After a time Carroll descended the stairs, chuckling. “Jack,” she called into the sitting-room, “come out on the porch. What do you suppose the young man did to-night?”
“Give it up,” replied Orde promptly. “No good guessing when it's a question of that youngster's performances. What was it?”
“He said his 'Now I lay me,' and asked blessings on you and me, and the grandpas and grandmas, and Auntie Kate, as usual. Then he stopped. 'What else?' I reminded him. 'And,' he finished with a rush, 'make-Bobby-a-good-boy-and-give-him-plenty-of-bread-'n-butter-'n apple-sauce!'”
They laughed delightedly over this, clinging together like two children. Then they stepped out on the little porch and looked into the fathomless night. The sky was full of stars, aloof and calm, but waiting breathless on the edge of action, attending the word of command or the celestial vision, or whatever it is for which stars seem to wait. Along the street the dense velvet shade of the maples threw the sidewalks into impenetrable blackness. Sounds carried clearly. From the Welton's, down the street, came the tinkle of a mandolin and an occasional low laugh from the group of young people that nightly frequented the front steps. Tree toads chirped in unison or fell abruptly silent as though by signal. All up and down the rows of houses whirred the low monotone of the lawn sprinklers, and the aroma of their wetness was borne cool and refreshing through the tepid air.
Orde and his wife sat together on the top step. He slipped his arm about her. They said nothing, but breathed deep of the quiet happiness that filled their lives.
The gate latch clicked and two shadowy figures defined themselves approaching up the concrete walk.
“Hullo!” called Orde cheerfully into the darkness.
“Hullo!” a man's voice instantly responded.
“Taylor and Clara,” said Orde to Carroll with satisfaction. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
The lawyer and his wife mounted the steps. He was a quick, energetic, spare man, with lean cheeks, a bristling, clipped moustache, and a slight stoop to his shoulders. She was small, piquant, almost child-like, with a dainty up-turned nose, a large and lustrous eye, a constant, bird-like animation of manner—the Folly of artists, the adorable, lovable, harmless Folly standing tiptoe on a complaisant world.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” repeated Orde, as the two approached.
Clara Taylor stopped short and considered him for a moment.
“Let us away,” she said seriously to Carroll. “My prophetic soul tells me they are going to talk business, and if any more business is talked in my presence, I shall EXPIRE!”
Both men laughed, but Orde explained apologetically:
“Well, you know, Mrs. Taylor, these are my especially busy days for the firm, and I have to work my private affairs in when I can.”
“I thought Frank was very solicitous about my getting out in the air,” cried Clara. “Come, Carroll, let's wander down the street and see Mina Heinzman.”
The two interlocked arms and sauntered along the walk. Both men lit cigars and sat on the top step of the porch.
“Look here, Taylor,” broke in Orde abruptly, “you told me the other day you had fifteen or twenty thousand you wanted to place somewhere.”
“Yes,” replied Taylor.
“Well, I believe I have just the proposition.”
“What is it?”
“California pine,” replied Orde.
“California pine?” repeated Taylor, after a slight pause. “Why California? That's a long way off. And there's no market, is there? Why way out there?”
“It's cheap,” replied Orde succinctly. “I don't say it will be good for immediate returns, nor even for returns in the near future, but in twenty or thirty years it ought to pay big on a small investment made now.”
Taylor shook his head doubtfully.
“I don't see how you figure it,” he objected. “We have more timber than we can use in the East. Why should we go several thousand miles west for the same thing?”
“When our timber gives out, then we'll HAVE to go west,” said Orde.
Taylor laughed.
“Laugh all you please,” rejoined Orde, “but I tell you Michigan and Wisconsin pine is doomed. Twenty or thirty years from now there won't be any white pine for sale.”
“Nonsense!” objected Taylor. “You're talking wild. We haven't even begun on the upper peninsula. After that there's Minnesota. And I haven't observed that we're quite out of timber on the river, or the Muskegon, or the Saginaw, or the Grand, or the Cheboygan—why, Great Scott! man, our children's children's children may be thinking of investing in California timber, but that's about soon enough.”
“All tight,” said Orde quietly. “Well, what do you think of Indiana as a good field for timber investment?”
“Indiana!” cried Taylor, amazed. “Why, there's no timber there; it's a prairie.”
