"It ain't nothing to laugh about," said Harrison savagely, "you have changed, every way. You ain't the same girl you was a month ago. You dress different; you act different; you treat me different; and it's gettin' to be more'n I'm goin' to stand for."
Ethel Mason only laughed again in answer. A month had passed since her father's death, an aunt from the lake coming up to the mountain to live with her; but, according to Seneca's gossip, and according to Seneca's general ideas of the fitness of things, this was but a temporary arrangement, to last merely until such time had elapsed as would suit the rough conventions of the county, when Ethel Mason would then become Mrs. Jack Harrison.
According to Jack's ideas, indeed, the proper period had fully elapsed, and on this special evening he had walked over from his cabin with a definite purpose in mind; only to find, as sometimes happens when man proposes, that the girl in the case was in mood capricious, even frivolous, always somehow evading, by turn and twist of the conversation, the subject uppermost in his thoughts. Gradually the little frown between his eyes had grown darker and darker, and finally the girl's failure to be serious had provoked him to open wrath.
"Dear me," mocked the girl, "more'n you're going to stand for. And I wonder what you're going to do about it. Are you boss over me? Haven't I a right to dress as I please, and act as I please, and treat you as I please? I guess I don't understand what you mean by not standing for it?"
The young miner winced. Certainly he was not making the headway he had expected, nor was the conversation coming any nearer the desired end. Restlessly he fidgeted in his chair, uncrossed his legs, and immediately recrossed them again, swallowed desperately once or twice, and finally plunged headlong into the speech he had lately rehearsed so many times to himself.
"Look here, Ethel," he began, his voice sounding strangely in his own ears, "this ain't no way for you to live, up here alone by yourself, an' you ought to make a change mighty quick. If things had broke different, and Jim hadn't gone so sudden, I'd have had plenty to say before this, but of course that went and changed everything. You're owner of the mine now, and whatever Jim might have meant to do for me, as it is, I'm nothin' but your hired man; foreman of your mine, workin' under you."
He paused uncertainly for a moment; then, as the girl made no effort to break the silence, he continued, "You know what I think of you, Ethel; you know I've loved you from the day you first set foot in Seneca; you know I've always meant to ask you to marry me the minute I felt I was well enough fixed to have the right to ask; and now—well, everything's changed; you're rich and I'm poor, but, by God, Ethel—" and his voice rang vibrant with a strong man's pride—"I'm a man, and when the papers go through I'll be foreman of the mine for the company at the salary they meant to give Jim, and if you'll have me, I swear I'll never touch a cent of your money; I'll work my hands to the bone for you; and I'll look out for you every way I can, as true and faithful as a man could. I mean it, Ethel, every word; I love you, and if you'll marry me, that's all in the world I ask."
Abruptly he stopped speaking. To the last few words the girl had seemed scarcely to be listening, as the faint sound of wheels, the sound she had been expecting, came to her ears. She leaned forward, speaking low and rapidly.
"Jack," she said, "you know how fond I am of you, but we can't have to-night to ourselves. Mr. Gordon's coming over to talk some business about the mine, and I can't very well put him off, for he's going East to-morrow. Come over to-morrow night, Jack, and we'll be all by ourselves then."
The tone, fully as much as the words themselves, seemed entirely to satisfy Harrison. Without objection he rose.
"All right," he answered, "I'll be over to-morrow night, and I'll be looking to hear good news, too."
The girl made no answer. For a moment, Harrison paused at the door, then turned and came swiftly toward her. "Just one kiss, Ethel," he said, "just to show everything's all right between us."
With a little laugh the girl rose and yielded herself to his embrace, nor did Harrison, consumed with passion, note that her lips met his without response. Once, twice, thrice, he kissed her upturned lips; then without a word half threw her from him and burst blindly from the room.
Scarcely five minutes later, and Gordon sat in the self-same chair which Harrison had occupied, gazing with approval at the slender figure opposite. Beyond question, the strain of the past few weeks had changed her, and not for the worse. The girl's face was thinner and more thoughtful, and yet far more attractive even than before; the soft, petulant prettiness of the child giving place to the real beauty of the woman.
"You wanted to see me about the mine?" she queried.
Gordon shook his head. "That," he answered, "was only a somewhat clumsy excuse. But I did want to see you very much, and I wanted to see you alone, so I thought the mine would serve."
The girl nodded. "And now?" she asked.
Gordon noted the little smile that played about her lips. In some things, he acknowledged on the instant to himself, no man could ever hope to cope successfully with a woman. And he smiled in answer.
"Yes," he said slowly, "that's it. I want you to marry me to-morrow morning, and start East with me on the express to-morrow afternoon."
Ethel Mason laughed outright. "You're more business-like than the others," she said mockingly, "and yet haven't you forgotten something else? Sometimes, you know, just a word or so, about—love."
Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't forget it," he said, "I'd have put it in if I'd thought you expected it; glad to, really, because I do it rather well. But what's the use? You know I've got all the feeling for you that sex has for sex; that goes without saying; you've seen it in a hundred ways; and in addition I know that together we can go a hundred times as far as we'll ever get separately. But beyond that—the dying for you, and shedding my heart's blood, and all that—why, these days, that's a little bit out of date."
