"He's very nice," Mrs. Whipple said; "but he's not desperately exciting, as the girls say."
"But then!" The bishop lifted his hands with a despairing gesture, "must young men be amusing or exciting in these days? Is he honest? Does he lead a clean life? Has he, as the saying is, an outlook on life?"
"He isn't seeing much of Evelyn, I think," said Mrs. Whipple. "And he's a great friend of Warry's. They may offset each other."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the general, "I don't see any use in worrying over Evelyn Porter and her suitors. She'll have plenty of them. And when she gets good and ready she'll up and marry one of them."
"No girl with at least three possibilities in one town, to say nothing of dozens she may have elsewhere, need be a subject of commiseration," said Mrs. Whipple.
"But," began the bishop slowly, "it might be better to eliminate at least one."
"Not Warry!" threw in Mrs. Whipple.
"Not Saxton," added the general. "I like him; he's polite and thoughtful about us old folks."
The bishop had risen, knowing that the climax of a conversation is best given standing.
"I shouldn't cut out either of them," he said, smiling.
After the interim of quiet that Lent always brings in Clarkson, the spring came swiftly. There was a renewal of social activities which ran from dances and teas into outdoor gatherings. Evelyn had enjoyed to the full her experience of home. She had plunged into the frivolities of the town with a zest that was a trifle emphasized through her wish to escape any charge of being pedantic or literary. She was glad that she had gone to college, but she did not wish this fact of her life to be the haunting ghost of her days; and by the end of the winter she felt that she had pretty effectually laid it.
In June Mr. Porter began discussing summer plans with Evelyn. He eliminated himself from them; he could not get away, he said. But there was Grant to be considered. The boy was at school in New Hampshire, and Evelyn protested that it was not wise to subject him to the intense heat of a Clarkson summer. The first hot wave sent Porter to bed with a trifling illness, and his doctor took the opportunity to look him over and tell him that it was imperative for him to rest. Thompson came home from Arizona to spend the summer. He and Wheaton were certainly equal to the care of thebank, so they urged upon Porter, and he finally yielded. Evelyn found a hotel on the Massachusetts North Shore which sounded well in the circulars, and her father agreed to it. When they reached Orchard Lane he liked it better than he had expected; the hotel was one of those vast caravansaries where all sorts and conditions assemble; and he was reassured by the click of the telegraph instrument and the presence of the long distance telephone booth in the office. He was a cockney of the rankest kind and it dulled the edge of his isolation to know that he was not entirely cut off from the world. Every night he sat down with cipher telegrams, and constructed from Thompson's statistics the day's business in the bank. He received daily from New York the closing quotations on the shares he was interested in, and as he walked the long hotel verandas he effected a transmigration of spirit which put him back in his swivel chair in the Clarkson National.
Evelyn made him drive with her and Grant, and dragged him to the golf course, where she was the star player, and where Grant was learning the game.
A college friend of Evelyn's, in one of the near-by cottages, asked her neighbors to call on the Porters. The fact that the cottagers thus set the mark of their approval upon the Westerners, gave them distinction at the hotel. Several men of Porter's age took him to their quieter porches and found him interesting; they liked his stories, though they hardly excused his ignorance of whist; in their hearts they accused him of poker, of which he was guiltless. Incidentally they got a good deal of information from him touching their Western interests; it was worth while to know a manthat received the crop news ahead of the newspapers. He liked the praise of Evelyn which was constantly reaching him; she was the prettiest girl in the place; her golf was certainly better than any other girl's. When she won a cup in the tournament he waited anxiously to see what the Boston papers said about it, and he surreptitiously mailed the cuttings home to the ClarksonGazette.
In August Warry Raridan appeared suddenly and threw himself into the gaieties of the place for a fortnight. Mr. Porter asked him to sit at their table and marveled at the way Evelyn snubbed him, even to the extent of running away for three days with some friends who had a yacht and who carried her to Newport for a dance. During her absence Warry made all the other girls about the place happy; they were sure that "that Miss Porter" was treating him shabbily and their hearts went out to him. Warry sulked when Evelyn returned and they had an interview between dances at a Saturday night hop.
He sought again for recognition as a lover; she had not praised the efforts he had been making to win her approval by diligence at his office; he took care to call her attention to his changed habits.
"But, Evelyn, I am doing differently. I know that I wasted myself for years so that I'm a kind of joke and everybody laughs about me. But I want to know—I want to feel that I'm doing it for you! Don't you know how that would help me and steady me? Won't you let it be for you?" He came close to her and stood with his arms folded, but she drew away from him with a despairing gesture.
"Oh, Warry," she cried, wearily, "you poor, foolish boy! Don't you know that you must do all things for yourself?"
"Yes," he returned eagerly. "I know that; I understand perfectly; but if you'd only let me feel that you wanted it—"
"I want you to succeed, but you will never do it for any one, if you don't do it for yourself."
He went home by an early train next morning to receive Saxton's consolation and to turn again to his law books. Margrave, on behalf of the Transcontinental, had offered to compromise the case of the poor widow whose clothes lines had been interfered with; but Raridan rejected this tender. He needed something on which to vent his bad spirits, and he gave his thought to devising means of transferring the widow's cause to the federal court. The removal of causes from state to federal courts was, Warry frequently said, one of the best things he did.
Porter's vacation was not altogether wasted. As he lounged about and philosophized to the Bostonians on Western business conditions, his restless mind took hold of a new project. It was suggested to him by the inquiries of a Boston banker, who owned a considerable amount of Clarkson Traction bonds and stock which he was anxious to sell. Porter gave a discouraging account of the company, whose history he knew thoroughly. The Traction Company had been organized in the boom days and its stock had been inflated in keeping with the prevailing spirit of the time. It was first equipped with the cable system in deference to the Clarkson hills, but later the company made the introduction of the trolley an excuse for a reorganization of its finances with an even more generous inflation. The panic then descended and wrought a diminution of revenue; the company was unable to make the repairs which constantly became necessary, and the local management fell into the hands of a series of corrupt directorates.
