To go down to the office with the pall of disaster and tragedy over it, to face the accusatory looks of Hauk and Flaspoller with the dread consciousness of his own personal responsibility, was the hardest thing Bojo had ever had to do. Several times in the subway, filled with the Wall Street crowd excitedly discussing the sudden turn of yesterday, alarmed for the future, he had a wild impulse toward flight. Before him were the startling scare-heads of theMorning Post, the sole paper to have the story.
He saw only dimly what every one else was poring over frantically. He was reading over for the twentieth time the ugly story of Forshay's suicide.
The bare facts followed, with a history of Forshay's career, his social connections, an account of his marriage, city house, and country house.
"But after all am I responsible?" he said to himself miserably, and though he returned always to the premise that he had been an innocent participant, he began to be obsessed with the spreading sense of ruin which such victories could occasion.
Forshay would not have blamed him, perhaps, for Forshay had played the game to the limit of the law and asked no favors. It was not that which profoundly troubled him and awoke the long dormant ethical sense. Had Drake figured out just what his conclusions would be and the effect on the public from allowing him to proceed blindly on a wrong start? In a word, had Drake deliberately used him to mislead others, knowing that after the success of Indiana Smelter his prospective son-in-law would be credited with inside information?
He did not as yet answer these questions in the affirmative; to do so meant a decision subversive of all his newly acquired sense of success. But though he still denied the accusations, they would not be thus answered, constantly returning.
At the offices it was as though the dead man were lying in wait. A sense of fright possessed him with the opening of the door. The girl at the telephone greeted him with swollen eyes, swollen with hysterical weeping; the stenographers moved noiselessly, hushed by the indefinable sense of the supernatural. The brass plate on the door—W. O. Forshay—seemed to him something inexpressibly grim and horrible. He had the feeling which the others showedin their roving glances, as though that plate hid something, as though there was something behind his door, waiting.
He went into the inner offices, at a sudden summons. Hauk was at the table, gazing out of the window; Flaspoller worrying and fussing in the center of the rug, switching aimlessly back and forth.
Bojo nodded silently on entering.
"You saw?" said Hauk with a jerk of his head.
"Yes. Horrible!"
Flaspoller broke out: "Not a cent in the world. God knows how much the firm will have to make good. Thirty-five, forty, forty-five thousand, maybe more. Oh, we're stuck all right."
"Do you mean to say," said Bojo slowly, "that he left nothing—no property?"
"Oh, a house perhaps—mortgaged, of course; and then do we know what else he owes? No. A hell of a hole we've got in with your Pittsburgh & New Orleans."
"That's not quite fair," said Bojo quietly. "I did give you a tip on Indiana Smelter and you made money on that. I never said anything about Pittsburgh & New Orleans. I distinctly refused to. You drew your own conclusions."
"That's a good joke," said Flaspoller with a contemptuous laugh.
"What do you mean?" said Bojo, flushing angrily.
"Well, I'll tell you what I mean," said Flaspoller, discretion to the winds. "When you come into a firm that has treated you generously as we have, put up your salary without waiting to be asked, and you bring in orders, confidential orders, to sell five hundredshares to-day, a thousand to-morrow, like you sell yourself, and your friends sell too—if you let your firm go on selling and don't know what's up, you're either one big jackass or a—"
"Or a what?" said Bojo, advancing.
Something in the menacing eye caused the little broker to halt abruptly with a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders.
"I wouldn't go too far, Flaspoller," said Bojo coldly. "If this was a mistake, I paid for it too, as you know. You know what I dropped."
"I know nothing," said Flaspoller, recovering his courage with his anger, and planting himself defiantly in the young fellow's path. "I know only what you lost—here, and I know too whatwelose."
"Good heavens, do you mean to insinuate that I did anythingcrooked?" said Bojo loudly, yet at the bottom ill at ease.
"Shut up now," said Hauk, as Flaspoller started on another angry tirade. "Look here, Mr. Crocker, there's no use wasting words. The milk's spilt. Well, what then?"
"I'm sorry, of course," said Bojo, frowning.
"Of course you understand after what's happened," said Hauk quietly, "it would be impossible for us to make use of your services any more."
Much as he himself had contemplated breaking off relations, it gave him quite a shock to hear that he was being dismissed. He caught his breath, looked from one to another and said:
"Quite right. There I agree with you. I shall be very glad to leave your office to-day."
He went to his desk in a towering rage, went through his papers blindly, and rose shortly to go out where he could get hold of himself and decide on a course of action. The fact was that for the first time he had a feeling of guilt. He again assured himself that he was perfectly innocent, that there was nothing in his whole course which could be objected to. Yet how many would have believed him if they knew that this very morning he had deposited a check for a quarter of a million? What would Hauk and Flaspoller have said at the bare announcement?
He wandered into familiar groups, tarrying a moment and then passing on, parrying the questions that were showered on him by those who knew the intimacy of his relations with the successful manipulator. In all their conversations Drake appeared like a demigod. Men went back to the famous corners of Commodore Vanderbilt for a comparison with the skill and boldness of the late manipulator. It was freely said that there was no other man in Wall Street who would have dared so openly to defy the great powers of the day and force them to terms.