“There used to be. And all the southern Michigan farm belt was timbered, and around here. We have our stumps to show for it, but there are no evidences at all farther south. You'd have hard work, for instance, to persuade a stranger that Van Buren County was once forest.”
“Was it?” asked Taylor doubtfully.
“It was. You take your map and see how much area has been cut already, and how much remains. That'll open your eyes. And remember all that has been done by crude methods for a relatively small demand. The demand increases as the country grows and methods improve. It would not surprise me if some day thirty or forty millions would constitute an average cut. [*] 'Michigan pine exhaustless!'—those fellows make me sick!”
* At the present day some firms cut as high as 150,000,000feet.
“Sounds a little more reasonable,” said Taylor slowly.
“It'll sound a lot more reasonable in five or ten years,” insisted Orde, “and then you'll see the big men rushing out into that Oregon and California country. But now a man can get practically the pick of the coast. There are only a few big concerns out there.”
“Why is it that no one—”
“Because,” Orde cut him short, “the big things are for the fellow who can see far enough ahead.”
“What kind of a proposition have you?” asked Taylor after a pause.
“I can get ten thousand acres at an average price of eight dollars an acre,” replied Orde.
“Acres? What does that mean in timber?”
“On this particular tract it means about four hundred million feet.”
“That's about twenty cents a thousand.”
Orde nodded.
“And of course you couldn't operate for a long time?”
“Not for twenty, maybe thirty, years,” replied Orde calmly.
“There's your interest on your money, and taxes, and the risk of fire and—”
“Of course, of course,” agreed Orde impatiently, “but you're getting your stumpage for twenty cents or a little more, and in thirty years it will be worth as high as a dollar and a half.” [*]
* At the present time (1908) sugar pine such as Ordedescribed would cost $3.50 to $4.
“What!” cried Taylor.
“That is my opinion,” said Orde.
Taylor relapsed into thought.
“Look here, Orde,” he broke out finally, “how old are you?”
“Thirty-eight. Why?”
“How much timber have you in Michigan?”
“About ten million that we've picked up on the river since the Daly purchase and three hundred million in the northern peninsula.”
“Which will take you twenty years to cut, and make you a million dollars or so?”
“Hope so.”
“Then why this investment thirty years ahead?”
“It's for Bobby,” explained Orde simply. “A man likes to have his son continue on in his business. I can't do it here, but there I can. It would take fifty years to cut that pine, and that will give Bobby a steady income and a steady business.”
“Bobby will be well enough off, anyway. He won't have to go into business.”
Orde's brow puckered.
“I know a man—Bobby is going to work. A man is not a success in life unless he does something, and Bobby is going to be a success. Why, Taylor,” he chuckled, “the little rascal fills the wood-box for a cent a time, and that's all the pocket-money he gets. He's saving now to buy a thousand-dollar boat. I've agreed to pool in half. At his present rate of income, I'm safe for about sixty years yet.”
“How soon are you going to close this deal?” asked Taylor, rising as he caught sight of two figures coming up the walk.
“I have an option until November 1,” replied Orde. “If you can't make it, I guess I can swing it myself. By the way, keep this dark.”
Taylor nodded, and the two turned to defend themselves as best they could against Clara's laughing attack.
Orde had said nothing to Newmark concerning this purposed new investment, nor did he intend doing so.
“It is for Bobby,” he told himself, “and I want Bobby, and no one else, to run it. Joe would want to take charge, naturally. Taylor won't. He knows nothing of the business.”
He walked downtown next morning busily formulating his scheme. At the office he found Newmark already seated at his desk, a pile of letters in front of him. Upon Orde's boisterous greeting his nerves crisped slightly, but of this there was no outward sign beyond a tightening of his hands on the letter he was reading. Behind his eye-glasses his blue, cynical eyes twinkled like frost crystals. As always, he was immaculately dressed in neat gray clothes, and carried in one corner of his mouth an unlighted cigar.
“Joe,” said Orde, spinning a chair to Newmark's roll-top desk and speaking in a low tone, “just how do we stand on that upper peninsula stumpage?”
“What do you mean? How much of it is there? You know that as well as I do—about three hundred million.”
“No; I mean financially.”
“We've made two payments of seventy-five thousand each, and have still two to make of the same amount.”
“What could we borrow on it?”
“We don't want to borrow anything on it,” returned Newmark in a flash.