There had been much litigation, and some of the Eastern bondholders had threatened a receivership; but the local stockholders made plausible excuses for thedefault of interest when approached amicably, and when menaced grew insolent and promised trouble if an attempt were made to deprive them of power. A secretary and a treasurer under one administration had connived to appropriate a large share of the daily cash receipts, and before they left the office they destroyed or concealed the books and records of the company. The effect of this was to create a mystery as to the distribution of the bonds and the stock. When Porter came home from his summer vacation, the newspapers were demanding that steps be taken to declare the Traction franchise forfeit. But the franchise had been renewed lately and had twenty years to run. This extension had been procured by the element in control, and the foreign bondholders, biding their time, were glad to avail themselves of the political skill of the local officers.
Porter had been casually asked by his Boston friend whether there was any local market for the stock or bonds; and he had answered that there was not; that the holders of shares in Clarkson kept what they had because they could no longer sell to one another and that they were only waiting for the larger outside bondholders and shareholders to assert themselves. Porter had ridden down to Boston with his brother banker and when they parted it was with an understanding that the Bostonian was to collect for Porter the Clarkson Traction securities that were held by New England banks, a considerable amount, as Porter knew; and he went home with a well-formed plan of buying the control of the company. Times were improving and he had faith in Clarkson's future; he did not believe in it so noisily as Timothy Margrave did; but he knew theresources of the tributary country, and he had, what all successful business men must have, an alert imagination.
It was not necessary for Porter to disclose the fact of his purchases to the officers of the Traction Company, whom he knew to be corrupt and vicious; the transfer of ownership on the company's books made no difference, as the original stock books had been destroyed,—a fact which had become public property through a legal effort to levy on the holdings of a shareholder in the interest of a creditor. Moreover, if he could help it, Porter never told any one about anything he did. He even had several dummies in whose names he frequently held securities and real estate. One of these was Peckham, a clerk in the office of Fenton, Porter's lawyer.
Wheaton had not long been an officer of the bank before he began to be aware that there was considerable mystery about Porter's outside transactions. Porter occasionally perused with much interest several small memorandum books which he kept carefully locked in his desk. The president often wrote letters with his own hand and copied them himself after bank hours, in a private letter-book. Wheaton was naturally curious as to what these outside interests might be. It had piqued him to find that while he was cashier of the bank he was not consulted in its larger transactions; and that of Porter's personal affairs he knew nothing.
One afternoon shortly after Porter's return from the East, Wheaton, who was waiting for some letters to sign, picked up a bundle of checks from the desk of one of the individual bookkeepers. They were Porter's personalchecks which had that day been paid and were now being charged to his private account. Wheaton turned them over mechanically; it was not very long since he had been an individual bookkeeper himself; he had entered innumerable checks bearing Porter's name without giving them a thought. As the slips of paper passed through his fingers, he accounted for them in one way or another and put them back on the desk, face down, as a man always does who has been trained as a bank clerk. The last of them he held and studied. It was a check made payable to Peckham, Fenton's clerk. The amount was $9,999.00,—too large to be accounted for as a payment for services; for Peckham was an elderly failure at the law who ran errands to the courts for Fenton and sometimes took charge of small collection matters for the bank. Wheaton paid the attorney fees for the bank; this check had nothing to do with the bank, he was sure. The check, with its curious combination of figures, puzzled and fascinated him.
A few days later, in the course of business, he asked Porter what disposition he should make of an application for a loan from a country customer. Porter rang for the past correspondence with their client, and threw several letters to Wheaton for his information. Wheaton read them and called the stenographer to dictate the answer which Porter had indicated should be made. He held the client's last letter in his hand, and in concluding turned it over into the wire basket which stood on his desk. As it fell face downwards his eye caught some figures on the back, and he picked it up thinking that they might relate to the letter. Thememorandum was in Porter's large uneven hand and read:
The result of the multiplication was identical with the amount of Peckham's check. Again the figures held his attention. Local securities were quoted daily in the newspapers, and he examined the list for that day. There was no quotation of thirty-three on anything; the nearest approach was Clarkson Traction Company at thirty-five. The check which had interested him had been dated three days before, and he looked back to the quotation list for that date. Traction was given at thirty-three. Wheaton was pleased by the discovery; it was a fair assumption that Porter was buying shares of Clarkson Traction; he would hardly be buying foreign securities through Peckham. The stock had advanced two points since it had been purchased, and this, too, was interesting. Clearly, Porter knew what he was about,—he had a reputation for knowing; and if Clarkson Traction was a good thing for the president to pick up quietly, why was it not a good thing for the cashier? He waited a day; Traction went to thirty-six. Then he called after banking hours at the office of a real estate dealer who also dealt in local stocks and bonds on a small scale. He chose this man because he was not a customer of the bank, and had never had any transactions with the bank or with Porter, so far as Wheatonknew. His name was Burton, and he welcomed Wheaton cordially. He was alone in his office, and after an interchange of courtesies, Wheaton came directly to the point of his errand.
"Some friends of mine in the country own a small amount of Traction stock; they've written me to find out what its prospects are. Of course in the bank we know in a general way about it, but I suppose you handle such things and I want to get good advice for my friends."
"Well, the truth is," said Burton, flattered by this appeal, "the bottom was pretty well gone out of it, but it's sprucing up a little just now. If the charter's knocked out it is only worth so much a pound as old paper; but if the right people get hold of it the newspapers will let up, and there's a big thing in it. How much do your friends own?"
"I don't know exactly," said Wheaton, evenly; "I think not a great deal. Who are buying just now? I notice that it has been advancing for several days. Some one seems to be forcing up the price."
"Nobody in particular, that is, nobody that I know of. I asked Billy Barnes, the secretary, the other day what was going on. He must know who the certificates are made out to; but he winked and gave me the laugh. You know Barnes. He don't cough up very easy; and he looks wise when he doesn't know anything."
