bronze and gold and pottery such as Anthony had never seen before. Charles greeted him.
"James," said the merchant to Dr. King, "here he is, come to visit me like a good fellow, forgetting all about how I've neglected him."
Dr. King shook Anthony's hand, smiling.
"At any rate," said he, "he shows the right disposition. And we should be glad enough to have him back."
As Anthony settled into a chair, Charles limped up and down the room in mounting excitement.
"I've heard of your damned goings-on," stated he, eagerly. "To-day, when you'd told me you'd been in the city almost a week, I was on the verge of commiserating you on your loneliness; and here I learn that you've left a trail of very active devilment strung out behind you." He paused in front of Anthony and clutched his shoulder exultantly. "So you pummeled that infernal sneering fire-eater, Tarrant, did you? What for?"
"He intruded upon me, and refused to give an account of himself," said Anthony. "And, I suppose, I was in no humor to listen to him."
Once more Charles limped up and down; his eyes blazed with excitement.
"A porter saw you pitch him out!" cried Charles. "He saw you pitch him into the passage, and has told it all over town." Here Charles filled the room with his laughter. "He saw you throw his hat after him," he gasped between bursts; "and he had to help the damned villain to his feet, and down the stairs." For a moment he choked back his mirth. "Out into the passage!" he said. "And with his hat after him! Oh, what a picture!" And again he laughed consumedly.
"You know him, then?" said Anthony.
His uncle composed himself, took a seat in a big chair, and nursed his lame foot.
"I have known him these five years," said he. "And in that time I've found him to be a knave and a cheat. It's true he once served aboard a United States frigate, and with some distinction; but a thing like that doesn't light a man through a whole lifetime of roguery. His open doings are of that rakehell kind countenanced by many honest people as the outcomes of a large nature and high spirit. But his connections with the money-lenders and slimy shipping-agents of the Algerian coast are kept out of view and are known to only a few, and even those few don't know enough to speak publicly against him. But," and he looked at Anthony with narrowed eyes, "what of this answer you made to his challenge?"
"It was the answer I'd make to any man's challenge."
"You are not afraid, then," and the eyes of the uncle devoured him, "of being thought a coward?"
Anthony smiled.
"The man who is afraid of being thought one, is one," said he.
"By God!" said Charles. "That's what your grandfather would have said! They are the very words."
Here Captain Weir was shown in, and after greeting Anthony he sat down at the far end of the room with the merchant, while Anthony talked with Dr. King.
"Well," said the physician humorously, "he seems to approve your doings, even though they've been a trifle heady."
"At any rate," said the young man, "he is no friend of Tarrant's; and that is in my favor."
Dr. King lost his jocular expression, and shook his head gravely.
"The time was when the American merchant had only the elements, falling markets, and an occasional corsair to contend with," said he. "But, now that he is growing prosperous and takes his share of the world's wealth, the birds of prey have gathered. Let him show a sign, however slight, of financial weakness; then his sky is dark with them, their beaks whetted to pick his bones. This is the first hint I've had that Tarrant is concerned with the filthy tribe; but I shouldn't wonder if it were true."
"I can understand money-lenders and note-shavers thriving in a port like New Orleans," said Anthony; "for under the hands of the Spanish governors honesty must always pay a toll. But in a city as well managed as this, where banks are numerous, why should a merchant in need of funds go to a usurer?"
Dr. King smiled and shook his head.
"After you are here a while,—if you make up your mind to stay,—you may learn that even a soberly governed place like this has its public tricksters. There are many things a money-lender dare not do—openly. But it is the habit of some of them—as your uncle just now said of Tarrant—to carry on certain operations underground."
The dining-room of Charles Stevens on the floor below was appointed with the same high-pitched taste as the others Anthony had seen; indeed, so lavish had become the exhibition of treasure that it resembled the heaped-up loot of a commercial conqueror.
"Every ship of ours that enters port carries something that I cannot find it in me to sell. It may be a rug, or a gold cup, a cushion, a bolt of rare silk, or an ivory or bronze carving. I have amulets and arms and precious stones from places that are in the books of few traders," added Charles, who had read his nephew's look. "Unfortunately," and he laughed a little ruefully, "I am a collector, as well as a merchant."