“Perhaps not; but if we should?”
“We might raise fifty or seventy-five thousand, I suppose.”
“Joe,” said Orde, “I want to raise about seventy-five thousand dollars on my share in this concern, if it can be done.”
“What's up?” inquired Newmark keenly.
“It's a private matter.”
Newmark said nothing, but for some time thought busily, his light blue eyes narrowed to a slit.
“I'll have to figure on it a while,” said he at last, and turned back to his mail. All day he worked hard, with only a fifteen-minute intermission for a lunch which was brought up from the hotel below. At six o'clock he slammed shut the desk. He descended the stairs with Orde, from whom he parted at their foot, and walked precisely away, his tall, thin figure held rigid and slightly askew, his pale eyes slitted behind his eye-glasses, the unlighted cigar in one corner of his straight lips. To the occasional passerby he bowed coldly and with formality. At the corner below he bore to the left, and after a short walk entered the small one-story house set well back from the sidewalk among the clumps of oleanders. Here he turned into a study, quietly and richly furnished ten years in advance of the taste then prevalent in Monrovia, where he sank into a deep-cushioned chair and lit the much-chewed cigar. For some moments he lay back with his eyes shut. Then he opened them to look with approval on the dark walnut book-cases, the framed prints and etchings, the bronzed student's lamp on the square table desk, the rugs on the polished floor. He picked up a magazine, into which he dipped for ten minutes.
The door opened noiselessly behind him.
“Mr. Newmark, sir,” came a respectful voice, “it is just short of seven.”
“Very well,” replied Newmark, without looking around.
The man withdrew as softly as he had come. After a moment, Newmark replaced the magazine on the table, yawned, threw aside the cigar, of which he had smoked but an inch, and passed from his study into his bedroom across the hall. This contained an exquisite Colonial four-poster, with a lowboy and dresser to match, and was papered and carpeted in accordance with these, its chief ornaments. Newmark bathed in the adjoining bathroom, shaved carefully between the two wax lights which were his whim, and dressed in what were then known as “swallow-tail” clothes. Probably he was the only man in Monrovia at that moment so apparelled. Then calmly, and with all the deliberation of one under fire of a hundred eyes, he proceeded to the dining-room, where waited the man who had a short time before reminded him of the hour. He was a solemn, dignified man, whose like was not to be found elsewhere this side the city. He, too, wore the “swallow-tail,” but its buttons were of gilt.
Newmark seated himself in a leather-upholstered mahogany chair before a small, round, mahogany table. The room was illuminated only by four wax candles with red shades. They threw into relief the polish of mahogany, the glitter of glass, the shine of silver, but into darkness the detail of massive sideboard, dull panelling, and the two or three dark-toned sporting prints on the wall.
“You may serve dinner, Mallock,” said Newmark.
He ate deliberately and with enjoyment the meal, exquisitely prepared and exquisitely presented to him. With it he drank a single glass of Burgundy—a deed that would, in the eyes of Monrovia, have condemned him as certainly as driving a horse on Sunday or playing cards for a stake. Afterward he returned to the study, whither Mallock brought coffee. He lit another cigar, opened a drawer in his desk, extracted therefrom some bank-books and small personal account books. From these he figured all the evening. His cigar went out, but he did not notice that, and chewed away quite contentedly on the dead butt. When he had finished, his cold eye exhibited a gleam of satisfaction. He had resolved on a course of action. At ten o'clock he went to bed.
Next morning Mallock closed the door behind him promptly upon the stroke of eight. It was strange that not one living soul but Mallock had ever entered Newmark's abode. Curiosity had at first brought a few callers; but these were always met by the imperturbable servant with so plausible a reason for his master's absence that the visitors had departed without a suspicion that they had been deliberately excluded. And as Newmark made no friends and excited little interest, the attempts to cultivate him gradually ceased.
“Orde,” said Newmark, as the former entered the office, “I think I can arrange this matter.”
Orde drew up a chair.
“I talked last evening with a man from Detroit named Thayer, who thinks he may advance seventy-five thousand dollars on a mortgage on our northern peninsula stumpage. For that, of course, we will give the firm's note with interest at ten per cent. I will turn this over to you.”
“That's—” began Orde.