"No; Barnes has the reputation of being pretty close-mouthed," replied Wheaton.
"If your friends want to sell, bring in the shares and I'll see what I can do with them," said Burton. "The outsiders are sure to act soon. This spurt right nowmay have nothing back of it. The town's full of gossip about the company and it ought to send the price down. Your friend Porter's a smooth one. He was in once, a long time ago, but he knew when to get out all right." Wheaton laughed with Burton at this tribute to Porter's sagacity, but he laughed discreetly. He did not forget that he was a bank officer and dignity was an essential in the business, as he understood it.
Within a few days two more checks from Porter to Peckham passed through the usual channels of the bank. By the simple feat of dividing the amount of each check by the current quotation on Traction, Wheaton was able to follow Porter's purchases. The price had remained pretty steady. Then suddenly it fell to thirty. He wondered what was happening, but the newspapers, which were continuing their war on the company, readily attributed it to a lack of confidence in the franchise. Wheaton met the broker, apparently by chance, but really by intention, in the club one evening, and remarked casually:
"Traction seems to be off a little?"
"Yes; there's something going on there that I can't make out. I imagine that the fellows that were buying got tired of stimulating the market, and have thrown a few bunches back to keep the outsiders guessing."
"Right now might be a good time to get in," suggested Wheaton.
"I should call it a good buy myself. I guess that franchise is all right. Better pick up a little," he said, tentatively.
"To tell the truth," said Wheaton, choosing his words carefully, "those out of town people I spoke to you abouthave written me that they'd like a little more, if it can be got at the right figure. You might pick up a hundred shares for me at the current price, if you can."
"How do you want to hold it?"
"Have it made to me," he answered. He had debated whether he should do this, and he had been unable to devise any method of holding the stock without letting his own name appear. Porter would not know; Porter was concealing his own purchases. Wheaton could not see that it made any difference; he was surely entitled to invest his money as he liked, and he raised the sum necessary in this case by the sale of some railroad bonds which he had been holding, and on which he could realize at once by sending them to the bank's correspondent at Chicago. He might have sold them at home; Porter would probably have taken them off his hands; but the president knew that his capital was small, and might have asked how he intended to reinvest the proceeds.
"Of course this is all confidential," said Wheaton.
"Sure," said Burton.
"And when you get it, telephone me and I'll come up and settle," said Wheaton.
A few days later Burton sent for Wheaton to come to his office. One hundred shares had been secured from a ranchman. Wheaton carried the purchase money in currency to Burton's office; he was as shrewd as William Porter, and he did not care to have the clerks in the bank speculating about his checks.
He locked his certificate, when Burton got it for him, in his private box in the vault, and waited the rebound which he firmly expected in the price of the stock. Hissole idea was to make a profit by the purchase. He felt perfectly confident that Porter had bought Traction stock with a definite purpose; he still had no idea who were the principal holders of Traction stock or bonds, and he was afraid to make inquiry. A man who was as secretive as Porter probably had confidential sources of information, and it was not safe to tap Porter's wires. His conscience was easy as to the method by which he had gained his knowledge of Porter's purchases; he certainly meant no harm to Porter.
Timothy Margrave was, in common phrase, a good railroad man. He had advanced by slow degrees from the incumbency of those lowly manual offices called jobs, to the performance of those nobler functions known as positions. Margrave's elevation to the office of third vice-president and general manager was due to his Pull. This was originally political but later financial; and he now had both kinds of Pulls. There is no greater arrogance among us than that of our railway officials; they are greater tyrants than any that sit in public office. The General Something or Other is a despot, the records of whose life are written in tissue manifold; his ideals are established for him by those of his own order who have been raised to a higher power, which he himself aspires to reach in due season. Margrave had gone as high as he expected to go with the corporation whose destinies he had done so much to promote; all who were below him in the Transcontinental knew that he held their lives in his hands; all his subordinates, down to the boys who carried long manila envelopes marked R. R. B. to and from trains called him IT.
Margrave had resolved that the railroad was getting too much out of him and that he must do more topromote his own fortunes. The directors were good fellows, and they had certainly treated him well; but it seemed within the pale of legitimate enterprise for him to broaden his interests a trifle without in any wise diminishing his zeal for the Transcontinental. The street railway business was a good business, and Clarkson Traction appealed to Margrave, moreover, on its political side. If he reorganized the company and made himself its president he could greatly fortify and strengthen his Pull. Tim Margrave's Pull was already of consequence and it would be of great use in this new undertaking; moreover, it would naturally be augmented by his control of the little army of Traction employees. He proposed getting some of the Eastern stockholders of the Transcontinental to help him acquire Traction holdings sufficient to get control of the company; and, with Margrave, to decide was to act.
Almost any day, he was told, the Eastern bondholders might pounce down and put a receiver in charge of the company. Margrave did not understand receiverships according to High or Beach or any other legal authority; but according to Margrave they were an excuse for pillage, and it was a regret of his life that no fat receivership had ever fallen to his lot. But he was not going into Traction blindly. He wanted to know who else was interested, that he might avoid complications. William Porter was the only man in Clarkson who could swing Traction without assistance; he must not run afoul of Porter. Margrave was a master of the art of getting information, and he decided, on reflection, that the easiest way to get information about Porter was to coax it out of Wheaton.
He always called Wheaton "Jim," in remembrance of those early days of Wheaton's residence in Clarkson when Wheaton had worked in his office. He had watched Wheaton's rise with interest; he took to himself the credit of being his discoverer. When Wheaton called on his daughter he made no comment; he knew nothing to Wheaton's discredit, and he would no more have thought of criticizing Mabel than of ordering dynamite substituted for coal in the locomotives of his railroad. When he concluded that he needed Wheaton, he began playing for him, just as if the cashier had been a councilman or a member of the legislature or a large shipper or any other fair prey.