The girl gazed at him with an expression hard to fathom. "It's not very flattering," she suggested.
Gordon made a little impatient gesture. "Oh, come," he said, "I'm perfectly frank. Why can't you be so, too? Does the woman marry just for love? Doesn't the woman want to feel passion first? Or, if she isn't that kind, doesn't she figure what she's getting in return for herself? Dollars and cents, these days. I say again, story-book love's gone by."
The girl shook her head. "You're talking for the city woman," she said, "who's got so civilized she's lost the instinct every woman once had. With a woman, unless she stifles it till it's dead, there's one thing comes ahead of everything else, and that's to be protected, cared for, guarded, to be safe. Perhaps it isn't quite love, but it's pretty nearly the same thing. Somebody stronger to lean on, some one in time of danger who won't fail her. That's what comes first."
Gordon gazed at her with real surprise. Then, without hesitation, he nodded. "You're right," he said, "and that I can give you, too. Will you marry me, Ethel?"
The girl did not answer; the long silence seeming in no way to embarrass her. At last, with a little sigh, she looked up at him.
"I will be frank with you," she said, "it's so hard to know what to do. Jack was here to-night before you came, and he asked me the same question you're asking now. Jack's rough, and he isn't educated, but he's big and strong, and I know he thinks a lot of me, and, besides, he's really a man."
Gordon, with the skill not to provoke opposition, nodded assent. "You're right," he said with conviction, "no one thinks more of Jack than I do. But, Ethel, without flattery, you're a woman in a thousand—in looks, in charm, in every way. And Jack—it isn't his fault—Jack is rough and uneducated, and it's too late to change him now. And, with all his good qualities, you'd never be happy with him all your life through. You couldn't, Ethel. Think what it would mean to live your life here on the mountain, no friends, no interests, nothing but life with Jack and the mine. No, we only live once, and it's our duty to make the most of it. And think of the other side of the picture. Wealth, social position, everything you could desire. I'm not a man of great wealth yet, but let me swing the mine the way I want to, and I'll be a millionaire ten times over. Think of it, Ethel. Your city house, your country place, servants, horses, motors, around the world in a steam yacht; we'd get out of life what only a chosen few can get. Say you'll marry me, Ethel, and you'll never live to regret it, so help me God."
There was a silence even longer than before. Then the girl rose and began to pace the room with quick, nervous steps.
"Oh, I don't know," she cried, "you make it so hard. It's my whole life you're asking me to decide. And I believe you're honest, too, and sincere; but, I've known Jack all my life. Oh, I don't know what to do."
Gordon rose, and coming quickly across the room, took her in his arms. She made no resistance, and very gently he stooped and kissed her.
"I know it's hard," he said. "It's hard to give up Jack. It's hard to leave the place that's always been your home; but, Ethel, it's the only way. I'm not going to urge my claims too far. After all's said, you're the one to decide. I'm going back now, and I'm coming here at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. Make your decision then, and whatever it is, in every way, Ethel, I'll always stand your friend. Good night, and I shall hope—and expect—to find you ready when I come."
He was gone, and the girl was left alone. Alone, to lie awake the long night through, thinking, planning, deciding and then changing her decision, in a tremor of doubt and uncertainty, until the morning sunlight, sweet and wholesome, forced its cheery way through the shutters of the little room.
For Jack Harrison, never did day seem so long. The hours dragged on leaden feet, even the minutes seemed mockingly to lengthen all through the dreary day. It was dusk when he started for the cabin, and as he neared it, absently he noticed that the light was not yet lit in the kitchen window. With a step so buoyant as to become almost a run, he thrust open the gate, and gained the porch. The door was shut, and the latch did not yield to his eager pressure. Then, suddenly coming to himself, he gave a gasp of fear, and half staggered back on the porch. As he did so, his eye caught, pinned to the door, a square of white. With trembling fingers he lit a match, tore open the letter, and read the few brief words it contained. Then, silent, as if mortally stricken, he staggered here and there, as if still blindly seeking, in the place she had loved so well, the girl he had loved—and lost.
On his knees he dropped, clasping the railing with his hands, and in dumb agony gazed out as if for help across the mighty silences of the darkening valley. The west wind, sweeping free, moaned through the tree tops below; dark clouds, driven low, one by one blotted out the light of stars; faintly, here and there, on the mountain side, gleamed the lights of other cabins, homes—such as the home he had some day meant to build. With a sudden uncontrollable gesture, he raised his eyes to the heavens, where, amid the flying cloud wrack, one star still faintly shone.
"Oh, God! Oh, God!" he cried. "And I loved her so."
Faster sped the hurrying clouds, louder moaned the freshening wind; even the single star no longer shone, and darkness, like a pall, settled down over Burnt Mountain.
The hands of the big clock in the "customers' room" at Gordon and Randall's pointed to five minutes of ten. Pervading the place was a general air of extreme tension, somehow suggesting that all present were about to start in a race of some kind, and were undergoing the agonies of the last few nerve-racking moments before the start. And this, indeed, in a sense was true. When the clock should strike ten, and the opening bell of the Exchange should be heard, a race of a kind began for all.