“Hold on,” interrupted Newmark. “As collateral security you will deposit for me your stock in the Boom Company, indorsed in blank. If you do not pay the full amount of the firm's note to Thayer, then the stock will be turned in to me.”
“I see,” said Orde.
“Now, don't misunderstand me,” said Newmark drily. “This is your own affair, and I do not urge it on you. If we raise as much as seventy-five thousand dollars on that upper peninsula stumpage, it will be all it can stand, for next year we must make a third payment on it. If you take that money, it is of course proper that you pay the interest on it.”
“Certainly,” said Orde.
“And if there's any possibility of the foreclosure of the mortgage, it is only right that you run all the risk of loss—not myself.”
“Certainly,” repeated Orde.
“From another point of view,” went on Newmark, “you are practically mortgaging your interest in the Boom Company for seventy-five thousand dollars. That would make, on the usual basis of a mortgage, your share worth above two hundred thousand—and four hundred thousand is a high valuation of our property.”
“That looks more than decent on your part,” said Orde.
“Of course, it's none of my business what you intend to do with this,” went on Newmark, “but unless you're SURE you can meet these notes, I should strongly advise against it.”
“The same remark applies to any mortgage,” rejoined Orde.
“Exactly.”
“For how long a time could I get this?” asked Orde at length.
“I couldn't promise it for longer than five years,” replied Newmark.
“That would make about fifteen thousand a year?”
“And interest.”
“Certainly—and interest. Well, I don't see why I can't carry that easily on our present showing and prospects.”
“If nothing untoward happens,” insisted Newmark determined to put forward all objections possible.
“It's not much risk,” said Orde hopefully. “There's nothing surer than lumber. We'll pay the notes easily enough as we cut, and the Boom Company's on velvet now. What do our earnings figure, anyway?”
“We're driving one hundred and fifty million at a profit of about sixty cents a thousand,” said Newmark.
“That's ninety thousand dollars—in five years, four hundred and fifty thousand,” said Orde, sucking his pencil.
“We ought to clean up five dollars a thousand on our mill.”
“That's about a hundred thousand on what we've got left.”
“And that little barge business nets us about twelve or fifteen thousand a year.”
“For the five years about sixty thousand more. Let's see—that's a total of say six hundred thousand dollars in five years.”
“We will have to take up in that time,” said Newmark, who seemed to have the statistics at his finger-tips, “the two payments on our timber, the note on the First National, the Commercial note, the remaining liabilities on the Boom Company—about three hundred thousand all told, counting the interest.”
Orde crumpled the paper and threw it into the waste basket.
“Correct,” said he. “Good enough. I ought to get along on a margin like that.”
He went over to his own desk, where he again set to figuring on his pad. The results he eyed a little doubtfully. Each year he must pay in interest the sum of seven thousand five hundred dollars. Each year he would have to count on a proportionate saving of fifteen thousand dollars toward payment of the notes. In addition, he must live.
“The Orde family is going to be mighty hard up,” said he, whistling humorously.
But Orde was by nature and training sanguine and fond of big risks.
“Never mind; it's for Bobby,” said he to himself. “And maybe the rate of interest will go down. And I'll be able to borrow on the California tract if anything does go wrong.”
He put on his hat, thrust a bundle of papers into his pocket, and stepped across the hall into Taylor's office.
The lawyer he found tipped back in his revolving chair, reading a printed brief.
“Frank,” began Orde immediately, “I came to see you about that California timber matter.”
Taylor laid down the brief and removed his eye-glasses, with which he began immediately to tap the fingers of his left hand.
“Sit down, Jack,” said he. “I'm glad you came in. I was going to try to see you some time to-day. I've been thinking the matter over very carefully since the other day, and I've come to the conclusion that it is too steep for me. I don't doubt the investment a bit, but the returns are too far off. Fifteen thousand means a lot more to me than it does to you, and I've got to think of the immediate future. I hope you weren't counting on me—”
“Oh, that's all right,” broke in Orde. “As I told you, I can swing the thing myself, and only mentioned it to you on the off chance you might want to invest. Now, what I want is this—” he proceeded to outline carefully the agreement between himself and Newmark while the lawyer took notes and occasionally interjected a question.
“All right,” said the latter, when the details had been mastered. “I'll draw the necessary notes and papers.”