There was a soup of terrapin, into which a deft cook had introduced the faint fragrance of a very old sherry. Sturgeon steaks followed, with a wonderful sauce, and with them deviled oysters and a Johannisberger that made Anthony's palate curl in rapture.
"So Siddons is appalled," smiled Charles; he looked at Anthony, but addressed Weir. "Poor fellow, it does not take much to frighten him. Because he is asked to add some feet to his ship ways, he acts as though we required him to enlarge the solar system."
"Perhaps," observed Captain Weir, "it would be well to reconsider the thing, and put it into the hands of the Carters; they are younger and have moved with the times."
But Charles smiled and shook his head.
"No," said he. "The Siddons yard builds honest craft; they built the first my father designed, and so they'll build these for me. Properly prodded, they'll do well enough; on launching-day you'll find us in possession of a pair of well-found ships that'll out-stow and perhaps outsail anything that carries the United States flag. Dick Siddons has always complained, but he has never failed me."
While other matters of food were being brought in, Charles Stevens talked. He was a fascinating talker; all history seemed at his finger ends, and especially the history of shipping. He drew dazzling pictures; events as recorded in his mind were always striking. He followed, at one period of the talk, the great movements of the armed world in the track of each fresh discovery of iron. The greed behind these movements, their terrifying injustices, the gross world fat they accumulated, the merciless labor they brought upon those who had no share in what their work produced, never seemed to present themselves to Charles. He saw only the surge of the thing, the sharp-pointing, definite track, the panoply and power that came into life, the romance in the thought that, snuggling beneath the surface, in places unthought of, except by a venturesome few, there lay the thing that made men great.
"He looks upon it," thought Anthony, "as the old Spaniards of the gulf must have regarded the idea of the fountain of life. It is a sort of magic."
Charles talked of ships and storms, of fabrics and ports, of men and nations, of ideas, prophecy, and signs in the heavens. Anthony followed his flowing words, enthralled by his enthusiasm and the rich color of his thought. But at the same time there was a spot in the young man's brain which remained alert and which the golden flood could not sweep away. And at this spot was an alert sentry, a direct inheritance from old Rufus; and this sentry watched and listened unemotionally. He saw a man moving with joy among the mountain-tops, drinking the thin, strong air as one would drink a heady wine; he saw the long leaps, spectacular and full of grace, from peak to peak, the flashing symbols of victory upon victory. But he did not once see him set foot upon the level earth where the plodders sweated in obscurity. The man's dream was a soaring one, full of color and gorgeousness; he caught lightly at wonders which those who moved in the lower levels did not even see; but, once seized, he threw the wonders to the plodders, and seldom thought of them again.
"To this man," reported the sentry posted by old Rufus in Anthony's brain, "life is all heights. There are no depths. To him, great deed follows upon the heels of noble effort; magnificent achievement springs full-armored into being, glory is a thing made by a single motion. The romance of commerce, as Dr. King called it, he holds to his heart; the reality he leaves to others." Anthony followed this report soberly, for the sentry was one in whom he had great faith. And before he closed his wicket for the night the sentry added, "And I wonder who these people are, through whose hands the realities pass?"
There was a space, after the plates had been removed and the wine and tobacco were brought in, in which Charles took Dr. King into a room adjoining, to point out an example of the work of a Persian artist for whom he expressed great admiration, and Anthony was left with Captain Weir. There was a silence for a moment, and then Weir said:
"Your uncle is in one of his talkative moods to-night." His level gaze was fixed upon Anthony with inquiry, but from his mask no indication was to be had of what was in his mind. "When a man talks we are often able to get a definite impression of him," said Weir.
Anthony nodded, but said nothing. The other waited; then he proceeded.
"I talked with Dr. King for some time to-day. He told me that he had tried to induce you to remain in the city and go into Rufus Stevens' Sons. I agreed with him that this was a thing greatly to be wished."
"What," asked Anthony, "do you think I could do that another could not?"
"I don't know," said Weir. "But I have a feeling that you are needed, and that the house is your natural place."
"But," said Anthony, "I do not know my uncle's attitude."
"He means to ask you to resume where your father stepped out. He's told me so." There was another short pause. "What answer will you give?" asked Weir.