The two thin-faced, alert, nervous young men at the tickers, steadily calling the quotations, must keep pace with the whirring tape; the two boys standing in front of the big stock board, marking up the eighths and quarters, or indeed, the whole points, as the favorites receded or advanced, must make their nimble fingers fly; and the customers themselves, according to their several temperaments sitting at ease in the big arm-chairs or pacing nervously up and down the room, must keep close watch of their holdings; make up their minds, if winning, when to quit at the right time; if losing, whether to take their loss with a philosophical shrug of the shoulders, or whether to dig deeper into their pockets, make the depleted margin good, and desperately hold on for better things.
The day and hour marked the third month of the great copper boom, an "era of good-feeling" when bulls were rampant in every pasture, and bears had retreated so far into the woods that their distant growlings passed all unnoticed and unheard; when every little lamb had his little day and on the strength of his paper profits bought an automobile for himself and a set of furs for his wife; when brokers were encouragingly urbane and polite and customers eager and enthusiastic in their pleasant and successful chase after the jingling dollars; that splendid time, in short, when anybody and everybody could make money, when there were all winners and no losers, when "getting rich quick" was so easy that one felt almost ashamed of his winnings, and thought with good-humored self-contempt of what he had been making in "straight" business, his year's earnings now in a week or two doubled or even trebled, and all without effort, all with scarcely the exertion even of lifting a finger. Prosperity, happiness, glorious country, beautiful world!
Among the other customers was little Mott-Smith, as usual, anxious, worried, hesitating between the conservative wish to make sure of what he had gained by following Gordon's lead, and the maddening desire to hold on and take his chances of seeing things mount higher and yet higher still. A week ago, on Gordon's word of advice, let fall after a game of bridge at the Federal, he had bought two hundred Arizona and Eureka at forty-seven; two days later a drop to forty-five had cost him a sleepless night and two restless, nervous days; then, in a forenoon, it had jumped to forty-nine, and thence had risen steadily on what was described in the learned language of the financial columns as "accumulative buying of the very highest class, rumored to be that of prominent insiders who are in receipt of most gratifying news direct from the mine." In turn it had touched fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two and one-half, and the night before had closed strong at fifty-three bid, and no stock offered.
Thus Mott-Smith worried and planned and mentally bought and sold stocks right and left twenty times in two minutes. On the one hand, twelve hundred dollars in real money was for him a sum well worth having, and yet, in spite of that, he could not forget the tone of Gordon's voice as he had looked Mott-Smith squarely in the eye in answer to the latter's timid question. "Arizona and Eureka," he had said, "yes, indeed, it's a good mine; a very good mine," and then he had glanced over his shoulder and distinctly dropped his voice a trifle before he added: "and from what I hear, I should judge that before many days it's going considerably higher, too."
It had been on the strength of this opinion that he had bought his two hundred shares, for Gordon and Randall were already known as a house remarkably well posted on coppers, and Gordon's weekly market letter, well-written, entirely lacking in anything bordering on the tipster's objectionable art, well poised, and steadily but conservatively bullish, numbered among its readers thousands of Gordon's eager followers. And in this special case, Gordon, as usual, had been right. But "considerably higher"; just what that meant was the hard point to determine. Was six points "considerably higher" or was it not?
While he stood pondering the problem, suddenly the bell struck. Instantly the clerks at the tickers began to call, "Copper, one hundred fourteen and a quarter; U. P., one hundred thirty-seven; Reading, one hundred eight; Copper, one hundred fourteen and a half; Copper, one hundred fifteen;" the race was on.
From long experience, Mott-Smith knew the exact spot on the local board where he should look to find Arizona and Eureka. For some moments, however, he purposely avoided looking in that direction. Supposing there should be bad news from the mine; a cave-in, a washout, a fire; supposing the whole market should suddenly break sharply on foreign war news or something of the sort—momentarily he felt a slight giddiness creep over him, and involuntarily he gave a little gasp as he sought to pull his unruly nerves together. Then, with lips tightly compressed, he glanced a third of the way down the list of local stocks. Opposite Arizona and Eureka was already posted a long row of figures, and even as he looked the boy was putting up others. Heavens! Mott-Smith hardly dared trust his eyes. Fifty-six and a half, seven, six and a half, seven, eight and a half, eight and a quarter, three-quarters, nine and a half, sixty, sixty-one—
A sudden rush of gratitude and self-congratulation swept over him. Oh, if he had sold, he could never have forgiven himself. Twenty-eight hundred dollars—and he had thought twelve was good. Oh, what a splendid thing was life, after all. Twenty-eight hundred dollars—what a world of opportunity it was for men of foresight and ability and sound judgment; for men, in short, like Arthur Fitzhenry Mott-Smith. Twenty-eight hundred dollars—could the whole city produce a man happier than he?
Meantime in their private consulting room Gordon and Randall sat planning the various details of the day's campaign. Randall, pulling out his watch, had just risen to take his departure for the customers' room, when Gordon called him back.