He had unconsciously made a good beginning by making Wheaton the King of the Carnival; he now resorted to that most insidious and economical form of bribery known as the annual pass.
One of these pretty bits of pasteboard was at once mailed to Wheaton by the Second Assistant General Something on Margrave's recommendation.
Wheaton accepted the pass as a tribute to his growing prominence in the town. He knew that Porter refused railroad passes on practical grounds, holding that such favors were extended in the hope of reciprocal compliments, and he believed that a banker was better off without them. Wheaton, whose vanity had been touched, could see no harm in them. He had little use for passes as he knew and cared little about traveling, but he had always envied men who carried their "annuals" in little brass-bound books made for the purpose. To be sure it was late in the year and passes were usually sent out in January, but this made the compliment seemmuch more direct; the Transcontinental had forgotten him, and had thought it well to rectify the error between seasons. He felt that he must not make too much of the railroad's courtesy; he did not know to which official in particular he was indebted, but he ran into Margrave one evening at the club and decided to thank him.
"How's traffic?" he asked, as Margrave made room for him on the settee where he sat reading the evening paper.
"Fair. Anything new?"
"No; it's the same routine with me pretty much all the time."
"I guess that's right. I shouldn't think there was much fun in banking. You got to keep the public too far away. I like to be up against people myself."
"Banking is hardly a sociable business," said Wheaton.
"No; a good banker's got to have cold feet, as the fellow said."
"But you railroad people are not considered so very warm," said Wheaton. "The fellows who want favors seem to think so. By the way, I'm much obliged to some one for an annual that turned up in my mail the other day. I don't know who sent it to me,—if it's you—"
"Um?" Margrave affected to have been wandering in his thoughts, but this was what he was waiting for. "Oh, I guess that was Wilson. I never fool with the pass business myself; I've got troubles of my own."
"I guess I'll not use it very often," said Wheaton, as if he owed an apology to the road for accepting it.
"Better come out with me in the car sometime andsee the road," Margrave suggested, throwing his newspaper on the table.
"I'd like that very much," said Wheaton.
"Where's Thompson now? Old man's pretty well done up, ain't he?"
"He went back to Arizona. He was here at work all summer. He's afraid of our winters."
"Well, that gives you your chance," said Margrave, affably. "There ain't any young man in town that's got a better chance than you have, Jim."
"I know that," said Wheaton, humbly.
"You don't go in much on the outside, do you? I suppose you don't have much time."
"No; I'm held down pretty close; and in a bank you can't go into everything."
"Well, there's nothing like keeping an eye out. Good things are not so terribly common these days." Margrave got up and walked the floor once or twice, apparently in a musing humor, but he really wished to look into the adjoining room to make sure they were alone.
"I believe," he said, with emphasis on the pronoun, "there's going to be a good thing for some one in Traction stock. Porter ought to let you in on that." Margrave didn't know that Porter was in, but he expected to find out.
"Mr. Porter has a way of keeping things to himself," said Wheaton, cautiously; yet he was flattered by Margrave's friendliness, and anxious to make a favorable impression. Vanity is not, as is usually assumed, a mere incident of character; it is a disease.
"I suppose," said Margrave, "that a man could buy a barrel of that stuff just now at a low figure."
Wheaton could not resist this opportunity.
"What I have, I got at thirty-one," he answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to have Traction stock. This was not a bank confidence; there was no reason why he should not talk of his own investments if he wished to do so.
Margrave had reseated himself, and lounged on the settee with a confidential air that he had found very effective in the committee rooms at the state capital when it was necessary to deal with a difficult legislator.
"I suppose Porter must have got in lower than that," he said, carelessly. "Billy usually gets in on the ground floor." He chuckled to himself in admiration of the banker's shrewdness. "But a fellow can do what he pleases when he's got money. Most of us see good things and can't go into the market after 'em."
"What's your guess as to the turn this Traction business will take?" asked Wheaton. He had not expected an opportunity to talk to any one of Margrave's standing on this subject, and he thought he would get some information while the opportunity offered.
"Don't ask me! If I knew I'd like to get into the game. But, look here"—he moved his fat body a little nearer to Wheaton—"the way to go into that thing is to go into it big! I've had my eye on it for a good while, but I ain't going to touch it unless I can swing it all. Now, you know Porter, and I know him, and you can bet your last dollar he'll never be able to handle it. He ain't built for it!" His voice sank to a whisper. "But if I decide to go in, I've got to get rid of Porter.Me and Porter can't travel in the same harness. You know that," he added, pleadingly, as if there were the bitterness of years of controversy in his relations with Porter.
Wheaton nodded sympathetically.
"Now, I don't know how much he's got"—this in an angry tone, as if Porter were guilty of some grave offense against him—"and he's so damned mysterious you can't tell what he's up to. You know how he is; you can't go to a fellow like that and do business with him, and he won't play anyhow, unless you play his way."
"Well, I don't know anything about his affairs, of course," said Wheaton, yet feeling that Margrave's confidences must be reciprocated. "Just between ourselves,"—he waited for Margrave to nod and grunt in his solemn way—"he did buy a little some time ago, but no great amount. It would take a good deal of money to control that company."
"You're dead right, it would; and Porter hasn't any business fooling with it. You've got to syndicate a thing like that. He's probably got a tip from some one of his Eastern friends as to what they're going to do, and he's buying in, when he can, to get next. But say, he hasn't any Traction bonds, has he?"
Wheaton had already said more than he had intended, and repented now that he had been drawn into this conversation; but Margrave was bending toward him with a great air of condescending intimacy. Porter had never been confidential with him; and it was really Margrave who had given him his start.