"I'll do it," said Anthony.
And Weir, leaning across the table, gripped his hand.
"That's what I expected you to say," said he. "And I am very glad."
But as he turned away his head there was a glint in the green, stone-like eyes, a glint that Anthony did not see.
A crier with a bell advanced through Dock Street; as the tongue monotonouslygaling-galangedagainst the sides of the bell, the man chanted with equal monotony:
"A hogshead of rum! To whom it may concern: a hogshead of fine Jamaica rum will be sold at vendue at the warehouse of William Stone, in Mulberry Street, at two o'clock to-day."
"Another damned cutthroat must be asking for his pound of flesh!" grumbled a gentleman, whose bulbous nose was pinched blue with the snap of the cold. "Stone's interest is no doubt due, and he's forced to send out a crier and sell a hogshead of liquor to keep the shark from turning over on his back."
Mr. Sparhawk, who bore the blue-nosed gentleman company, smiled dryly.
"Mr. Stone, from what I hear of his affairs, need not bother himself. He's so safely in the hands of Bulfinch and his handsome sons that he has no more chance of escape, Mr. Stroude, than the north star has of falling out of the sky."
Mr. Stroude swore eloquently.
"Bulfinch is a villain," announced he. "And I wish his sons were at the devil!"
"There are a great many who are equally pious with regard to them," said Mr. Sparhawk, "but at the same time the stairs leading to their den are wearing thinner and thinner under the tread of these same gentlemen's feet."
"I have merchandise to the value of eight thousand dollars," protested Mr. Stroude gloomily, "and with it I have a good name in business. But can I borrow two thousand dollars in a reputable way? I can't! Will any institution in the city take my note on any terms that correspond with my position as a merchant? They will not! And why?" demanded Mr. Stroude of the world, as he swept it with his eye. "Why not? It is because the law permits them but a fair interest, but if they can force me to go to their secret co-worker, Bulfinch, they can make me pay as many times that as my necessity compels."
"Bulfinch is, I know, much favored among some financial people," admitted Mr. Sparhawk, with the perky manner of a small bird. "He has at command any sum that can be reasonably asked of him. And, for an accommodation like that, he feels bound to make his demands."
"But my heart's blood!" said Mr. Stroude, his nose going a very deep blue, indeed. "Must he have that?"
"Perhaps," soothed Mr. Sparhawk, "he will not go so far. At any rate, here we are, and you shall soon know."
Off Dock, at Third Street, was a group of old buildings, none in very good repair; through these a brick-paved thoroughfare cut its way. This was Harmony Court, and here a second group of buildings crouched behind the first, as though to avoid the full glare of day. There were a number of shabby tin signs upon a shutter, and perhaps the shabbiest of all bore the inscription: "Amos Bulfinch, Broker."
"So it's here our gentleman keeps himself," grumbled Mr. Stroude. "I knew it was in this neighborhood, but I didn't think it would give quite so dirty a promise."
Mr. Sparhawk led the way into a dim passage which smelt musty, and the walls of which were greasy with the touch of generations. When the perky gentleman said the steps leading to the place of business of Amos Bulfinch had been thinned by the tread of his patrons, he spoke the truth; for thin they were, and very dirty as well. A dim oil lamp, on a landing, lighted the way; and at the top of the steps was a door upon which the money-lender's name occurred once more. They went in.
"Good morning," said Mr. Sparhawk, to a gangling-looking man who sat at a table upon which was spread a quantity of much-handled papers. "This is Mr. Nathaniel Bulfinch, son of Amos," to Stroude.
"Yes, I know," said Stroude. "Glad to see you."
Mr. Nathaniel Bulfinch smiled; his teeth were large, and there were wide spaces between them; his hands were enormous and covered with freckles; he had outstanding ears, an unruly thatch of coarse hair, and pale, watchful eyes.
"What name?" asked Mr. Nathaniel, as he shuffled eagerly among the dirty documents. "Is something due? Eh?"
"Not yet," said Stroude. "No, not yet."
"But," insinuated Mr. Sparhawk, "Mr. Stroude is hopeful."
Mr. Nathaniel laughed.