In this chorus of admiration there was no note of censure. He had played the game as they played it. No one held him responsible for the tragedy of Forshay and the unwritten losses of those who had been caught.
Yet Bojo was not convinced. He knew that he had not been able to meet the partners openly; that despite all the injustice of their attitude, he had withheld the knowledge of his ultimate winnings, and that he had withheld it because he would have been at a loss to explain it. More potent than the stoic indifferenceof Wall Street was the memory of the chance acquaintance, wrecked by the accident of this meeting; of Forshay, calmly matching quarters with him before the opening of the market, calculating the fatal point beyond which a rise meant to him the end. And as he examined it from this intimate outlook, he wondered more and more how free from responsibility and cruelty, from the echoes of agony, could be any fortune of ten millions made over night, because of others who had been led recklessly to gamble beyond their means.
Forshay recalled DeLancy, and he shuddered at the thought of how close the line of disaster had passed to him. Again and again he remembered with distaste the look in DeLancy's face when at the end he had persuaded him to take the check. What sat most heavily upon his conscience was that now, with the ranging of events in clearer perspective, he began to compare his own attitude with Drake's, with DeLancy's weak submission to his explanation. If DeLancy had taken money that Marsh had indignantly rejected, what had he himself done?
At twelve, making a sudden resolve, he went up to the offices. The partners were still there, brooding over the rout, favoring him with dark looks at his interruption.
"Mr. Hauk, will you give me the total of Mr. Forshay's indebtedness to your firm?"
Flaspoller wheeled with an insolent dismissal on his lips, but Hauk forestalled him. "What business is that of yours?"
"You stated that his losses might amount to forty or forty-five thousand. Is that correct?"
"That's our affair!"
"You don't understand," said Bojo quietly, "but I think it will be to your interest to listen to me. Do I understand that you intend to exercise your claim on whatever property may still be left to Mr. Forshay's widow?"
"What nonsense is he talking?" said Flaspoller, turning to his partner in amazement.
"I thought so," said Bojo, taking his answer from their attitude. "I repeat, kindly give me the exact figures, in detail, of the total indebtedness of Mr. Forshay to your firm."
"I suppose you want to pay it, eh?" said Flaspoller contemptuously.
"Exactly."
"What!"
The reply came almost in a shout. Hauk, keener than his partner, perceiving from the exalted calm of the young man that the matter was serious, caught Flaspoller by the arm and shot him into a chair.
"You sit down and be quiet." He approached Bojo, studying him keenly. "You want to pay up for Forshay—am I right?"
"You are.
"When?"
"Now."
Hauk himself was not proof against the shock the announcement brought. He sat down, stupidly rubbing his hand across his forehead, glancing suspiciously at Bojo. Finally he recovered himself sufficiently to say:
"For what reason do you want to do this?"
"That is my business," said Bojo, "and besides you would not understand in the least."
"Well, well," said Flaspoller, recovering his eagerness with his cupidity.
"You're not going to refuse, are you?"
"That's very noble, very generous," said Hauk slowly. "We were a little hasty, Mr. Crocker. We've lost a good deal of money. We sometimes say things a little more than we mean at such times. You mustn't think too much of that. We are very much upset—we thought the world of Mr. Forshay—"
"All this is quite unnecessary," said Bojo with quiet scorn. "We are dealing with figures. Have you the account ready—now?"
"Yes, yes—we can have it ready in a moment—look it over—take just a few moments," said Flaspoller eagerly. "Sit down, Mr. Crocker, while we look it up."
"Thanks, I prefer to wait outside. Remember I want a complete and minute statement."
He wheeled and went out with disgust, taking his seat by his old place at the window, without removing his hat and coat. He waited thus, long minutes, staring out at the dirt-stained walls of the opposite skyscraper that, five hundred feet in the air, shut them out from a glimpse of the sky, oblivious to whispered conversations, curious glances, or the nervous bustling to and fro of the partners. Presently the telephone buzzed at his side.
"Mr. Hauk would like you to step into his office, sir."
"Tell him to come to me."
It was bravado, but a revenge that was precious to him. Almost immediately Hauk came sliding to his desk, laying a paper before him.
"This is it, Mr. Crocker."
"Every claim you have against the estate—every one?" said Bojo, examining carefully the items.
"Perfectly."
But at this moment Flaspoller arrived hastily and alarmed.
"We forgot the share in the expense of the office," he said hurriedly.
"Put it down," said Bojo, with a wave of his hand. At the point of bitter scorn at which he had arrived, it seemed to him a sublime thing to accept all figures without condescending to enter into discussion. "Anything more, gentlemen?"