"I don't think so; at least I never knew of it." Hismind was on those checks to Peckham, which clearly represented purchases of stock. Of course, Porter might have bonds, too, but having gone thus far he did not like to admit to Margrave how little he really knew of Porter's doings. Margrave was puffing solemnly at his cigar, and changed the subject. When he rose to go and stood stamping down his trousers, which were forever climbing up his fat legs when he sat, Wheaton felt an impulse to correct any false impressions which he might have given Margrave; but he was afraid to try this. He would discredit himself with Margrave by doing so. He had not intended to leave so early, but he hated to let go of Margrave, and he followed him into the coat room.
"That's all between us—that little matter," said Margrave, as they were helped into their coats by the sleepy colored boy. Wheaton wanted to say this himself, but Margrave saved him the trouble.
"Certainly, Mr. Margrave."
Porter went into Fenton's private office and shut and locked the door after him. He always did this, and Fenton, who humored his best client's whims perforce, pushed back the law book which he was reading and straightened the pens on his blotter.
"I didn't expect you back so soon," he said. Porter looked tired and there were dark rings under his eyes.
"Short horse soon curried," he remarked, pulling a packet from his overcoat.
There was something boyish in Porter's mysterious methods, which always amused Fenton when they did not alarm and exasperate him.
Porter sat down at a long table and the lawyer drew up a chair opposite him.
"Which way have you been this time?"
"Down in the country," returned Porter, indefinitely.
Fenton laughed and watched his client pulling the rubber bands from his package.
"What have you there—oats or wheat?"
"What I have here," said Porter, straightening out the crisp papers he had taken from his bundle, "is a few shares of Clarkson Traction stock."
"Oh!" Fenton picked up a ruler and played with ituntil Porter had finished counting and smoothing the stock certificates.
"There you are," said the banker, passing the papers over to Fenton. "See if they're all right."
Fenton compared the names on the face of the certificates with the assignments on the back, while Porter watched him and played with a rubber band.
"The assignments are all straight," said Fenton, finally.
He sat waiting and his silence irritated Porter, who reached across and took up the certificates again.
"I want to talk to you a little about Traction."
"All right, sir," said Fenton, respectfully.
"I've gone in for that pretty deep this fall."
Fenton nodded gravely. He felt trouble in the air.
"I started in on this down East last summer. Those bonds all went East, but a lot of the stock was kicked around out here. If I get enough and reorganize the company I can handle the new securities down East all right. That's business. Now, I've been gathering in the stock around here on the quiet. Peckham's been buying some for me, and he's assigned it in blank. There's no use in getting new shares issued until we're ready to act, for Barnes and those fellows are not above doing something nasty if they think they're going to lose their jobs."
"The original stock issue was five thousand shares," said Fenton. "How much have you?"
"Well, sir," said Porter, "I've got about half and I'm looking for a few shares more right now."
Fenton picked up his ruler again and beat hisknuckles with it. Porter had expected Fenton to lecture him sharply, but the lawyer was ominously quiet.
"I'm free to confess," said Fenton, "that I'm sorry you've gone into this. This isn't the kind of thing that you're in the habit of going into. I am not much taken with the idea of mixing up in a corporation that has as disreputable a record as the Traction Company. It's been mismanaged and robbed until there's not much left for an honest man to take hold of; they issue no statements; no one of any responsibility has been connected with it for a long time. The outside stockholders are scattered all over the country, and most of them have quit trying to enforce their rights, if they may be said to have any rights. You remember that the last time they went into court they were knocked out and I'm free to say that I don't want to have to go into any litigation against the company."
"Yes, but the franchise is all straight, ain't it?"
"Probably it is all right," admitted the lawyer reluctantly, "but that isn't the whole story by any manner of means. If it's known that you're picking up the stock, every fellow that has any will soak you good and hard before he parts with it. Now, there are the bondholders—"
"Well, what can the bondholders do?" demanded Porter.
"Oh, get a receiver and have a lot of fun. You may expect that at any time, too. Those Eastern fellows are slow sometimes, but they generally know what they're about."
"Yes, but if they weren't Eastern fellows—"
"Oh, a bondholder's rights are as good one place asanother. Those suits are usually brought in the name of the trustee in their behalf."
"Now, do you know what I'm going to do?" demanded Porter, settling back in his chair and placing his feet on Fenton's table. "I'm going to turn up at the next annual meeting and clean this thing out. You don't think it's any good; I've got faith in the company and in the town; I believe it's going to be a good thing. This little gang here that's been running it has got to go. I've dug up some stock here that everybody thought was lost. At the last meeting only eight hundred out of five thousand shares were voted."
Fenton frowned and continued to punish himself with the ruler.
"You beat me! You haven't the slightest idea who the other shareholders are; the company is thoroughly rotten in all its past history, and here you go plunging into it up to your eyes. And they say you're the most conservative banker on the river."
"I guess you don't have to get me out of many scrapes," said Porter, doggedly.
"When's the annual meeting?" asked Fenton, suddenly.
"It's day after to-morrow—a close call, but I'll make it all right."
Fenton threw down his ruler impatiently.
"Mr. Porter, I want you to remember that I haven't given you any advice at all in this matter. It's an extra hazardous thing that you're doing. Now, I don't know anything definitely about it, but—I've got the impression that Margrave's paralleling your lines in this business." Porter brought his feet down with a crash.
"Where'd you get that?"
"It's this way," said Fenton, in his quietest tones. "A Baltimore lawyer that I know wrote me a letter,—I just got it this morning,—asking me about Margrave's responsibility. It seems that my friend has a client who owns some of these shares. A good deal of that stock went to Baltimore and Philadelphia, you may remember. I assume that Margrave is after it."
"Wire your friend right away not to sell,—" shouted Porter, pounding the table with his fist.
"I did that this morning, and here's his answer. I got it just before you came in. Margrave evidently got anxious and wired them to send certificates with draft through the Drovers' National. They're probably on the way now." He passed the telegram across to Porter, who put on his glasses and read it.
"Now," continued Fenton, "I don't know just what this means, but it looks to me as if Margrave was hot on the track of the trolley company himself; and Tim Margrave isn't a particularly pleasant fellow to go into business with, is he?"