"They are always that," said he. "It's surprising how much hope is brought into this place."
"And very little is ever taken out again, I'll venture," mumbled Stroude, to himself. He looked about at the dirty walls, the worn furniture, the dusty files of papers hanging from hooks; the air of mean sordidness chilled him. "No," he thought, "no one ever took anything out of this place, unless it was a curse."
"I do not see your brother," said Mr. Sparhawk, of Nathaniel. "Where is Rehoboam?"
"He is going his rounds," said Nathaniel. "No one pays unless they're made to, and Rehoboam is apt at explaining the law. He knows its regulations very well," admiringly. "There are few solicitors who have a defter turn for it. He can tell to the breadth of a hair how much a man may delay in the matter of a debt before the prison keepers may put their hands upon him."
"A pretty talent!" said Stroude. Then, in his thoughts, he added, "I wonder what length of time a man must serve as the devil's acolyte before he reaches so much wisdom as that."
Sparhawk and Stroude sat down, and Nathaniel began thumbing his dirty papers with much the same enjoyment a gourmand shows in eating a dainty dish. There was a soothing voice lifted in an inner room, dimly heard, yet full of assuring sweetness.
"That," whispered Sparhawk to Stroude, "is old Amos."
"I know," nodded Stroude. "I've heard him before, though he's never had occasion to use his honey on me."
Answering the money-lender was a quavering voice, decidedly French in accent, and pitched to a note of anxiety.
"I am not known here," said the quavering voice, "except by Rufus Stevens' Sons. With them I have moneys invested. But there are reasons why I should ask no favors of them."
"To get a name upon the back of a note is no favor," explained the sweet voice. "No favor at all. It is a matter of business."
"There is no one but them; and to them I will not go," said the quavering voice, with a deal of native decision. "I am sorry to have intruded upon you, monsieur, and taken your time."
There was a scraping of chair-legs upon the floor; then the money-lender was heard to say:
"Wait! do not be in haste, Monsieur Lafargue. Let us consider. Mr. Tarrant sent you here, and Mr. Tarrant is my very good friend. I would go greatly out of my way to oblige him. Of course, to have Rufus Stevens' Sons upon your note would be desirable; but as this is an exceptional case we'll say no more about it. What sum did you say you required?"
Nathaniel paused in his thumbing of his documents; his wide mouth hung open, surprisedly, as he listened.
"What?" whispered Stroude. "What? Old Bulfinch lend money without a sponsor?"
But Sparhawk, whose perky manner seemed suddenly frozen into one of interest, motioned him to be still.
"One thousand dollars," said Monsieur Lafargue, "for six months."
"It is a good sum," said the money-lender. "It's a round sum. But, as Mr. Tarrant speaks for you—"
"Wait," said the old Frenchman. "Let it be understood, sir, that Mr. Tarrant does not vouch for me. My acquaintance with him has been quite brief."
"Mr. Tarrantvouchfor you!" the money-lender was heard to laugh; and his gangling son, outside, giggled, and winked his pale eyes in great enjoyment. "No, I understand that, monsieur. But I have heard that you were this nation's friend when it needed a friend in France during our days of struggle; also it's been said that you helped forward the cause of the people in your own country; and these things mean a deal to a republican like me."
Stroude seemed stupefied by these virtuous sentiments; Sparhawk pursed up his lips and closed his eyes reflectively. The jaw of Nathaniel once more hung open in surprise.
"Sign your name to that," resumed the money-lender, "and you shall have the money in hand."
There was a sound of some one getting up, the snapping back of locks, and the groaning of heavy hinges. Papers rustled and gold chinked on a table. Then the strong box was closed and the bolts were re-shot into their sockets.
"Well, now," said the soothing voice, "that is done with. There I have your note of hand, monsieur, and you have my money."
"With the conditions what they are," said Monsieur Lafargue, "I am astonished at your generous treatment of me. We do not transact business upon such principles in France."
"No more do we here," said the money-lender, "except upon such occasions as this. But we must do our best by our French friends, more especially when they, in turn, are friends of so distinguished a patriot as Citizen Genêt." Sparhawk, who had continued to sit with closed eyes, now opened them, narrowly; his breath all but stopped. "You are a friend of the citizen's, are you not?" asked the money-lender in his sweetest voice.