“Now,” went on Orde, producing the bundle of papers from his pocket, “here's the abstract of title. I wish you'd look it over. It's a long one, but not complicated, as near as I can make out. Trace seems to have acquired this tract mostly from the original homesteaders and the like, who, of course, take title direct from the government. But naturally there are a heap of them, and I want you to look it over to be sure everything's shipshape.”
“All right,” agreed Taylor, reaching for the papers.
“One other thing,” concluded Orde, uncrossing his legs. “I want this investment to get no further than the office door. You see, this is for Bobby, and I've given a lot of thought to that sort of thing; and nothing spoils a man sooner than to imagine the thing's all cut and dried for him, and nothing keeps him going like the thought that he's got to rustle his own opportunities. You and I know that. Bobby's going to have the best education possible; he's going to learn to be a lumberman by practical experience, and that practical experience he'll get with other people. No working for his dad in Bobby's, I can tell you. When he gets through college, I'll get him a little job clerking with some good firm, and he'll have a chance to show what is in him and to learn the business from the ground up, the way a man ought to. Of course, I'll make arrangements that he has a real chance. Then, when he's worked into the harness a little, the old man will take him out and show him the fine big sugar pine and say to him, 'There, my boy, there's your opportunity, and you've earned it. How does ORDE AND SON sound to you?' What do you think of it, Frank?”
Taylor nodded several times.
“I believe you're on the right track, and I'll help you all I can,” said he briefly.
“So, of course, I want to keep the thing dead secret,” continued Orde. “You're the only man who knows anything about it. I'm not even going to buy directly under my own name. I'm going to incorporate myself,” he said, with a grin. “You know how those things will get out, and how they always get back to the wrong people.”
“Count on me,” Taylor assured him.
As Orde walked home that evening, after a hot day, his mind was full of speculation as to the immediate future. He had a local reputation for wealth, and no one knew better than himself how important it is for a man in debt to keep up appearances. Nevertheless, decided retrenchment would be necessary. After Bobby had gone to bed, he explained this to his wife.
“What's the matter?” she asked quickly. “Is the firm losing money?”
“No,” replied Orde, “it's a matter of reinvestment.” He hesitated. “It's a dead secret, which I don't want to get out, but I'm thinking of buying some western timber for Bobby when he grows up.”
Carroll laughed softly.
“You so relieve my mind,” she smiled at him. “I was afraid you'd decided on the street-car-driver idea. Why, sweetheart, you know perfectly well we could go back to the little house next the church and be as happy as larks.”
In the meantime Newmark had closed his desk, picked his hat from the nail, and marched precisely down the street to Heinzman's office. He found the little German in. Newmark demanded a private interview, and without preliminary plunged into the business that had brought him. He had long since taken Heinzman's measure, as, indeed, he had taken the measure of every other man with whom he did or was likely to do business.
“Heinzman,” said he abruptly, “my partner wants to raise seventy-five thousand dollars for his personal use. I have agreed to get him that money from the firm.”
Heinzman sat immovable, his round eyes blinking behind his big spectacles.
“Proceed,” said he shrewdly.
“As security in case he cannot pay the notes the firm will have to give, he has signed an agreement to turn over to me his undivided one-half interest in our enterprises.”
“Vell? You vant to borrow dot money of me?” asked Heinzman. “I could not raise it.”
“I know that perfectly well,” replied Newmark coolly. “You are going to have difficulty meeting your July notes, as it is.”
Heinzman hardly seemed to breathe, but a flicker of red blazed in his eye.
“Proceed,” he repeated non-committally, after a moment. “I intend,” went on Newmark, “to furnish this money myself. It must, however, seem to be loaned by another. I want you to lend this money on mortgage.”
“What for?” asked Heinzman.
“For a one tenth of Orde's share in case he does not meet those notes.”
“But he vill meet the notes,” objected Heinzman. “You are a prosperous concern. I know somethings of YOUR business, also.”
“He thinks he will,” rejoined Newmark grimly. “I will merely point out to you that his entire income is from the firm, and that from this income he must save twenty-odd thousand a year.
“If the firm has hard luck—” said Heinzman.
“Exactly,” finished Newmark.
“Vy you come to me?” demanded Heinzman at length.
“Well, I'm offering you a chance to get even with Orde. I don't imagine you love him?”
“Vat's de matter mit my gettin' efen with you, too?” cried Heinzman. “Ain't you beat me out at Lansing?”