"But the bondholders would still have their chance, wouldn't they, even if he got a majority of the stock?"
"Well, you haven't any bonds, have you? First thing I know you'll be telling me that you've got a few barrels of them," he added, jokingly. He could not help laughing at Porter.
Porter took the cigar from his mouth, looked carefully at the lighted end of it, and said with a casual air, as if he had a particularly decisive and conclusive statement to make and wished to avail himself of its dramatic possibilities:
"My dear boy, I've got every blamed bond!"
Fenton sat gazing at him in stupefied wonder.
"Would you mind saying that again?" he said, after a full minute of silent amazement in which he sat staring at his client, who was blowing rings of smoke with great equanimity.
"I've got all the bonds, was what I said."
The lawyer walked around the table and put his hand on Porter's shoulder. He was trying to keep from laughing, like a parent who is about to rebuke a child and yet laughs at the cause of its offense. Porter evidently thought that he had done an extremely bright thing.
"As I understand you, you have bought all of the bonds and half of the stock."
"About half. I'm a little—just a little—short."
"Will you kindly tell me what you wanted with the stock if you had the bonds?"
"Well, I figured it this way, that the franchise was worth the price I had to pay for the whole thing, and if I had the stock control I'd save the fuss of foreclosing. You lawyers always make a lot of rumpus about those things, and a receivership would prejudice the Eastern market when I come to reorganize and sell out."
Fenton lay back in his chair and laughed, while Porter looked at him a little defiantly, with his hat tipped over his eyes and a cigar sticking in his mouth at an impertinent angle.
"You'd better finish your job and make sure of your majority," said Fenton. His rage was rising now and he did not urge Porter to remain when the banker got up to go. He was not at all anxious to defend afranchise which the local courts, always sensitive to public sentiment, might set aside.
"I'll see you in the morning first thing," said Porter at the door, which Fenton opened for him. "I want you to go to the meeting with me and we'll need a day to get ready."
The lawyer watched his client walk toward the elevator. It occurred to him that Porter's step was losing its elasticity. While the banker waited for the elevator car he leaned wearily against the wire screen of the shaft.
Fenton swore quietly to himself for a few minutes and then sat down with a copy of the charter of the Clarkson Traction Company before him, and spent the remainder of the day studying it. He had troubled much over Porter's secretive ways, and had labored to shatter the dangerous conceit which had gradually grown up in his client. Porter had, in fact, a contempt for lawyers, though he leaned on Fenton more than he would admit. Fenton, on the other hand, was constantly fearful lest his client should undo himself by his secretive methods. He had difficulty in getting all the facts out of him even when they were imperatively required. Once in the trial of a case for Porter, the opposing counsel made a statement which Fenton rose in full confidence to refute. His antagonist reaffirmed it, and Fenton, not doubting that he understood Porter's position thoroughly, appealed to him to deny the charge, fully expecting to score an effective point before the court. To his consternation, Porter coolly admitted the truth of the imputation. But even this incident and Fenton's importunity in every matter that arosethereafter did not cure Porter of his weakness. He was a difficult client, who was, as Fenton often said to himself, a good deal harder to manage in a lawsuit than the trial judge or opposing counsel.
The next morning Fenton was at his office early and sent his boy at once to ask Mr. Porter to come up. The boy reported that Mr. Porter had not been at the bank. Fenton went down himself at ten o'clock and found the president's desk closed.
"Where's the boss?" he demanded.
"Won't be down this morning," said Wheaton. "Miss Porter telephoned that he wasn't feeling well, but he expected to be down after luncheon."
Porter had wakened that morning with a pain-racked body and the hot taste of fever in his mouth. He dressed and went downstairs to breakfast, but left the table and returned to his room to lie down.
"I'll be all right in an hour or so; I guess I've taken cold," he said to Evelyn. At the end of an hour he was shaking with a chill.
Evelyn left him alone to telephone for the doctor and in her absence he tried to rise and fainted. He was still lying on the floor when she returned. When the doctor came he found the household in a panic, and almost before Porter realized it, he was hazily watching the white cap of the trained nurse whom the doctor ordered with his medicines.
"Your father has a fever of some sort," he said to Evelyn. "It may be only a severe attack of malaria; but it's probably typhoid. In any event, there's nothing to be alarmed about. Mr. Porter has one of the old-fashioned constitutions," he added, reassuringly, "and there's nothing to fear for him."
Porter protested all the morning that he would go to his office after luncheon, but the temperature line on the nurse's chart climbed steadily upward. He resented the tyranny of the nurse, who moved about the room with anair of having been there always, and he was impatient under the efforts of Evelyn to soothe him. The doctor came again at noon. He was of Porter's age and an old friend; he dealt frankly with his patient now. Evelyn stood by and listened, adding her own words of pleading and cheer; and while the doctor gave instructions to the nurse outside, he relaxed, and let her smooth his pillow and bathe his hot brow.
"This may be my turn—" he began.
"Not by any manner of means, father," she broke in with a lightness she did not feel. It moved her greatly to see his weakness.
"It's an unfortunate time," he said, "and there's something you must do for me. I've got to see Wheaton or Fenton. It's very important."
"But you mustn't, father; business can wait until you're well again. It will be only a few days—"
"You mustn't question what I ask," he went on very steadily. "It's of great importance," and she knew that he meant it.
"Can't I see them for you?" she asked. He turned his slight lean body under the covers, and shook his head helplessly on his pillow.
"You see you can't talk, father," she said very gently. "Is there anything I can say to them for you?"
"Yes," he said weakly, "I want you to give the key to one of my boxes to Wheaton. Tell him to take out a package—marked Traction—and give it to Fenton."
Evelyn brought his key ring and he pointed out the key and watched her slip it from the ring.
"I'll send for Mr. Wheaton at once," she said. "Don't worry any more about it, father."
"Evelyn!" She had started for the door, but now hurried back to him.
"Don't tell him anything over the telephone; just ask him to come up." She went out at once that he might be assured, and he turned wearily on his pillow and slept.
Porter's illness was proclaimed in the first editions of the afternoon papers, which Wheaton saw at his desk. News gains force by publication, and when he read the printed statement that the president of the Clarkson National Bank was confined to his house by illness, he felt that Porter must really be very sick; and he naturally turned the fact over in his mind to see how this might affect him. The directors came in and sat about in the directors' room with their hats on, and Wingate, the starch manufacturer, who had seen Porter's doctor, pronounced the president a very sick man and suggested that Thompson, the invalid vice-president, ought to be notified. The others acquiesced, and they prepared a telegram to Thompson at Phoenix, suggesting his immediate return, if possible.
Wheaton sat with them and listened respectfully. When he was first appointed to his position, he had waited with a kind of awe for the pronouncements of the directors; but he had acquired a low opinion of them. He certainly knew more about the affairs of the bank than any of them except Porter and he knew more than Porter of the details. During this informal conference of the directors, Wheaton was called to the telephone, and was cheered by the sound of Evelyn's voice. She asked him to come up as soon as convenient; she wished to give him a message from her father, who wasvery comfortable, she said. After dinner would do; she knew that he must be very busy. He expressed his sympathy formally, and went back to the directors with a kindlier feeling toward the world. There was a consolation for him in the knowledge that Miss Porter must summon him to her in this way; her father's illness made another tie between them.
Wingate and the others came out of the directors' room as he put down the telephone receiver, and they stood talking at his desk. He found a secret pleasure in being able to answer at once the questions which Wingate put to him, as to how the discounts were running, and what they were carrying of county money, and how much government money they had on hand. Wingate knew no more of banking than he knew of Egyptian hieroglyphics; but he thought he did, because he had read the national banking act through and had once met the comptroller of the currency at dinner. The other directors listened to Wheaton's answers with admiration. When they got outside Wingate remarked, as they stood at the front door before dispersing:
"I wish to thunder I could ask Jim Wheaton something just once that he didn't know. That fellow knows every balance in the bank, and the date of the maturity of every loan. He's almost too good to be true."
They laughed.
"I guess Jim's all right," said the wholesale dry goods merchant, who was a good deal impressed with the fact of his directorship.
"Sure," said Wingate. "But you can bet Thompson's lungs will get a lot better when he gets our telegram." They had no great belief in Thompson's invalidism. Itis one of the drolleries of our American life that men, particularly in Western cities, never dare to be ill; it is much nobler and far more convenient to die than to be sick.
Fenton spent the afternoon in court. He intended to call at the Porters' on his way home, and stopped at the bank before going to his office, thinking that the banker might be there; but the president's desk was closed.
"How sick is Mr. Porter?" he asked Wheaton.
"He's pretty sick," said Wheaton. "It's typhoid fever."
Fenton whistled.
"That's what the doctor calls it. I spoke to Miss Porter over the telephone a few minutes ago, and she did not seem to be alarmed about her father. He's very strong, you know."
But Fenton was not listening. "See here, Wheaton," he said suddenly, "do you know anything about Porter's private affairs?"
"Not very much," said Wheaton guardedly.
"I guess you don't and I guess nobody does, worse luck! You know how morbidly secretive he is, and how he shies off from publicity,—I suppose you do," he went on a little grimly. He did not like Wheaton particularly. "Well, he has some Traction stock,—the annual meeting is held to-morrow and he's got to be represented."
"He never told me of it," said Wheaton, truthfully.
"His shares are probably in his inside pocket, or hid under the bed at home; but we've got to get them if he has any, and get them quick. If he has his wits he'llprobably try and send word to me. I suppose I couldn't see him if I went up."
"Miss Porter telephoned me to come,—on some business matter, she said, and no doubt that's what it is."
"Then I won't go just now, but I'll see you here as soon as you get down town. I'll be at my office right after dinner." He paused, deliberating. Fenton was a careful man, who rose to emergencies.
"I'll come directly back here," said Wheaton. "No doubt the papers you want are in one of Mr. Porter's private boxes."
"Can you get into it to-night?"
"Yes; it's in the vault where we keep the account books, and there's no time lock."
Margrave hung up the receiver of his desk telephone with a slam, and rang a bell for the office boy.
"Call the Clarkson National, and tell Mr. Wheaton to come over,—right away."
It was late in the afternoon. Wheaton had been unusually busy with routine work and the directors had taken an hour of his time. He had turned away from Fenton to answer Margrave's message, and went toward the Transcontinental office with a feeling of foreboding. He remembered the place very well; it had hardly changed since the days of his own brief service there. As he crossed the threshold of the private office, the sight of Margrave's fat bulk squeezed into a chair that was too small for him, impressed him unpleasantly; he had come with mixed feelings, not knowing whether his friendly relations with the railroader were to be further emphasized, or whether Margrave was about to make some demand of him. His doubts were quickly dispelled by Margrave, who turned around fiercely as the door closed.
"Sit down, Wheaton," he said, indicating a chair by his desk. His face was very red and his stubby mustache seemed stiffer and more wire-like than ever. He wasbreathing in the difficult choked manner of fat men in their rage.
"Now, I want you to tell me something; I want you to answer up fair and square. I've got to come right down to brass tacks with you and I want you to tell me the God's truth. How much Traction has Billy Porter got?"
Wheaton grew white, and the lids closed over his eyes sleepily.
"Come out with it," puffed Margrave. "If you've been making a fool of me I want to know it."
"I don't know what right you've got to ask me such a question," Wheaton answered coldly.
"No right,—no right!" Margrave panted. "You damned miserable fool, what do you know or mean by right or wrong either? I can take my medicine as well as the next man, but when a friend does me up, then I throw up my hands. Why did you tell me you knew what Porter was doing, and lead me to think—"
"Mr. Margrave," said Wheaton, "I didn't come here to be abused by you. If I've done you any injury, I'm not aware of it."