"We have known each other many years," said Lafargue.
"To know a patriot like that must give a deal of satisfaction," said the money-lender. "A great deal of satisfaction, indeed."
A few moments later the door of the inner room opened, and Monsieur Lafargue, infirm but holding his white head up with his customary air, came out. Following him was Amos Bulfinch.
"Mr. Sparhawk," said the latter with a little bow, "I'm pleased to see you here. And you, sir," urbanely, to the frowning Stroude. Then turning to Nathaniel, he added, "My son, the stairs are dark and not quite safe for a gentleman of Monsieur Lafargue's years. Will you go with him, down into the court?"
Monsieur Lafargue protested; but Nathaniel reared himself up to his gangling height and took one of the old Frenchman's arms in his clutch.
"It's no trouble," grinned he, showing his large teeth, with the spaces between. "I'll have you down in a moment."
Their steps were still sounding upon the stairs when Amos Bulfinch turned his mild look upon Mr. Sparhawk and then upon Stroude; and a close observer would have noticed that it rested longer and with greater interest upon Stroude.
"A trifling matter of business," explained Mr. Sparhawk. "Mr. Stroude desired me to introduce him. You've heard of him, maybe."
"Often," said Amos in his sweet voice. "Glass, and crockery, and imported ware in Mulberry Street. A fine, profitable business, very active, and not overcrowded."
Stroude was about to answer this, but Sparhawk stopped him.
"You are quite right," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It's an excellent business, and prospering. But there come times in mercantile life," with a little gesture of regret, "when ready money must be reckoned with."
"That is true, Mr. Sparhawk," said Amos soothingly. "Not a day passes but that is brought home to me."
"What would you say," added Mr. Sparhawk, "to loaning Mr. Stroude a matter of three thousand dollars—gold?"
"How soon?" asked Amos Bulfinch, looking at Stroude in a most beneficent manner.
"To-day," said the merchant.
"To-day? Impossible! That is the way with all of them," to Mr. Sparhawk. "They think I have only to pick the money up. What security is there?"
Mr. Stroude displayed some documents, which Amos studied minutely. Nathaniel reëntered just then; and he also gave the matter the closest attention.
"And what names?" asked the money-lender. "Of course, they must be good ones."
Stroude grudgingly mentioned one or two; and father and son shook their heads at each other.
"We have them already," said Amos.
"A half-dozen times," said Nathaniel. "They won't do."
"My people object to the same name so often," said Amos. "They are very strict. And when they object the rate goes up."
Stroude writhed at this, and Sparhawk asked:
"How high?"
The money-lender, who still had Stroude's paper in his hand, folded it one third.
"Oh, no," said Sparhawk. "Oh, dear, no!"
"There are, besides, interests, costs, and other things," said Amos in his honeyed way. "It is too bad. Maybe your friend had better go somewhere else."
"They may treat him better," suggested Nathaniel with disbelief.
Stroude's blue nose paled.
"But a charge like that!" protested he. "It's monstrous!"
"Added to it," said Amos, still fingering the paper, "there are apt to be brokerage charges, besides, there is my small portion to be fixed upon it finally."
He folded the paper in two and stood creasing it between thumb and forefinger while Stroude began to choke and to pull at his neck-cloth feebly.
"Perhaps you'd better not favor us," said Amos. "We never advise anything."
"Terms are always plainly stated," said Nathaniel; "and patrons are left to use their own judgment."
"Well?" asked Mr. Sparhawk of Stroude.
"Can I get the money to-day?" asked the merchant, his trembling hand still fumbling with the neck-cloth. "To-day, without fail?"
"It will be at your office in one hour," said Amos Bulfinch, soothingly. "I will send for it at once." Under his father's directions, Nathaniel sat down at his table and made out the note; when it was ready, it was passed over to Stroude, who read and buttoned it up in his breast pocket.
"My son, Rehoboam, will pay the money over to you," said the leech; "and I would ask, Mr. Stroude, that you have the necessary signatures ready affixed, to avoid delay."
Stroude stumbled a little as he went down the stairs; and the perky little Mr. Sparhawk carried a wrinkle of interrogation between his eyes as he went with him.