"Oh, Bob," he cried genially, "just a minute, please. I forgot to say that I think we're ready now for the preliminary work on the Konahassett; getting the ground in shape, so to speak, for the circulars and advertisements that will come a little later on. If you can, I'd like you to start to get the tip in circulation to-day, and it seems to me I'd do it something like this. During the forenoon pick out six or eight men that you know trade with half-a-dozen different houses, and in the course of casual conversation just give it to them in the strictest confidence that I've got a mine about to be launched, which you understand, on the very best authority, is going to be, in the course of a year or two, one of the richest producers in the whole world—a genuine bonanza. Tell them of course not to mention it to a soul. Tell them that for a while yet there'll be nothing doing anyway; but you want them to have it in mind in case you shouldn't get another chance to speak to them about it before the stock is really listed. Well, I needn't go into all the details with you, Bob. You know how to do it better than I do, by a long shot. You catch my idea, anyway. Mystery; immense size; inconceivable richness; chance to make a barrel of money, either by out-and-out speculation or by buying the stock as a genuine investment. Savvy?"
Randall nodded. "Sure," he answered briefly, "I'll get you in right; you needn't worry a minute about that. Any men in particular you've got in mind?"
Gordon thought an instant. "Harry Atkinson, for one," he answered, "and Holliday, and Bancroft. Oh, and if Mott-Smith's around, be sure and see him anyway. He's the greatest he-gossip of the lot. Tell him to sell Arizona and Eureka, and then to wait for the word from me. And tell him it's my personal tip to a few old friends, and that it's given in absolute secrecy. Rub that in. If there were any doubt about his not spreading it, that'll clench it. He'll tell, all right. He's human. Absolute secrecy, remember. It's got to be kept quiet."
Randall, pausing on the threshold, smiled grimly. "Dick," he said, "your ability is only equalled by your sincerity, and—you're a damned good judge of human nature," and the door slammed to behind him before Gordon could frame a reply.
Ensuing events certainly seemed fully to bear out Randall's estimate of his partner's cleverness. Little Mott-Smith, indeed, after Randall's guarded talk with him in a quiet corner of the customers' room, fairly grudged the time necessary for closing out his Arizona and Eureka, and bustled away from the office, almost bursting with the magnitude of his secret. In five different offices, before the closing bell rang, he spread the news of Gordon's glorious find, and left behind him a trail of eager speculators, each striving to solve the problem of how best to get in on the ground floor for the largest possible amount within his means, and each wondering what special strings might perchance be worked to get at Gordon himself, and thus to have the wonderful news really verified at first hand.
To cap the climax, Mott-Smith, later in the day, chanced to dine at the Travelers' with Holden, of thePost. Even with the oysters, Mott-Smith could not refrain from dropping a mysterious hint or two; with the arrival of the punch he was in full blast, and by the time the demi-tasse was served Holden had at his command a very pretty little two-column "scoop." It appeared duly in next morning'sPost; by afternoon all the other papers had copied it, and then the real rush to get at Gordon, or some one near him, began.
Gordon, of course, was immensely annoyed. Reluctantly after a day or two, he did in self-defense grant one interview, and that interview served to whet the popular appetite almost beyond restraint It appeared that everything which had been said of the mine was true, only in reality far short of the whole truth. The samples Mr. Gordon showed the reporter were alive with the very richest copper. The stock would be listed in due time, probably, but for the present Mr. Gordon did not intend doing this, lest the excitement caused by the newspapers might change what was strictly an investment affair into a mere speculative venture.
Human nature being always much the same, and the best and the worst of us being alike ever tormented with the desire to attain that which we can not attain, and possess that which we can never possess, the name and fame of the Konahassett lost nothing in the few weeks' delay which followed. From time to time new strikes, of still greater richness than ever before, were duly made and recorded. And then, one fine morning, appeared the first of Gordon's famous public advertisements, modeled somewhat on the style of the pyrotechnic Lamson, with whom, some years previous, the idea had originated. With this difference, however, that the English of Gordon's advertisements was perfect, his reasoning clear, his statements terse and directly to the point. In one respect, on Doyle's advice, he did copy Lamson direct, and that was in the matter of advising that no one should buy on margin. As Doyle justly observed, not only was the moral effect of this advice excellent, but there was practical advantage to be gained as well, those who had intended buying on margin in the first place most certainly not being deterred by the advertisement from doing so, while on the other hand, many who had never dreamed of experimenting with this risky form of gambling, being told not to do so, and finding in addition that, if they did, they were bound to make four or five times as much—when Konahassett went up—would yield to temptation, and thus largely increase the amount of the stock subscribed.
For three days the advertisements were continued, and then at last the stock was in reality listed. Even Gordon, knowing as he did that he had picked the ideal moment for his venture, knowing as he did that the country was in the midst of tremendous prosperity and fairly on the upswing of a big bull market, knowing that money was still easy and speculation rampant, even Gordon was absolutely amazed at the public response. All day long the stock was bought in small lots, in huge blocks, bought outright, bought on the flimsiest imaginable margin, bought in every possible way that it could be bought, legitimately or otherwise; and with the ringing of the closing bell Konahassett preferred, with its par of twenty-five, closed at thirty-three and one-half, while Konahassett common, with its par at five, after the heaviest transactions ever recorded in any copper stock in one day's trading, closed triumphantly at nine and three-quarters. And Gordon and Doyle, dining together at the Federal, looked upon their work and saw that it was good.
Fast, true and strong the little black pacer came through the last quarter mile of the speedway. Gradually Vanulm, quietly soothing him with voice and rein, steadied him down to an ordinary road gait, and then, as they swung sharp to the left into the quiet of the old country road, with its crumbling stone walls, shaded on either side by the overhanging elms, the little black reluctantly slowed to a walk, and Vanulm, with a smile, relaxed his hold upon the reins, and leaned comfortably back against the buggy's cushioned seat.
Gordon drew a long breath of satisfaction. "He's all right," he said approvingly, "you've got hold of a great little horse, Herman, and you were mighty kind to give me a chance to see him step, too. Fresh air's been scarce with me, lately; your stopping at the office was a happy accident."
Vanulm's brow wrinkled quizzically. "It wasn't really an accident, Dick," he confessed, "it was only a subterfuge to get you off by yourself where you couldn't run away. You're so confoundedly busy that it was really the only way I could think of to get you where I'd have a fair chance to give you a good talking to."
Gordon gave him a quick glance. "Well," he answered good-humoredly, "they say you might as well kill a man as scare him to death. What's the trouble now?"
Vanulm looked as if he did not altogether relish his task. "Look here, Dick," he said at last, "I'm an older man than you are by twenty years, or I wouldn't be fool enough to try to give you advice. But here's one thing that's the trouble right away. You're driving yourself altogether too hard. Your business has increased enormously; you're fathering this Konahassett scheme; you've married a young and exceedingly attractive wife, and the success she's made socially demands at least a part of your time there; I keep reading of you making speeches in all sorts of places; they tell me you're beginning to dabble in politics; you're taking on a hundred and one new interests, Dick, and it's too much for any one man; you simply can't stand it, that's all; and I want you to promise me you'll begin to go light on some of these things; why not let up on this Konahassett business a little?"
Gordon laughed. "And you get me away from the office to tell me that," he scoffed. "Nonsense, Herman, I'm as fit as possible. A man's got to hustle if he wants to get ahead these days; it won't hurt me; so don't you worry."
There was a moment's pause; then Gordon glanced keenly at his companion's dissatisfied face. Suddenly he leaned forward, and laid a hand on Vanulm's knee. "Damn it, Herman," he cried good-naturedly, "why don't you give it to me straight? You never got me out here to tell me I was working too hard. What did you pick out the Konahassett for? Anything wrong with that?"
Vanulm laughed uneasily. Then suddenly he drew a long breath. "Confound it, Dick," he cried, a note of apology in his tone. "I hate to interfere this way, but I've known you a long time, and I like you too much to have things seem to begin to go wrong with you now. Since you've asked me, I'll tell you straight out that people are beginning to talk about this Konahassett scheme. They don't like it, Dick, and, as far as I can see, you can't really blame them. Your capitalizationisbig, and beyond that, your methods of getting it before the public—well, they're unusual, Dick, if we simply let it go at that. Lamson tried that sort of thing, and you know where he wound up; Prince tried a clumsy imitation of Lamson, with all Lamson's lack of conscience, and none of Lamson's brains to back it up with, and he's where he won't do any more advertising for some time to come. And now you're working along the same lines that they did, and it's costing you your standing around the Federal, and down-town, too. There's not a doubt of it, Dick; and I can't bear to see it going on this way. What's the use?"
Gordon grinned somewhat malevolently. "Meaning the ads?" he queried.
Vanulm nodded. "Principally the ads," he answered. "They are cheap, Dick; cheap as the devil, and you know it."
For answer Gordon pulled from his pocket a sheaf of the evening papers, and at random turned to the financial page of theObserver. There, sure enough, in huge black capitals, his latest bit of advice to investors stared the reader in the face:
COPPERS—COPPERS—COPPERS
ran the big head-lines; then, in smaller type, Gordon's brief pithy argument in favor of the purchase of copper stocks; the future of the metal; the expansion of telegraph and telephone; the electrification of railroads; the vain search for a substitute; the immense foreign demand; then good words for half a dozen other mines, all well and favorably known, and, lastly, a glowing paragraph devoted to the past, present and future of the Konahassett, its great area, the wonderful richness of its copper, its boundless possibilities within the next few years. The deduction was as obvious as the type which proclaimed it to the world.
KONAHASSETT—KONAHASSETT
ran the next to last line, and then, for a parting shot at the hesitating speculator, with splendid vigor and decision:
BUY KONAHASSETT—BUY IT OUTRIGHTAND BUY IT NOW
Gordon grinned again. "And you say they don't care for that at the Federal?" he asked.
Vanulm shook his head. "They most certainly do not," he answered. "In fact, from all I hear, it's going to cost you your place on the House Committee at the next election."
Gordon's lip curled. "Well," he said, composedly enough, "I'm sorry to hear that, and I'm sorry they don't approve of my taste in advertising, but I don't know what they're going to do about it. I've got hold of too good a thing to let go of it now."
Vanulm's face showed his disapproval. "Damn it, Dick," he exclaimed, with unusual profanity and real feeling, "that'sanotherthing. You're going to get snowed under one of these fine days. No one can make the success you have, and forge to the front down-town the way you have, without making enemies. And I know, on the best of authority, that you're being gunned for, and right on this very stock we're talking about—the Konahassett. And the interests that are after you are interests that you can't withstand—that no man in the country, for that matter, could withstand."
Gordon's eyes narrowed. "You mean the Combine?" he queried.
Vanulm nodded. "I mean the Combine," he answered. "The argument's perfectly plain, Dick. You're in too many things; you're cheapening yourself by this advertising business on the Konahassett, and you're courting ruin, besides. You've made enough, Dick; pull out, now, and quit while you've got a chance. For Heaven's sake, don't wait till it's too late."
Gordon's face set obstinately. "One thing first Herman," he said, "I'll tell you frankly that I wouldn't sit here and take all this advice from any man on earth except yourself, but I know the spirit you're offering it in, and I appreciate it, too. Now, to answer your arguments; in the first place, I won't admit that I'm courting ruin, as you put it; in the second place, I'll acknowledge that my methods of getting the Konahassett before the public are cheap, if you choose to use that word, but they suit the general public, and therefore they suit me; as to my doing too many things at once, that may be an open question; personally I don't think I am, but, of course, I may be wrong. Anyway, I can't stop now; I've got too much to straighten out first. I don't mean to keep up this pace for ever; if things go right a while longer, I shan't have to."
There was a long silence before Vanulm spoke again. "All right, Dick," he said slowly; "I see the force of what you say, and, after all, every manhasgot to live his own life in his own way. I'll drop the subject, seeing that I look at it one way and you another; I've had my say, and you've been very considerate to take my interfering the way you have; and now, if you'll bear with me, there's just one other thing I want to say, Dick, before I get through. And that's on the point you spoke of about the number of things you were doing; if you were a single man, I think it might make a difference, but you're not. You've married a girl who seems to me to be one of the most charming young women I've ever met. Are you treating her quite right, Dick? You're very seldom seen with her in public; she's young, and exceedingly attractive; she's bound to receive a lot of attention, and it's common gossip the way this young Ogden's seen around with her. You know what he is, Dick, and I ask you again, fully aware of the liberty I'm taking, 'Is it fair to her?'"
Gordon turned to him with a little mocking smile. "While you're on the subject," he said, with irony, "is there anything else? My character, my religion, what I eat for breakfast? Don't stop with my family affairs, I beg. Is there anything else?"
Vanulm flushed scarlet. "I ask your pardon, Dick," he said stiffly, and, after a moment's hesitation, he added quietly: "No, there's nothing else."
With the gentlest shake of the reins he signaled the little black that they were ready for the journey home; for five, ten, twenty minutes they sped along in silence; then Gordon turned to his friend.
"Herman, old man," he cried, "forgive me. You're the best fellow in the world, and I had no business to lose my temper. Only—itistrue—every man has got to lead his own life, and use his own judgment, such as it is. That's really what makes life, I suppose. And a man's family affairs, pleasant or unpleasant, are his own property. But I had no business to speak as I did. Forgive me, Herman."
In silence Vanulm extended his hand. "Nothing to forgive, Dick," he said half sadly; "I'm a meddling old fool, and I'll never bring up the subject again. It's a queer world, anyway, and which one of us has the right to judge the other?"
Gordon sat silent and thoughtful. Once, twice, he made as if to speak; then, with a smile that had no mirth in it, he shrugged his shoulders, as though dismissing something from his mind. "Yes," he said, "you're right, Herman. It's a queer old world."
It was on a Wednesday morning that the famous "Gordon Panic" began. According to the later comment of the financial critics—those writers whose opinions are always interesting, rather, perhaps, than valuable—diagnosis, and not prognosis, being their forte—according to the critics, then, the members of the Combine, patiently biding their time, chanced to hit upon a morning when a well-defined war rumor joined company with a sudden and utterly unexplained drop of five pounds in copper in London. The result was immediate and disastrous. Overstrained and feverish for a fortnight past, the market broke sharply at the very opening, and Konahassett common, which had closed the night before at twenty-three and a half, by eleven o'clock, had run off, in sympathy with the other coppers, to nineteen. Then, and not until then, came the attack, evidently planned and executed by a master hand. Huge blocks of Konahassett were thrown upon the market with such rapidity that, for a time, Gordon himself seemed utterly helpless. Indeed, before he was fairly able to come to its defense, the stock had touched fourteen and a half. And then ensued a battle royal, waged with unabated fury until the ringing of the closing bell. Not only Gordon's office, but the offices of half the brokers in town, were overrun with crowds of frightened speculators; white-faced, anxious, terror-stricken. To all, by word of mouth, by tissue, by published statement, Gordon gave out the watchword, "Hold on; don't sell; it's only a drive; the mine's all right; above all, don't sell!" and Konahassett, on huge transactions, closed at sixteen.
On Thursday morning, indeed, everything looked better. The war rumor was denied, the decline in London copper was attributed to speculation, pure and simple, in nowise affecting the stability of the market, a remarkable report from the British Atlantic Railroad was rumored for the morrow, and, Gordon's followers taking heart of grace, Konahassett worked steadily upwards in sympathy with the rest of the market, and closed strong at twenty bid.
Thus things stood on Thursday evening, but Friday, day of ill-omen, disproved all the promise of the preceding day. Crop damage and heavy rain in the cotton belt both served their turn; the war scare was duly aired again; the report of the British Atlantic, so far from being what was expected, on the contrary not only showed a very considerable decrease in net earnings, but stated moreover that the complete electrification of the system would be for the present indefinitely postponed; rumor bred rumor, and the whole market, under the lead of the railroad stocks and the coppers, plunged heavily downward.
Amid all the excitement and confusion, once again it was an easy matter to distinguish the hand of the man or men who had led the attack on the Konahassett on the preceding Wednesday. The stock again from the very first acted badly; half an hour after the opening it had dropped to seventeen, and then a sudden flood of selling orders carried it down, and still farther down, until at eleven o'clock it was quoted at thirteen and a half.
Gordon, for the first time anxious and plainly doubtful of the result, fought his fight with all the cool daring and stubborn courage which had won him his place in the market world. One barrier after another was interposed in the effort to stem the tide, and one after another was ruthlessly swept away. About noon, for the first time in years, Gordon in person took the floor of the Exchange, and, knowing full well that he was destined to defeat, none the less bravely fought out his battle to the bitter end. Just once, indeed, early in the afternoon, it seemed for the moment that he might, after all, have a chance to win, and then came still another drive; stop orders were at last uncovered, and the battle, in a short half hour, became first a retreat, then a slaughter, and finally a hopeless, panic-stricken rout.
Gordon himself, pale as death, authorized the giving forth of the news that the fight was lost; that it was every man for himself; in the jargon of the street, made to do service to worried brokers in time of hopeless panic, that "one man's guess was as good as another's."
In the ensuing wild scramble to unload, Konahassett common was buffeted about the room, kicked and beaten and dragged in the dust, with none so poor to do it reverence. Once even it broke par for the first time in its history, a lot of a thousand shares selling at four and seven-eighths, and at the close it had only staggered weakly back to seven and a half. A great day for the Combine, if all the rumors were true; a great day for the reporters and their news columns; a day that had crushed and crumbled Gordon's little army into oblivion, spreading ruin and disaster in its wake.
Ruin and disaster—and worse, for not alone money losses and huge flaring head-lines followed closely on the heels of the Gordon Panic. In Saturday's paper one read of a woman, crazed by her losses, found dead beneath the window of her third-story room, and in the early calm of the Sabbath morning little Mott-Smith, at last tired of following the advice of others, for once acted on his own initiative, and the attendants at the Federal, bursting in the door, found him lying across the bed, the smoke still curling faintly upward from the pistol in his hand, a little round hole drilled neatly between his eyes.
And then, at last, after all the damage had been done, Monday morning saw the clearing of the storm. The newspapers which had talked hopelessly of panic, acting on "information from the very highest sources," suddenly changed their tone. "A bear drive," "A carefully planned raid," "Gunning for Gordon," were some of the phrases used. Stocks rallied, went blithely up, held their gain and then increased it, and closed actually buoyant. It was over. "They" had "gone" for Gordon, and had "got" him. That was all. The incident was closed.
During Saturday and Sunday Gordon received three visitors at his home. The first was a man whose eyesight evidently troubled him very considerably, for he came to Gordon's door in a closed carriage, with the shades drawn; did not emerge until such time as there chanced to be no passers-by in sight; and hastened up the steps with his hand held close to his face, as if further to aid the disfiguring blue goggles that protected him from the sun. It was two o'clock when he arrived, and he remained until shortly before six, when the same carriage again drew up at the door.
Once safely ensconced behind the drawn shades, he thoughtfully removed the blue goggles, and sat silent and preoccupied, until the carriage paused before the most magnificent house on the wholly magnificent avenue, the famous residence of the famous head of the Combine. Just once during the drive did the man with the weak eyes allow himself a thought outside his mission; very slowly he shook his head, and half aloud began to frame a brief sentence, "Of all the damned, cold-blooded—" and there he stopped, for the head of the Combine desired reports, and not comments, even from the man who was, perhaps, in his way, the most trusted little cog in the whole vast machinery of the big Trust's many activities. And so the sentence remained unfinished.
Gordon's second visitor; and the word is used advisedly, was his wife. For the first time in a week, she invaded the privacy of his study, and stood by his desk, tall and slender and graceful, her neck and arms gleaming with jewels, her opera cloak over her arm, a copy of the evening paper in her hand.
"Well," she said coldly. "Is it as bad as they say?"
Gordon made a little deprecating gesture. "You can read," he answered shortly. "The papers haven't got everything quite right, of course, but it's been bad enough. Yes," he added with emphasis, "the whole affair's been fully as bad as the papers make it out to be."
She nodded, a cold gleam of anger in her eyes. "You've done splendidly, haven't you?" she queried scornfully. "You that were going to make yourself one of the richest men in the country before you got through. You that were going to see that I never lacked for anything I wanted to raise my finger for. You that said you never started out for anything that you didn't get it—"
She gave a scornful little laugh. Gordon, with a humility that sat strangely on him, rose quietly. "I'm sorry," he said simply. "For myself, I don't mind, but I'm sorry for you. I think, though, in time—"
She cut him short. "In time!" she echoed bitterly. "And I've got to give up everything. To be pointed out as the wife of a man who went broke in the stock market. To be laughed at, pitied, patronized; oh, it's too much! I hate you, you fool! I'll tell you the truth now. I hate you! I despise you! I'd be glad—"
With a supreme effort at self-control Gordon clutched the rim of the table with both hands. In a red mist the room swam before his eyes. Then, all at once, together his vision and his brain suddenly cleared. He raised his right hand and pointed to the door.