"I guess that's right," said Margrave ironically. "What I want to know is what you let me think Porter wasn't taking hold of Traction for? You knew I was going into it. I told you that with the fool idea that you were a friend of mine. You told me the old man had stopped buying—"
"And when I did I betrayed a confidence," said Wheaton, virtuously. "I had no business telling you anything of the kind."
"When you told me that," Margrave went on in bitterderision, shaking his finger in Wheaton's face,—"when you told me that you told me a damned lie, that's what you did, Jim Wheaton."
"You can't talk to me that way," said Wheaton, sitting up in his chair resentfully. "When I told you that, I believed it," and he added, with a second's hesitation, "I still believe it."
"Don't lie any more to me about it. I can take my medicine as well as the next man, but—" swaying his big head back and forth on his fat shoulders,—"when a man plays a dirty trick on Tim Margrave, I want him to know when Margrave finds it out. I never thought it of you, Jim. I've always treated you as white as I knew how; I've been glad to see you in my house,—"
"I don't know what you're driving at, but I want you to stop abusing me," said Wheaton, with more vigor of tone than he had yet manifested. "I never said a word to you about Mr. Porter in connection with Traction that I didn't think true. The only mistake I made was in saying anything to you at all; but I thought you were a friend of mine. If anybody's been deceived, I'm the one."
Margrave watched him contemptuously.
"Let me ask you something, Jim," he said, dropping his blustering tone. "Haven't you known all these weeks when I've been seeing you every few days at the club, and at my own house several times,"—he dwelt on the second clause as if the breach of hospitality on Wheaton's part had been the grievous offense,—"haven't you known that the old man was chasing over the country in his carpet slippers buying all that stock he could lay his hands on?"
"On my sacred honor, I have not. When we talked of it I knew he had been buying some, but I thought he'd stopped, as I let you understand. I'm sorry if you were misled by anything I said."
"Well, that's all over now," said Margrave, in a conciliatory tone. "I'm in the devil's own hole, Jim. I've been relying on your information; in fact, I've had it in mind to make you treasurer of the company when we get reorganized. That ought to show you what a lot of confidence I've been putting in you all this time that you've been watching me run into the soup clear up to my chin."
"I'm honestly sorry,"—began Wheaton. "I had no idea you were depending on me. You ought to have known that I couldn't betray Mr. Porter."
"You ought to be sorry," said Margrave dolefully. "But, look here, Jim, I don't believe you're going to do me up on this."
"I'm not going to do anybody up; but I don't see what I can do to help you."
"Well, I do. You gave me to understand that you were buying this stuff yourself. You still got what you had?"
Margrave knew from the secretary of the company that Wheaton owned one hundred shares. He thrust his hands into his pockets and looked at Wheaton appealingly.
"Yes," Wheaton answered reluctantly. He knew now why he had been summoned.
"Now, how many shares have you, Jim?" with increasing amiability of tone and manner.
"Just what I bought in the beginning; one hundred shares."
Margrave took a pad from his desk and added one hundred to a short column of figures. He made the footing and regarded the total with careless interest before looking up.
"How much do you want for that, Jim?"
"To tell the truth, Mr. Margrave, I don't know that I want to sell it."
"Now, Jim, you ain't going to hold me up on this? You've got me into a pretty mess, and I hope you're not going to keep on pushing me in."
Wheaton crossed and recrossed his legs. There was Porter and there was Margrave. To whom did he owe allegiance? He resented the way in which Margrave had taken him to task; he could not see that he had been culpable, unless as against Porter. Yet Porter had told him nothing; if Porter had treated him with a little more frankness, he certainly would never have mentioned Traction to Margrave.
"What I have wouldn't do you any good," he said finally.
"But it might do me some harm! Now, you don't want these shares, Jim. You're entitled to a profit, and I'll pay you a fair price."
"I can't do anything to hurt Mr. Porter," said Wheaton. He remembered just how the drawing-room at the Porters' looked, and the kindness and frankness of Evelyn Porter's eyes.
"Yes, but you've got a duty to me," he stormed, getting red in the face again. "You can bet your life that if it hadn't been for you, I'd never have beenin this pickle. Come along now, Jim, I've got a lot of our railroad people to go in on this. They depend absolutely on my judgment. I'm a ruined man if I fail to show up at the meeting to-morrow with a majority of these shares. It won't make any difference to Billy Porter whether he wins out or not. He's got plenty of irons in the fire. I don't know as a matter of fact that I need these shares; but I want to be on the safe side. Does Porter know what you've got?"
Wheaton shook his head.
"Then what's the harm in selling them where you've got a chance, even if you wasn't under any obligations to me? If you didn't know until I told you that the old man was still on the hunt for this stuff, I don't see that you're bound to wait for him to come around and ask you to sell to him. How much shall I make it for?" He opened a drawer and pulled out his check-book.
"They tell me Porter's pretty sick," Margrave continued, running the stubs of the check-book through his thick thumb and forefinger. "Billy isn't as young as he used to be. Very likely he'll never know you had any Traction stock," he added significantly. "How much shall I make it for, Jim?"
Wheaton walked over to the window and looked down into the street, while Margrave watched him with pen in hand.
"How much shall I make it for?" he asked more sharply.
"You can't make it for anything, Mr. Margrave, and I want to say that I'm very much disappointed in the way you've tried to get it from me."
Margrave swung around on him with an oath. But Wheaton went on, speaking carefully.
"I can't imagine that the few shares of stock I hold can be of real importance in deciding the control of this company. I don't say I won't give you these shares, but I can't do it now."
Margrave's face grew red and purple as Wheaton walked toward the door.
"Maybe you think you can wring more out of Porter than you can out of me. But, by God, I'll take this out of you and out of him, too, if I go broke doing it."