Flaspoller in vain tortured his memory at this last summons. Hauk, misunderstanding the frown and the stare with which Bojo continued to gaze at the paper, began to explain: "This item here is calculated on a third share in—"
"I don't want any explanations," said Bojo, cutting him short. "You will, of course, furnish complete details to the executor of the estate. Now if this is complete, kindly give me a written acknowledgment of a payment in full of every claim you hold against the estate of W. O. Forshay, and likewise an attestation that this is in every respect a just and true bill of Mr. Forshay's debts." He drew out his check-book. "Fifty-two thousand, seven hundred—"
"And forty-six dollars," said Flaspoller, who followedthe strokes of the pen with incredulous eyes as though unable to believe in Providence.
Bojo rose, took the acquittals and the bill of items, and handed them the check, saying: "This closes the matter, I believe."
An immense struggle was going on in the minds of the two partners—curiosity, cupidity, and a new sense of the financial strength of the man who could thus toss off checks, plainly written in their startled expressions.
"Mr. Crocker, Tom, we should be very glad if you forgot what we said this morning," said Flaspoller hurriedly. "You've been very handsome, very handsome indeed. You can always have a desk in our offices. Mr. Crocker, I apologize for mistaking you. Shake hands!"
"Good-by, gentlemen!" said Bojo, lifting his hat with the utmost punctiliousness.
He took a hasty luncheon and went uptown to the Court, where Della, the pretty little Irish girl at the telephone desk, opened her eyes in surprise at this unusual appearance.
"Why, Mr. Crocker, what's wrong?"
"I'm changing my habits, Della," he said with an attempted laugh.
He went to his room and sat a long while before the fireplace, pulling at a pipe. At length he rose, went to the desk, and wrote:
Dear Doris:A good many things have come up since I left you. I think it is better that no announcement be made until we have had achance to talk matters over very seriously. I hope that can be soon.
Dear Doris:
A good many things have come up since I left you. I think it is better that no announcement be made until we have had achance to talk matters over very seriously. I hope that can be soon.
Bojo.
P.S. Please thank Patsie for packing my bag. I went off in such a rush I think I forgot.P.P.S. Tell Gladys that Fred came out all right—shouldn't be surprised if he'd made a little too.
P.S. Please thank Patsie for packing my bag. I went off in such a rush I think I forgot.
P.P.S. Tell Gladys that Fred came out all right—shouldn't be surprised if he'd made a little too.
The next days he spent aimlessly. He had a great decision to make, and he acted as though he had not a thought in the world but to drift indolently through life. He idled through breakfast, reading the morning papers laboriously, and was amazed to find that with all his delay it was only eleven o'clock, with an interminable interval to be filled in before lunch. He began a dozen novels, seeking to lose himself in the spell of other lands and other times; but as soon as he sallied out to his club he had the feeling that the world had been turned inside out.
After luncheon he tried vainly to inveigle some acquaintance into an afternoon's loafing, only to receive again that impression of strange loneliness in a foreign land, as one after the other disappeared before the call of work. He had nothing to do except the one thing which in the end he knew had to be done, and the more he sought to put it from him, idling in moving-picture halls or consuming long stretches of pavement in exploring tramps, the more he felt something always back of his shoulder, not to be denied.
He avoided the company of his chums, seeking other acquaintances with whom to dine and take in a show. Something had fallen into the midst of theold intimacy of Westover Court. There was a feeling of unease and impending disruption. The passion for gain had passed among them at last and the trail of disillusionment it had left could not be effaced. The boyish delight, the frolicking with life had passed. They seemed to have aged and sobered in a night. The morning breakfasts were constrained, hurried affairs. There was not the old give-and-take spirit of horse play. DeLancy was moody and evasive, Marsh silent, and Granning grim. Bojo could not meet DeLancy's eyes, and with the others he felt that though they would never express it, he had disappointed them, that in some way they held him responsible for the changes which had come and the loss of that complete and free spirit of comradeship which would never return.
He had reached the point where he had decided on a full confession to Drake and a certain restitution. But here he met the rock of his indecision. What should he restore? After deducting the sums paid to DeLancy and to the estate of Forshay, he had still almost one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. Why should he not deduct his own losses, amounting to over seventy thousand dollars incurred in the service of a campaign which had netted millions?
His conscience, tortured by the tragic memory of Forshay and the feeling of the spreading circles of panic and losses which had started from his unwitting agency, had finally recoiled before the thought of making profit of the desolation of others. But if he renounced the gain, was there any reason why he should suffer loss; why Drake should not reimburse him as he had reimbursed others? To accept thisview meant that he would still remain in possession of upwards of eighty-five thousand dollars, producing a tidy income, able to hold up his own in the society to which he had grown accustomed. To renounce the payment of his losses meant not simply a blow to his pride in the acknowledgment that in the first six months he had already lost two-thirds of what his father had given him, but that his whole scheme of living would have to be changed, while marriage with Doris became an impossibility.
Beyond the first letter he had written her in the first tragic reaction on his return from the office, he had sent Doris no further word. What he had to say was yet too undefined to express on paper. Too much depended on her attitude when they met at last face to face. Her letters, full of anxiety and demand for information, remained unanswered. One afternoon on returning after a day's tramp on the East Side, he found a telegram, which had been waiting hours.
Return this afternoon four-thirty most anxious meet me station.
Return this afternoon four-thirty most anxious meet me station.
Doris.
It was then almost six. Without waiting to telephone explanations he jumped in a taxi and shot off uptown. At the Drakes' he sent up his name by Thompson, learning with a sudden tightening of the heart that Drake himself was home. He went into the quiet reception room, nervously excited by the approaching crisis, resolved now that it was up, to push it to its ultimate conclusion. As he whipped back and forth, fingering impatiently the shininggreen leaves of the waxed rubber plant, all at once, to his amazement, Patsie stood before him.
"You here?" he said, stopping short.
She nodded, red in her cheeks, looking quickly at him and away.
"Doris is changing her dress; she'll be down right away. Didn't you get the telegram?"
"I'm sorry— I was out all day."
He stopped and she was silent, both awkwardly conscious of the other. Finally he stammered: "I asked Doris to thank you—for getting my bag ready and—and your message."
"Oh, Bojo," she said impulsively and the spots of red on her cheek spread like names, "I want to speak to you so much. I have been thinking over so many things that I ought to say."
"You can say anything," he said gently.
"Bojo, you must marry Doris!" she said brokenly, joining her hands.
"Why?" he said, too startled to notice the absurdity of the question.
"She needs you. She loves you. If you could have seen her all Sunday night when we—when she was afraid you had been ruined. You don't know how she cares. I didn't. I was terribly mistaken—unjust. You mustn't let her go off and marry some one she doesn't care about, like Boskirk, the way Dolly did."
"But I must do what is right for me too," he said desperately, moved by the radiance in her eyes that seemed to flow out and envelope him irresistibly. "I have a right to love too, to find a woman who knows what love means—"
"Don't—don't," she said, turning away miserably, too young to make the pretense of not understanding him.
"Listen, Drina," he said, catching her hand. "I am up against a decision, the greatest decision in my life, which means whether I am to have the right to my own self-respect and yours and others. One way means money, an easy way to everything people want in this world, and no blame attached except what I myself might feel. The other means standing on my own feet, no favors, taking a loss of thousands of dollars, and a fight of perhaps five, ten years to get where I am now. Which would you do? No, you don't even need to answer," he said joyfully, carried away by the look in her eyes as she swung fearlessly around. "I know you."
In his fervor he caught her hand and pressed it against his heart. "Drina dear, you ring true, true as a bell. You, I know, will understand whatever I do." He was rushing on when suddenly a thought stopped him. If he did what he had planned, what right would he have to hope of marrying her even after years of toil? He dropped her hands, his face going so blank that, forgetting the mingled joy and terror his words had brought her, she cried:
"Bojo—what's wrong—what are you thinking of?"
He turned away, shaking his head, drawing a deep breath.
But at this moment, before Patsie could escape, Doris came down the stairs and directly to him.
"Bojo—I've been so worried—why didn't you answer my letters? Andwhydidn't you meet me?"
She threw her arms about his neck, gazing anxiously into his eyes. He had a blurred vision of Patsie, shrinking and white, turning from the sight of the embrace, as he stammered explanations. Luckily Drake himself broke the tension with an unexpected appearance and a bluff—
"Hello, Tom. Where have you been keeping yourself? Now that you're a millionaire I expected you to come sailing in on a steam yacht! Well, Doris, what do you think of your financier?"
"Mr. Drake, I've got something important I must talk over with you. Can you see me for a few minutes now? It's very important. If you could—"
The tone in which he said these words, staring past them into the vista of the salons, impressed each with the feeling of a crisis. Drake halted, shot a quick glance from the young fellow to Doris, and said, as he went out:
"Why, yes—of course. Come in now. Soon as you're ready. The library—glad to see you."
At the same moment, with a last appealing glance, Patsie disappeared behind the curtains. Doris came to him, startled and alarmed.
"You're not in trouble?" she said, wonder in her look. "Dad told me you'd made a quarter of a million and that everything was all right. That is true, isn't it?"
"Doris, everything is not all right," he said solemnly. "Whether I am to keep my share or not depends on what answer your father gives to one question I am going to ask him."
"What do you mean? You mean you would not accept—"
"Under certain circumstances Ican'taccept this money—exactly that."
"But, Bojo, don't do anything rash—hastily," she said hurriedly. "Talk it over with me first. Let me know."
"No," he said firmly. "This is my decision."
"At least let me come with you—let me hear!"
He shook his head. "No, Doris—not even that. This is between your father and me."
"But our marriage," she said in desperation, following him to the door.
"Afterward—when I have seen your father, then we must talk of that."
The new decision in his voice and movement surprised and controlled her. She raised her hand as though to speak, and found no word to utter in her amazement. He went quickly through the salons, knocked, and went into the library. Drake, with a premonition perhaps of what was coming, was waiting impatiently, spinning the chain of his watch.
"Well, Tom, to the point. What is it?" he said imperiously.
"Mr. Drake," Bojo began carefully, "I have not been in to see you because—because I did not know just what to say. Mr. Drake, I've been terribly upset by this Pittsburgh & New Orleans deal!"
"What, upset by making a cool quarter of a million?"
"Yes, that's it," he said firmly, never losing an expression on the older man's face. "You know, of course, that Forshay, who committed suicide, was in my office."
"What, in your office?" said Drake, with a start. "No, I didn't know that!"
"That's rather shaken me up. He ruined himself on Pittsburgh & New Orleans. And then that night—when I got home one of my chums was pretty close to the same thing."
"I told you not to take any one into your confidence, Tom," said Drake quietly.
"That's true, youtoldme that. Mr. Drake, answer me this, didn't you expect me to tell—some one?"
Drake looked at him quickly, then down, drumming with his fingers.
"What's the point?"
Bojo had no longer any doubts. The transaction had been as he had finally divined. Yet the words had not been spoken that meant to him the renunciation of all the luxury and opportunity that surrounded him in the tapestried wealth of the great room. He hesitated so long that Drake looked up at him and frowned, repeating the question:
"What's the point, Tom?"
"Mr. Drake, you knew I would tell others to sell Pittsburgh & New Orleans—youintendedI should, didn't you? That was part of your plan—a necessary part, wasn't it?"
"Tom, I expressly told you not to jump to conclusions," said Drake, rising and raising his voice. "I expressly told you not to let the cat out of the bag."
"Won't you answer my question? Yes or no?" said the young fellow, very quiet and quite colorless.
"I have answered that."
"Yes, you have answered," said Bojo slowly. "Now, Mr. Drake, I won't press you any further. I know. I can't accept that money. It is not mine."
"Can't accept? What's this nonsense?" said Drake, stopping short.
"I can't make money off the losings of my friends, whom I have ruined to make your deal succeed."
"That's a hard word!"
"And there's another reason," said Bojo, ignoring his flash of anger. "I was not honest with you. The night I came here I was ruined myself."
"I knew that."
"But you didn't know that I had used the fifty thousand dollars pledged to your pool and that if you had been operating as I thought and wiped out, I should have owed you thirty-five thousand dollars—pledged to you—a debt which would mean dishonor to me."
"I didn't know that. No. How did that happen?" said Drake, sitting down and gazing anxiously at him.
"I lost my head—absolutely—completely. I did just what Forshay and DeLancy did—gambled with money that didn't belong to me. I lived in a nightmare. Mr. Drake, I lost my bearings. Now I'm going to get them back." He paused, drew breath, and continued earnestly: "Now you understand why I don't deserve a cent of that money even if you could swear to me you didn't use me purposely, which you can't! I pretty nearly went over the line, Mr. Drake, and it wasn't my fault I didn't, either. I guess I'm not built right for this sort of life—that's the short of it."
"You are young, very young, Tom," said Drake slowly. "Young people look at things through their emotions. That's what you're doing!"
"Thank God," said Bojo, and it seemed to him for the first time a feeling of peace returned.
"What do you want to do?" said Drake, frowning and rising.
"I can not return you the two hundred thousand dollars," said Bojo slowly. "I paid one friend thirty-eight thousand to cover his losses, to save him from disgrace and dishonor in the eyes of a woman; another friend refused to accept a cent. I paid to the estate of Forshay every cent of indebtedness he owed the firm—fifty-two odd thousand dollars. Forshay gambled because he thought I knew. That makes over ninety thousand dollars. The rest—one hundred and fifty-nine thousand—I will return to you."
"Good heavens, Tom, you did that?" said Drake, taking out his handkerchief. He sat down in his chair, overcome. For a long interval no one spoke, and then from the chair a voice came out that sounded not like Drake but something bodiless. "That's awful—awful. From my point of view I have played the game as others, as square as the squarest. I have lost thousands of thousands sticking to a friend, thousands in keeping to my word. This is not business, this is war. Those who go in, who intend to gamble with life, to fight with thousands and millions, must go in to take the consequences. If they ever get me it'll be because some one has turned traitor, not because I've sold out or done anything disreputable. If others were ruined in Pittsburgh & New Orleans, that's because they were willing to make money bysmashing up some other person's property. It was their fault, not mine. If a man can't control himself—his fault. If a man goes bankrupt and won't face the world and work back instead of blowing his brains out—his fault.
"You think of the individual—men, friends, death. They move you, they're closer to you than the big perspective. They don't count, no one counts. If a man kills himself, he dies quicker than he would and is not worth living, that's all. Sounds cold-blooded to you. Yes. But we're dealing in movements, armies! Poverty, sorrow, disaster, death, they are life—you can't get away from them. A great bridge is more important than the lives of the men who build it, a great railroad is necessary, not the question whether a few thousand people lose their fortunes, in the operation which makes a great amalgamation possible. That's my point of view. It's not yours. You're set on what you've made up your mind to do. Your emotions have got you. Ten years from now you'll regret it."
"I hope not," said Bojo simply.
"What are you going to do? Well, come in here as my private secretary," said Drake, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder, and adding, with that burst of human understanding which gave him a magnetic power over men: "Tom, you're a —— fool to do what you're doing, but, by heaven, I love you for it!"
"Thank you," said Bojo, controlling his voice with difficulty.
"Will you come here?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Frankly, I want to do something by myself," said Bojo stubbornly. "I don't want some one to take me by the collar and jack me up into success."
"Think it over!"
"No, I'll stick to that. I want to get into a rational life. To live the way I've been living is torture."
Drake hesitated, as though loathe to let him go, seeking some way out.
"Won't you let me make good your losses—at least that?"
"Not after the hole I got into, no."
"Damn it, Tom, won't you let me do something to help out?"
"No, not a thing." He went up and shook hands. "You don't know what it means to be able to look you in the eyes again, sir. That's everything!"
"And Doris?" said Drake slowly, beaten at every point.
"Doris I am going to see now," he said.
He went to the door hastily to avoid sentimentalities, and on the other side of the curtain, where she had been listening, he found Doris, wide-eyed and thrilled, her finger on her lips.
"What, you were there! You heard!" he said, astounded.
She nodded her head, incapable of speech, her finger still on her lips, drawing him by the hand into the little sitting-room where they were in a measure free from other eyes.
"Now for a torrent of reproaches," he thought grimly.
But instead the next moment tears were on her cheeks, her arms about him, and her head on his shoulder. Seeing her thus shaken, he thought bitterly that all this grief was but for the material loss, the blow to her ambitions. All at once she raised her head, took him firmly by the shoulder, and said:
"Bojo, I've never loved you before—but I do now, oh, yes, now I know!"
He shook his head, unable to believe her capable of great emotions.
"Doris, you are carried away—this is not what you'll say to-morrow!"
"Yes, yes, it is!" she cried fervently. "I'll sacrifice anything now—nothing will ever make me give you up!"
"Luckily for you," he said, his look darkening, "you'll have time enough to come to your senses.If you heard all, you know what this means—starting at the beginning."
"I heard— I understand," she said, close to him, her eyes shining with a light that blotted out the world in confused shadow. He looked at her, thrilled by her feeling, by the thought that it belonged to him, that he was the master of it, and yet unconvinced.
"It's just your imagination," he said quietly, "that's all. Doris, I know you too well—what you've lived with and what you must have." He added, with a doubting smile: "You remember what you said to me that day on our ride, when we passed through that factory village—'ask me anything but to bepoor.'"
"Bojo," she said, desperately, "you don't understand what a woman is. That was true—then. There's all that you say in me, but there's something else which you've never called out before, which can come when I love, when I really love." She clung to him, fighting for him, feeling how close she had been to losing him. "Bojo, believe in me, give me one more chance!"
"To-morrow you'll come to me with some new scheme for making money!"
"No, no."
"You'll try to persuade me that I should marry you on your money, take the opportunities your father can shove in my way. Oh, Doris, I know you too well!"
"No, no, I won't. I don't want—don't you see I don't want to make you do anything? I want to follow you!"
"That has been the trouble," he said, abruptly.
He turned, walked away, and sat down, gazing out through the window, feeling something dark and enveloping closing about him without his being able to slip away. She came impulsively to his side, flinging herself on the floor at his knees, carried away with the intensity of her emotion.
"'What does all the rest amount to?' she said breathlessly. 'I want you'""'What does all the rest amount to?' she said breathlessly. 'I want you'"
"What does all the rest amount to!" she said breathlessly. "I want you! I want a man, not a dummy, in my life. I want some one to look up to, bigger, stronger than I am, that can make me do things."
He put his hand on hers, thrilling as he bent quickly and kissed it.
"The trouble has been," he said slowly, "all this time I've been trying to come to your ways of living, to reach you. Doris, I can't promise; I'm not sure of myself, of what I think—"
"Oh, it would be such a dreadful thing if you were to let me go now," she said suddenly, covering her face. "Now, when I know what I could do!"
"Yes," he assented, feeling too the power he had suddenly acquired to make or mar a life, and with that power the responsibility.
"You can do anything with me," she said in a whisper.
He felt a lump in his throat, a sense of being blocked at every turn, a horror of doing harm, and a wild pride in the thought that at the last this girl, whom he had rebelled against so often for being without emotion or passion, was at his feet, without reserve, a warm, adoring woman.
"Doris, you have got to come to me on my footing," he said firmly at last.
She accepted it as the answer she had longed for, raising her face suffused with joy, pressing his hand to her heart, her eyes swimming with tears, inarticulate.
"Try me—anything! I'm happy—so happy—so afraid— I was so afraid— Oh, Bojo, to think I might never have known you—lost you!"
When a little calm had been reestablished, she wished to marry him at once, to live in one room in a boarding-house, if necessary, to prove her sincerity. He answered her evasively, pretending to laugh at her, feeling the while the leaden load of what by a trick of fate he had assumed at the moment when he had expected the completest freedom. Yet there was something so genuine, so uncalculated in her contrition, something so helpless and appealing to his strength in her surrender to his will and decision, that he felt stirred to a poignant pity, and shrank before the brutality of inflicting pain.
When he left, quiet and brooding, turning the corner of the Avenue his glance happened to go to a window on the second floor, and he saw Patsie looking down. He stopped, stumbling in his progress, and then, recovering himself, lifted his hat solemnly. She did not move nor make an answering gesture. He saw her only immobile, looking down at him.
When he returned to the Court and stopped mechanically at the desk for his mail, Della, with her welcoming smile, chided him.
"My, but you look awful serious, Mr. Crocker!"
"Am I?— Yes, I suppose so," he said absent-mindedly.
He went through into the inner court that yesterday had seemed to him such a constricted little spot in the great city which had responded to his fortunate touch. Now, in the falling dusk, with the lights blossoming out, the court seemed very big, crowded with human beings in the battle of life, and he himself small and without significance.
"Well, I've gone and done it," he said to himself with a half laugh. "I wonder—"
He wondered, now that it was all over, now that the curtain had dropped on the drama of it, whether after all Drake had been right—whether he was seeing life through his emotions, and what the point of view of thirty-five and forty would be in retrospection.
"Well, I've chucked it all," he said, lingering in the quiet and the suffused half lights. "I took the bit in my teeth. There's no turning back now." He remembered his father and the old battling look of defiance in his eyes as he had exhorted his son.
"Guess, after all," he said grimly, feeling all at once drawn closer to his own, "I must be a chip of the old block."
Granning alone was in the study as he came in, spinning his hat on to the sofa.
"Well, Granning, I've up and done it," he said shortly.
"Eh, what?" said Granning, looking up rather alarmed.
He told him.
"And so, Granning, I'm a horny-handed son of labor from this time forth," he said in conclusion. "You'll have to find me a job!" The laugh failed.It seemed out of place at that moment with Granning staring at him. He added quietly: "Guess self-respect is worth more than I thought!"
"God, I'm glad!" said Granning, bringing down his great fist.
He had never in all the long friendship seen Granning so stirred!
"Well, now to hunt a job!"
He woke up the next morning with this one idea dominant, dressed to a whistling accompaniment, and came gaily to breakfast. A load seemed to have been suddenly lifted from his mind, the day fair and the future keen with the zest of a good fight without favors. The breakfast was delicious and the air alive with energy.
"Seems to me you're looking rather cocky," said Marsh, studying him with surprise.
"Never felt fitter in my life," said Bojo, stealing a roll from DeLancy, who had completely lost his good spirits.
"What's up? Going to trim the market again?"
Bojo laughed, a free and triumphant laugh.
"Never again for me!" He added quickly, remembering the attitude they had assumed for DeLancy's benefit: "Luck's been with me long enough— I'm not going to bank on luck any more!"
Fred pushed his plate from him and went into the outer room without meeting their glances.
"I say, Bojo, one thing we ought to do," said Marsh under his breath: "get after the infant and give him a solemn dressing-down."
"You don't suppose he's fool enough to try the market again?"
"Who knows what he'll do?" said Marsh gloomily. "Sometimes I think it would have kept him out of more trouble if you'd let him be cleaned out!
"You mean Louise Varney— Good Lord!"
"Exactly!"
"Do you think he suspects?" said Bojo, after a moment's hesitation—"I mean about his taking a profit?"
"Of course," said Marsh quietly.
"Poor devil! Well, heavens, I can't criticize him," said Bojo, moodily. "I pretty near did the same thing."
"What are you going to do now?" said Marsh, to keep the conversation clear of disturbing memories.
"Going to start in on a new job."
"What?" said Marsh, surprised.
"Oh, I'm going to look around," said Bojo in an offhand sort of way. "I want something solid and real—constructive is the word. Well, Roscy, wish me good luck— I'm starting to look over the field this morning." He rose confident and happy, slapping his friend on the shoulder, with the old boyish exhilaration. "By Jove, I'm glad to have it over and to begin a real life!"
"Give you a try at reporting," said Marsh.
"Not on your life. I'm going out for something myself! Hello there, old Freddie-boy! Got your hair on straight? Well, then, come on and tell Wall Street what to do."
An hour later, still full of confidence, he took the bull by the horns and entered the offices of Stoughton and Bird. Young Stoughton was of his social crowd, and the father had been particularly agreeable to himon the several occasions on which he had dined at their home. The house was known for its conservatism, dealing in solid investments.
"Hello, Skeeter," said Bojo, giving young Stoughton his college nickname. "Is the Governor busy—could he see me ten minutes?"
They were in a vast outer chamber with junior members installed at distant desks, the telephone ringing at every moment.
"I think you've caught him right," said Stoughton, shaking his hand cordially. "Wait a moment— I'll 'phone in." He nodded presently. "Sure enough—go right in."
Stoughton, senior, a short, well-groomed man, club-man and whip, pumped his hand affably with the smiling relaxation of one who throws off momentarily the professional manner.
"Glad to see you, Tom. I was asking Jo yesterday what had become of you. Well, what have you got up your sleeve? You look mighty important. Want to sell me a railroad in Mexico or half of a Western State?"