Newmark smiled coldly under his clipped moustache.
“I'm offering you the chance of making anywhere from thirty to fifty thousand dollars.”
“Perhaps. And suppose this liddle scheme don't work out?”
“And,” pursued Newmark calmly, “I'll carry you over in your present obligations.” He suddenly hit the arm of his chair with his clenched fist. “Heinzman, if you don't make those July payments, what's to become of you? Where's your timber and your mills and your new house—and that pretty daughter of yours?”
Heinzman winced visibly.
“I vill get an extension of time,” said he feebly.
“Will you?” countered Newmark.
The two men looked each other in the eye for a moment.
“Vell, maybe,” laughed Heinzman uneasily. “It looks to me like a winner.”
“All right, then,” said Newmark briskly. “I'll make out a mortgage at ten per cent for you, and you'll lend the money on it. At the proper time, if things happen that way, you will foreclose. That's all you have to do with it. Then, when the timber land comes to you under the foreclose, you will reconvey an undivided nine-tenths' interest—for proper consideration, of course, and without recording the deed.”
Heinzman laughed with assumed lightness.
“Suppose I fool you,” said he. “I guess I joost keep it for mineself.”
Newmark looked at him coldly.
“I wouldn't,” he advised. “You may remember the member from Lapeer County in that charter fight? And the five hundred dollars for his vote? Try it on, and see how much evidence I can bring up. It's called bribery in this State, and means penitentiary usually.”
“You don't take a joke,” complained Heinzman.
Newmark arose.
“It's understood, then?” he asked.
“How so I know you play fair?” asked the German.
“You don't. It's a case where we have to depend more or less on each other. But I don't see what you stand to lose—and anyway you'll get carried over those July payments,” Newmark reminded him.
Heinzman was plainly uneasy and slightly afraid of these new waters in which he swam.
“If you reduce the firm's profits, he iss going to suspect,” he admonished.
“Who said anything about reducing the firm's profits?” said Newmark impatiently. “If it does work out that way, we'll win a big thing; if it does not, we'll lose nothing.”
He nodded to Heinzman and left the office. His demeanour was as dry and precise as ever. No expression illuminated his impassive countenance. If he felt the slightest uneasiness over having practically delivered his intentions to the keeping of another, he did not show it. For one thing, an accomplice was absolutely essential. And, too, he held the German by his strongest passions—his avarice, his dread of bankruptcy, his pride, and his fear of the penitentiary. As he entered the office of his own firm, his eye fell on Orde's bulky form seated at the desk. He paused involuntarily, and a slight shiver shook his frame from head to foot—the dainty, instinctive repulsion of a cat for a large robustious dog. Instantly controlling himself, he stepped forward.
“I've made the loan,” he announced.
Orde looked up with interest.
“The banks wouldn't touch northern peninsula,” said Newmark steadily, “so I had to go to private individuals.”
“So you said. Don't care who deals it out,” laughed Orde.
“Thayer backed out, so finally I got the whole amount from Heinzman,” Newmark announced.
“Didn't know the old Dutchman was that well off,” said Orde, after a slight pause.
“Can't tell about those secretive old fellows,” said Newmark.
Orde hesitated.
“I didn't know he was friendly enough to lend us money.”
“Business is business,” replied Newmark.
There exists the legend of an eastern despot who, wishing to rid himself of a courtier, armed the man and shut him in a dark room. The victim knew he was to fight something, but whence it was to come, when, or of what nature he was unable to guess. In the event, while groping tense for an enemy, he fell under the fatal fumes of noxious gases.
From the moment Orde completed the secret purchase of the California timber lands from Trace, he became an unwitting participant in one of the strangest duels known to business history. Newmark opposed to him all the subtleties, all the ruses and expedients to which his position lent itself. Orde, sublimely unconscious, deployed the magnificent resources of strength, energy, organisation, and combative spirit that animated his pioneer's soul. The occult manoeuverings of Newmark called out fresh exertions on the part of Orde.