In the window at Christopher Dent's, among the gray dried herbs, the crooked, moisture-seeking roots, the barks and flowers, there had stood for a long time a small board upon which had been carefully lettered the information that upon the second floor desirable lodgings were to be had.
"Clean and roomy," Christopher described them in his talk. "And not of too great cost. The furnishings are not sumptuous, but are adequate to a modest taste; and any one inclined to occupy the premises must be so adjusted as to see no harm in occasional fumes resulting from the distilling, simmering, fermenting, or otherwise compounding of curative drugs, medicines, or chemicals. Any one of such a habit of mind will find themselves reasonably well bestowed." The board, however, had now disappeared from the window; this hinted at the second floor's being occupied; and a glance upward carried the hint to the border of certainty. The shutters were all open; and lights were seen behind trim white curtains. Water Street was quiet of an evening; the drays had ceased to trundle over the stones; porters, clerks, and merchants, who had all day been matching themselves against the mounds of goods that grew before the warehouses, the bills and figures and entries that crowded the desks of the counting-rooms, and the wits and wants of buyers, sellers, and agents, had all melted from view, into their homes, or into the bars or eating-rooms of favorite taverns.
Christopher Dent sat in his back room, his spectacles upon his nose, and a big book in Latin text upon his knee. A cheery fire crackled in the stove; two candles burned upon the table; and a number of other books, each as big as the one Christopher held, lay beside them. Outside the yellow flare lurked the retorts, the rows of bottles and jars full of pent-up possibilities, still and waiting. Tom Horn sat upon a bench near the stove; he rubbed his knees in the warmth, as the little apothecary looked at him over the edge of his spectacles.
"In none of the elder tongues," said Christopher, "is there much to do with the sea. As you say, the ancients were wise; they had a knowledge of many strange things; but they seldom ventured far from land, and so the sea as we know it was a darkened thing to them. So, knowing nothing of its secrets, they could scarcely agree with you. Bear in mind," said Christopher earnestly, "I am not denying; I only announce a lack of authority in the ancients."
"The sea," said Tom Horn in his hushed voice, "has a meaning. It is more than a mass of water, washing around in the hollows of the world."
"I grant you that," said Christopher readily. "I grant you that much active principle is in the sea; it holds many vital elements, crystallized or in solution. Soda, for example, is the cinder of sea-plants; and without this friendly alkali we'd many times be brought to a stand. The ocean gives rare and agreeable substances to materia medica, and in time, as we plumb its depths, it will give more."
But Tom Horn shook his head at this conception.
"I have watched the sea with the sun on it," he said; "and I've watched it running through the night. Hurricanes blow over it and make it leap and rave; but hurricanes die down, and the sea goes on. It is always muttering," said Tom Horn. "I've listened to it, hour after hour; it's always muttering over something it has hidden. But it never tells; it keeps its secrets well."
"The moon guides the ocean's tides," said Christopher. "And the wind ruffles or smooths its surface. It does nothing of itself."
"That is a common error," said Tom Horn, "and held to by men who have not watched, and seen, and listened. The sea slips around the world in a circle. It touches and knows all things. And inside the great circle there are many smaller ones, all moving the same way." He leaned forward in his chair so that his face was close to Christopher. "The world moves that way, too—does it not?—round and round. And so do the stars, and the moon, and the wind." There was a little pause, and then Tom Horn's hushed voice grew more whisper-like than ever. "Who ever saw a circle begin?" said he. "Did you?"
The little apothecary looked perplexed, and regarded his questioner seriously over the lenses of his spectacles.
"No one ever did," said Tom Horn, "because they begin outside the world's rim. The circle of your life, now, began ages before you were born, and in the emptiness of space. It grew narrower as it neared the earth, and the day it touched its surface you began to live. And so it went around and around, and so it continues to go around and around; it keeps growing narrower and narrower, as it has done from the first; it gets tighter and tighter about you. And one day it will close, and so disappear, upon a little spot of ground, in a quiet place. And there you will lie."
"Thankfully, I hope, and untroubled," said Christopher Dent soberly. "And with the little that's been given me to do well accomplished."
The street door opened, and Christopher went into the store.