"Nothing like that," said Tom, laughing and at his ease at once. "What I'm looking for is a job."
"You don't mean it," said Stoughton in surprise.
"I want to get experience along solid lines," said Bojo confidentially. "In conservative financing and investments. I don't know whether you've got anything open, but if you have I'd like to apply."
"I see." Stoughton nodded, plainly perplexed. "Does that mean you've left—"
"Hauk and Flaspoller—yes."
Stoughton frowned.
"That's poor Charlie Forshay's firm, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"They were caught pretty hard in Pittsburgh & New Orleans," said Stoughton meditatively. "Yes, I remember. Were you caught too?"
"I was."
"What were you getting there?"
"Of course I don't expect to get what I was making there—not just at present," said Bojo magnanimously. "I was getting as much as one hundred and twenty-five a week at the end."
"No," said Stoughton, without the flicker of a smile, "you can't expect that." The social affability had faded. Gradually he had withdrawn into a quiet defensive attitude, tinged with curiosity. "By the way, you don't mind my asking a discreet question? Why don't you try Drake?"
Bojo could not give an answer which would reveal too much, but he contented himself with saying frankly:
"Why, Mr. Stoughton, I'd rather not ask favors. I'd like to work this out for myself."
"Right," said Stoughton, brightening. Still beaming, he added: "Wish we had a place for you here. Unfortunately, our system is rather complex and we start a man at the bottom. Of course we wouldn't offer you anything like that. You're out of the ten-dollar-a-week class. Besides, you've got friends—good connections. Lots of firms would be glad to get you."
"I want to get into something sound. I want to keep away from just brokers," said Bojo, much cheered.
"And you're right," said Stoughton, nodding. He drew out a card and penciled it. "You know Harding and Stonebach? Harding's a good friend of mine—give him this card. They're what you want—make a specialty of development, electric plants, street railways, and that sort of thing. Big future for a young fellow who's got a talent for constructive organization."
"That's just what I want," said Bojo, delighted. He shook hands, thanking him effusively.
Mr. Harding was in but asked him to call after lunch. He wandered about the Wall Street district, stopping to chat with several acquaintances on the curb, and ate lunch, finding it hard to kill time. Back at the appointment, he was forced to sit, shifting restlessly, watching the clock hands make a slow full revolution before his name was called. This enforced wait, stealing glances at the flitting procession of purposeful visitors and the two or three oldish men, neither impatient nor very hopeful, who came after him, biding their turn, somehow robbed him of all his confidence. His head was weary with the click of typewriters and the fire of his assurance out. He tried to state his case concisely and promptly, and felt hurried and embarrassed.
In two minutes he was out in the hall again, the interview for which he had waited a day, over. Mr. Harding, with incisive, businesslike despatch, had taken his card and noted his address, promising to notify him if occasion arose. He understood it was a dismissal. As he went out, one of the oldish men arose without emotion at the new summons, folding his newspaper and pocketing his spectacles. Bojo returnedto the Court, essaying to laugh down his disappointment, yielding already to the subtle depression of being a straggler and watching the army sweep by.
The next day he continued his quest, the next and all of that week. Sometimes he met with curt refusal that left a scar on his pride; sometimes he seemed to gain headway and have opportunity almost on his fingers until somehow, sooner or later, in the categorical questioning it transpired that his last venture had been with a firm of speculative brokers who had been caught and squeezed. Gradually it dawned upon him that there was something strange in the resulting sudden shift of attitude, a superstition of the Street itself, a gambler's dread of failure, an instinctive horror of any one who had been touched with misfortune, as the living hurry from the dead. The feeling of loneliness began to creep over him. Alarmed, he steadfastly refused all week-end invitations.
One Sunday his father turned up suddenly in the Court, shook hands with Granning, who alone kept him company, and passed a few perfunctory remarks with his son.
"How is it you haven't been to me for money?" he said gruffly.
Bojo answered with a lightness he was far from feeling:
"Well, they haven't taken it away from me yet, Dad."
"Mighty sorry to hear it." He looked him over critically. "In good shape?"
"Fine."
"Get enough sleep and don't do much sitting up and counting the stars?"
"Hardly. How've you been?"
"Sound as a drum."
"How's the business, father?"
The question brought them perilously near what each had in mind. Perhaps one word of daring would have broken down the pride of their mutual obstinacy. Mr. Crocker growled out:
"Business is mighty shaky. Your precious Wall Street and politics have got every one scared to death. Mighty lucky we'll be if a crash doesn't hit us."
Had Bojo defended himself, the father might have reopened the question of his entering the mills; but he didn't, and after a few minutes of indefinite seeking for an opening Mr. Crocker went off as abruptly as he had come.
The next morning Bojo, to end this depressing period of inactivity, made a resolve to accept any opportunity, no matter how humble the salary, and went down to see Mr. Stoughton to ask him for the chance to start at the bottom. Skeeter received him with the same cordiality as before, but access to the father was not to be had that day. In desperation he sat down and wrote his request. Two days later he received his answer in the evening mail.
Mr. Thomas Crocker.