Newmark worked under this disadvantage: he had carefully to avoid the slightest appearance of an attitude inimical to the firm's very best prosperity. A breath of suspicion would destroy his plans. If the smallest untoward incident should ever bring it clearly before Orde that Newmark might have an interest in reducing profits, he could not fail to tread out the logic of the latter's devious ways. For this reason Newmark could not as yet fight even in the twilight. He did not dare make bad sales, awkward transactions. In spite of his best efforts, he could not succeed, without the aid of chance, in striking a blow from which Orde could not recover. The profits of the first year were not quite up to the usual standard, but they sufficed. Newmark's finesse cut in two the firm's income of the second year. Orde roused himself. With his old-time energy of resource, he hurried the woods work until an especially big cut gave promise of recouping the losses of the year before. Newmark found himself struggling against a force greater than he had imagined it to be. Blinded and bound, it nevertheless made head against his policy. Newmark was forced to a temporary quiescence. He held himself watchful, intent, awaiting the opportunity which chance should bring.
Chance seemed by no means in haste. The end of the fourth year found Newmark puzzled. Orde had paid regularly the interest on his notes. How much he had been able to save toward the redemption of the notes themselves his partner was unable to decide. It depended entirely on how much the Ordes had disbursed in living expenses, whether or not Orde had any private debts, and whether or not he had private resources. In the meantime Newmark contented himself with tying up the firm's assets in such a manner as to render it impossible to raise money on its property when the time should come.
What Orde regarded as a series of petty annoyances had made the problem of paying for the California timber a matter of greater difficulty than he had supposed it would be. A pressure whose points of support he could not place was closing slowly on him. Against this pressure he exerted himself. It made him a trifle uneasy, but it did not worry him. The margin of safety was not as broad as he had reckoned, but it existed. And in any case, if worse came to worst, he could always mortgage the California timber for enough to make up the difference—and more. Against this expedient, however, he opposed a sentimental obstinacy. It was Bobby's, and he objected to encumbering it. In fact, Orde was capable of a prolonged and bitter struggle to avoid doing so. Nevertheless, it was there—an asset. A loan on its security would, with what he had set aside, more than pay the notes on the northern peninsula stumpage. Orde felt perfectly easy in his mind. He was in the position of many of our rich men's sons who, quite sincerely and earnestly, go penniless to the city to make their way. They live on their nine dollars a week, and go hungry when they lose their jobs. They stand on their own feet, and yet—in case of severe illness or actual starvation—the old man is there! It gives them a courage to be contented on nothing. So Orde would have gone to almost any lengths to keep free “Bobby's tract,” but it stood always between himself and disaster. And a loan on western timber could be paid off just as easily as a loan on eastern timber; when you came right down to that. Even could he have known his partner's intentions, they would, on this account, have caused him no uneasiness, however angry they would have made him, or however determined to break the partnership. Even though Newmark destroyed utterly the firm's profits for the remaining year and a half the notes had to run, he could not thereby ruin Orde's chances. A loan on the California timber would solve all problems now. In this reasoning Orde would have committed the mistake of all large and generous temperaments when called upon to measure natures more subtle than their own. He would have underestimated both Newmark's resources and his own grasp of situations. [*]
* The author has considered it useless to burden the courseof the narrative with a detailed account of Newmark'sfinancial manoeuvres. Realising, however, that a large classof his readers might be interested in the exact particulars,he herewith gives a sketch of the transactions.It will be remembered that at the time—1878—Orde firstcame in need of money for the purpose of buying theCalifornia timber, the firm, Newmark and Orde, owned in thenorthern peninsula 300,000,000 feet of pine. On this theyhad paid $150,000, and owed still a like amount. Theyborrowed $75,000 on it, giving a note secured by mortgagedue in 1883. Orde took this, giving in return his notesecured by the Boom Company's stock. In 1879 and 1880 theymade the two final payments on the timber; so that by thelatter date they owned the land free of encumbrance save forthe mortgage of $75,000. Since Newmark's plan had alwayscontemplated the eventual foreclosure of this mortgage, itnow became necessary further to encumber the property.Otherwise, since a property worth considerably above$300,000 carried only a $75,000 mortgage, it would bepossible, when the latter came due, to borrow a further sumon a second mortgage with which to meet the obligations ofthe first. Therefore Newmark, in 1881, approached Orde withthe request that the firm raise $70,000 by means of a secondmortgage on the timber. This $70,000 he proposed to borrowpersonally, giving his note due in 1885 and putting up thesame collateral as Orde had—that is to say, his stock inthe Boom Company. To this Orde could hardly in reason opposean objection, as it nearly duplicated his own transaction of1878. Newmark therefore, through Heinzman, lent this sum tohimself.It may now be permitted to forecast events in the line ofNewmark's reasoning.If his plans should work out, this is what would happen: in1883 the firm's note for $75,000 would come due. Orde wouldbe unable to pay it. Therefore at once his stock in the BoomCompany would become the property of Newmark and Orde.Newmark would profess himself unable to raise enough fromthe firm to pay the mortgage. The second mortgage from whichhe had drawn his personal loan would render it impossiblefor the firm to raise more money on the land. A foreclosurewould follow. Through Heinzman, Newmark would buy in. As hehad himself loaned the money to himself—again throughHeinzman—on the second mortgage, the latter would occasionhim no loss.The net results of the whole transaction would be: first,that Newmark would have acquired personally the 300,000,000feet of northern peninsula timber; and, second, that Orde'spersonal share in the stock company would flow be held inpartnership by the two. Thus, in order to gain so large astake, it would pay Newmark to suffer considerable lossjointly with Orde in the induced misfortunes of the firm.Incidentally it might be remarked that Newmark, of course,purposed paying his own note to the firm when it should falldue in 1885, thus saving for himself the Boom Company stockwhich he had put up as collateral.
Affairs stood thus in the autumn before the year the notes would come due. The weather had been beautiful. A perpetual summer seemed to have embalmed the world in its forgetfulness of times and seasons. Navigation remained open through October and into November. No severe storms had as yet swept the lakes. The barge and her two tows had made one more trip than had been thought possible. It had been the intention to lay them up for the winter, but the weather continued so mild that Orde suggested they be laden with a consignment for Jones and Mabley, of Chicago.
“Did intend to ship by rail,” said he. “They're all 'uppers,' so it would pay all right. But we can save all kinds of money by water, and they ought to skip over there in twelve to fifteen hours.”
Accordingly, the three vessels were laid alongside the wharves at the mill, and as fast as possible the selected lumber was passed into their holds. Orde departed for the woods to start the cutting as soon as the first belated snow should fall.
This condition seemed, however, to delay. During each night it grew cold. The leaves, after their blaze and riot of colour, turned crisp and crackly and brown. Some of the little, still puddles were filmed with what was almost, but not quite ice. A sheen of frost whitened the house roofs and silvered each separate blade of grass on the lawns. But by noon the sun, rising red in the veil of smoke that hung low in the snappy air, had mellowed the atmosphere until it lay on the cheek like a caress. No breath of wind stirred. Sounds came clearly from a distance. Long V-shaped flights of geese swept athwart the sky, very high up, but their honking came faintly to the ear. And yet, when the sun, swollen to the great dimensions of the rising moon, dipped blood-red through the haze; the first premonitory tingle of cold warned one that the grateful warmth of the day had been but an illusion of a season that had gone. This was not summer, but, in the quaint old phrase, Indian summer, and its end would be as though the necromancer had waved his wand.
To Newmark, sitting at his desk, reported Captain Floyd of the steam barge NORTH STAR.
“All loaded by noon, sir,” he said.
Newmark looked up in surprise.
“Well, why do you tell me?” he inquired.
“I want your orders.”
“My orders? Why?”
“This is a bad time of year,” explained Captain Floyd, “and the storm signal's up. All the signs are right for a blow.”
Newmark whirled in his chair.
“A blow!” he cried. “What of it? You don't come in every time it blows, do you?”
“You don't know the lakes, sir, at this time of year,” insisted Captain Floyd.
“Are you afraid?” sneered Newmark.
Captain Floyd's countenance burned a dark red.
“I only want your orders,” was all he said. “I thought we might wait to see.”
“Then go,” snapped Newmark. “That lumber must get to the market. You heard Mr. Orde's orders to sail as soon as you were loaded.”
Captain Floyd nodded curtly and went out without further comment.
Newmark arose and looked out of the window. The sun shone as balmily soft as ever. English sparrows twittered and fought outside. The warm smell of pine shingles rose from the street. Only close down to the horizon lurked cold, flat, greasy-looking clouds; and in the direction of the Government flag-pole he caught the flash of red from the lazily floating signal. He was little weatherwise, and he shook his head sceptically. Nevertheless it was a chance, and he took it, as he had taken a great many others.