"You'd better go," he said, in a perfectly even tone. "You've gone too far. I'll never own you as my wife again."
She did not flinch. Her eye met his with a passion less restrained, but the equal of his own. "No," she blazed, in sudden wrath, "you won't. You never spoke a truer word. Perhaps—"
She stopped abruptly, then silently turned and swept from the room.
It was not until Sunday night that Gordon's third caller came. Doyle, hurrying post-haste from the West, consumed with anxiety, his fears increasing with every bulletin received on the way, burst into Gordon's study, travel-stained and weary, to find his chief sitting calmly in his easy chair, the long table in front of him, usually covered inches deep with papers, cleared bare, with the exception of two sheets, one a letter, one a memorandum covered with minute figures. Gordon nodded pleasantly.
"Well," he said, "glad you're back. You've missed all the excitement. We've been making history since you left. All sorts, too."
He pushed the letter across the table. Mechanically Doyle took it, and read the few brief lines through. Then he looked up with a gasp.
"Is it true?" he exclaimed. "She's really gone?" Gordon nodded. "Quick work, wasn't it?" he said pleasantly. "She could have had a divorce, if she'd waited; but she was in a hurry, it seems. So they're off on a three years' tour of the world on Ogden's steam yacht. Quite romantic, isn't it?"
Doyle shook his head in mute sympathy. "I'm awfully sorry—" he began, but Gordon, with a strange laugh, cut him short.
"Needn't be," he said. "You don't know the humorous side yet. When you do, you'll laugh, too. It's really funny."
Doyle's face sufficiently showed his bewilderment. Inwardly he wondered whether it was Gordon or himself whose brain was giving way. After a moment's pause Gordon continued, half, it seemed, as if to himself.
"You're the only man who's ever going to know the inside of this; this—and one other thing. The two are inseparably connected, as they say in books. Well, here's the story. You've heard gossip about my wife and Ogden?"
Doyle nodded reluctantly. Who, indeed, had not?
Gordon nodded in turn. "I supposed so," he said dryly. "And I suppose, further, you've wondered at my inaction. Before this gossip started, I made a deal with Ogden, by which he lent me a very large sum of money to use in engineering a stock deal I'll be coming to in a few moments. It was demand money, unfortunately, and Ogden, like the thorough gentleman he is, made use of the fact that he knew I needed it, to go on dancing attendance on my wife and getting her name coupled with his, feeling sure that I wouldn't be in a position to act, or even complain. Clever, I think. Don't you?"
Doyle's lip curled. "Clever!" he cried. His tone was enough. Gordon smiled.
"There, there," he said, "don't take me too seriously. I'm never serious, these days. Life's too amusing. Well, now we come to the side-splitting humor. The real reason my wife took French leave, as you've just read in her touching little farewell, is that she couldn't endure life with a poor man. That was the phrase, wasn't it?"
Doyle nodded again. Uneasily he began to think that Gordon, under the strain, was going mad. Yet his chief's tone, when he spoke again, was sane enough, even pleasantly indifferent.
"I'm afraid," he said, "that my poor wife decided too quickly. As far as Ogden is concerned, his wealth has been grossly overestimated. To-day he isn't worth over three millions, and while it's too long a story to bother you with now, the substance of it is that, thanks to this wild trip of his, I've got the information, I've got the men in my power, and, best of all, I've got the resources to make the man a beggar, so that long before he gets ready to come home, he'll be glad some fine morning to sneak into the poor debtor court and take that means of getting rid of his creditors."
Again Doyle's fears returned. Gordon, himself a hopeless bankrupt, sitting there and stating calmly that he had the resources to put a multimillionaire into bankruptcy. Possibly something of Doyle's thought showed on his expressive face. At all events, Gordon smiled.
"Well," he said. "I mustn't have all the enjoyment. It isn't fair to keep you away from the point so long." He picked up the paper covered with the neat little figuring, and almost lovingly glanced over it once more. Then he handed it across the table to Doyle.
Half a minute passed—a minute—two. Then Doyle slowly raised his eyes to Gordon's face, and his expression was that of mute adoration. Once again, as if he could scarcely believe his eyes, he glanced at the eight figures in the lowest row of all, just below the little code cipher known only to himself and to Gordon, which, translated, read, "Deducting amount paid to Combine, as per agreement." Then once again he raised his head. "My God!" he ejaculated slowly, and, after a pause, even more slowly and with greater emphasis, "My God!"
Gordon gazed at him with a slow smile; then, when he spoke, his tone for the first time showed a trace of excitement.
"It is remarkable, isn't it?" he said simply. "And Jim, at that, it's only the first step. I'm through with the market. You're to come with me at a doubled salary, and I'm going to try the biggest game of all. A year from now I'm going to be elected governor of this state—the first Democratic governor for twenty years—and the year after that—"
He paused, as if confident that Doyle would catch his meaning, but for once the latter's ready brain was fairly staggered by what he had seen.
"The year after that—" he repeated.
Gordon rose, and stood facing him, the lust of battle in his eyes.
"The year after that," he said quietly, "is presidential year."