"Good evening, Mr. Sparhawk," said he.
"Good evening," said Mr. Sparhawk in his perky little way. "I hope I find you very well, Christopher."
"Quite," said Christopher. "Never better, indeed."
"And prosperous, too, I trust."
The little apothecary moved his hand toward his store of dried plants.
"The fields," said he, "and the roadsides and thickets and stream margins have never in my day given themselves so completely to medicinal production. During the spring and summer the earth teemed with curative power, and I harvested abundantly."
Mr. Sparhawk rubbed his hands with satisfaction.
"Excellent," said he. "I am delighted to hear it. And, I think," said he, wisely, "I see the law of compensation at work in what you say; if nature brings us a sickly season such as we've seen of late she makes up for it in her lavish gifts of healing agents. Nature is remarkable," and Mr. Sparhawk wagged his head, "and the more minutely she is studied, the more remarkable she becomes."
The apothecary agreed to this readily enough, and advanced testimony containing instances proving how really remarkable she was.
"And that you are prospering, Christopher," said Mr. Sparhawk, halting the testimony at the first opportunity, "is gratifying. But," and he looked about with his lips pursed primly, "to have fat stores is one thing, and custom is another. I hope trade is active with you." Christopher nodded, and Mr. Sparhawk, much pleased, nodded in return. "Excellent!" said he. "That is good. Of course, in a profession such as yours,—and a most interesting and necessary profession,—custom must be active if one's income is to retain a proper level."
"Usually that is true," said Christopher. "But," and he beamed through his spectacles, "just now I am not forced to depend upon my trade alone."
"Ah!" Mr. Sparhawk looked both surprised and expectant. "I see. You have other sources of revenue, then?"
"Yes," said Christopher. "Lodgers."
"Lodgers!" Mr. Sparhawk now looked more surprised than ever. "So you have taken in lodgers?"
Christopher pointed toward the ceiling.
"Two of them," he said. "French people."
"Two Frenchmen," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Well, well!"
"One Frenchman, and his daughter," Christopher informed him. "The name is Lafargue."
"I have heard of them," nodded Mr. Sparhawk. "Quite genteel people, I think; and the father is engaged in a commercial way with some one in the city. So they are lodged in your house? Well, well, I am glad to hear it. You have been too much alone this long time, Christopher; and that is not good for a man. Now, these people will not only add to your income, but they'll give you someone to chat with. That will be a pleasure. For I suppose," and Mr. Sparhawk smiled agreeably at the little apothecary, "you do chat together?"
"I have spoken with them," said Christopher.
"Of course you have. That is quite right. They are very presentable people, as I have said, and are well circumstanced in their own country. I suppose they have come to America upon matters of pressing importance."
"I don't know," said Christopher Dent.
"Surely," said Mr. Sparhawk persuasively, "they have at some time or other asked you for some small item of information that would give you an idea of their mission."
"Why, no," said the little apothecary. "They have not. They are people who keep themselves to themselves a great deal."
"I see," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Yes, yes, I see."
He then changed the subject and talked of trade in general, the coming winter, of the lighting of the streets, of the watch. And then of crime.
"Time was," said he, "when actual crime of any sort was rare among us. But, now, we've reached a point where even those of violence cause no more than a flurry. Take that affair of Magruder, now—an honest, thriving man. Someone enters his place while he is engaged with his work, and in an instant stops his life. The coroner's jury speaks harshly against the criminals and invites all law-abiding people to bring them to justice. But it will take more than a declaration of indignation and a summons to civic reprisal to effect any good. The persons guilty of this action are still at large and, from all appearances, are likely to remain so."
The little apothecary shook his head and looked perturbed.
"Dear, dear," said he. "A pretty pass, indeed. I suspect the safety of the streets, for all they are so well lit, and so told Monsieur Lafargue, as he went out to-night."
"He has gone out, then?" said Mr. Sparhawk, and there was interest in his face.
"A half-hour or more ago," replied Christopher. "And he seemed quite infirm, and made much use of his cane."
Mr. Sparhawk now made some trifling purchase and left the shop. Christopher returned to the back room. Tom was staring at the blaze through the open door of the stove; without turning his head, or shifting his eyes, he said: