Smith knew his city as a maestro knows his instrument, and their voyages together were like incursions into an enchanted space where time was not. He seemed to know exactly what had been in every nook and corner of the town at every period of its career. Once they stood on Broadway near Columbia University, on whose granite wall was fixed the plate which told of Washington's muster upon those very heights; and Smith had built up for her, not as an historian, but as an actor in the drama, the picture before her eyes. He showed her the old Jumel Mansion farther up town, and they went back together a century and a half to all the strange sights those old halls had seen.
Perhaps the softest spot in Smith's sympathies was held by the Knickerbockers—those sturdy old citizens who seemed all of them somehow to have taken something of the mold of their redoubtable leader and the greatest of them all, Peter Stuyvesant. Smith was familiar with them all, from Peter down. And old Minuit, the Indian, selling his island for a song, was so much a matter of reality to Smith that Helen came to believe in him also as a real individual.
"There he is now!" Smith once suddenly remarked, as they turned a corner and found themselves almost in the arms of an exceptionally spirited cigar-store figure.
"Who?" Helen had asked in surprise.
"Why, old Peter Minuit himself, in the very act of reaching for the proceeds," Smith explained. For which piece of simple levity it is to be feared that he was neither properly ashamed nor adequately rebuked.
It was in the old city, below Twenty-third Street, that the work of time had been most diverse. Here four full eras had left their mark—the aboriginal, the early Dutch, the English-American, and lastly the modern age of granite canyons and sky-seeking towers and marvels of high air and below ground. Smith knew all four, and if one knows where to search, there are plenty of interesting relics of the first three still to be found. He knew how the southern end of Manhattan looked when Hendrick Hudson moored the Half Moon in the lower harbor; and where the shore line lay when the old Dutch keels with their high poops and proud pennons rode at anchor in the river; and again later on when the English flag had replaced the Dutch, and the towering masts of frigates and brigs and schooners made with their threaded rigging a constant etching of the water front.
He guided Helen through old streets where a century's relics still persisted and where one could still find an occasional cornerstone which the flight of a hundred hurrying years had not displaced. He was familiar with most of the old street names,—how West Broadway was once Chapel Street,—many of them long since abandoned for modern changelings far less effective. For the first time Helen realized the origin of the name of "Bouwerie," and how far into New York's and the nation's traditions reached some of the mossy gravestones in Trinity Churchyard.
The city, during the progress of the Civil War, of which Helen had heard Augustus Lispenard speak, was clearer in her vision than ever before, for Smith's grandfather had marched down Broadway in '61, and, unlike Mr. Lispenard, he had not come back.
"They were just starting Central Park," Smith said; "because I have heard mother say often that her father's letters from the front asked several times how the Park was getting along."
"It seems odd, doesn't it? I had always looked on the Park as something which must always have been where it is," Miss Maitland commented. "But I suppose there must have been a beginning some time."
Now all these wanderings and this companionship could not go wholly for naught. Smith was not at all a sentimental person, and Miss Maitland was not in search of emotional adventure, but they were on hazardous ground, and it was hazardous because it was very pleasant to them both.
Miss Mary Wardrop was a lady in whom discretion was held in but lukewarm esteem. Had this not been so, she would have doubtless interposed, for convention's sake at least, in the swiftly developing friendship between her niece and this young insurance man. But Miss Wardrop had long since ceased to care what the world said, and her satisfaction with her own views was sufficient to permit her ignoring those who disagreed with them. She saw nothing objectionable in Smith, and if she speculated on the affair at all, she probably reflected that Miss Maitland was now twenty-five years old and if she didn't know her own mind at that age, it didn't much matter what happened to her.
So Smith, who was blandly ignorant of the fact that propriety as strictly measured in Boston would have been aghast at his candid manner of following his inclinations, met with no obstacles save from Miss Maitland herself. She, it is true, now and again drew back when it seemed to her that their friendship was perhaps progressing too rapidly; but she was not used to men like Smith. There was nothing of the Puritan about him, nothing of the false idea that if a thing is pleasant, it must therefore be somehow sinful. On the contrary, Smith believed that with a normal person the gratification of wishes was the natural result of their possession. If he felt hungry, he ate; if he wanted to see Helen, he went and saw her. Against this hopeless lack of affectation ordinary feminine weapons were badly blunted; in fact, they came to strike Miss Maitland as rather silly. After all, if he wished to see her, why shouldn't he do so? The mere fact that he had seen her the day before was not germane. The one germane thing would have been a lack of inclination on her part to see Smith—and curiously enough, this lack did not manifest itself.
Thus it was that only a few days after their long talk about O'Connor, the same fire saw them together once more. It was Thanksgiving Eve.
"Please don't tell me you have any engagement to-night," said Smith; "for by almost superhuman effort and influence I have managed to reserve a table for three at the Café Turin at eight o'clock. May I call the Honorable Jinks and request Miss Wardrop to come and be invited to dine with me?"
"You might try," said Miss Maitland, smiling.
"Then I will."
When the dignified Jenks had limped upward on his mission, the conversation took another turn.
"You are looking very cheerful to-night," Helen remarked.
"More so than I usually do when you see me?"
"More so than the last time I saw you, at all events. Does this mean that you have correctly solved the O'Connor mystery? You really got me very much interested in it."
"No, I haven't solved it. But I have a clew—the one you gave me. If it is the right one, we shall learn very soon."
On the stairs came the sound of Jenks's returning feet, followed a moment later by the rumor of Miss Wardrop's own approach.
"Good evening," she greeted Smith.
"I've come to ask you a favor," he answered. "I once happened to save the life of a head waiter, and he has now repaid the obligation by reserving a table for me to-night at the Café Turin, and I want you and Miss Maitland to come and dine with me."
Miss Wardrop wavered; she looked at her niece inquiringly.
"Then you'll come," Smith said.
The old lady laughed.
"Apparently I will, if Miss Maitland has no other plan for the evening."
Helen signified that she had none; and thus it was that eight o'clock found them seated in an eligible corner of the big, gay restaurant, watching the animated holiday crowd, and themselves in no somber or taciturn mood.
A restaurant may be the resort of strange people, but it is an institution of peculiar attractiveness, for all that. All the other tables in the room were occupied by merry parties, jewels and demigems glinted back a thousand lights, men and women of society and out of it laughed and talked, there was the clink of a myriad of glasses, the hurrying of anxious and expectant waiters, the tinkle of silverware on china, mingled with the ignored strains of an orchestra invisible and sufficiently remote not to dictate offensively the tempo of mastication of the diners. It was nothing if not a cosmopolitan gathering. In the crowd were, to judge from appearances, foreigners of many races; but all were masquerading as citizens of the world.
"A conglomerate crew," Smith observed. "They like to convey the impression that last week they dined on the terrace at Bertolini's in Naples, or at Claridge's, or Shepheard's at Cairo, or the Madrid in the Bois, or the Poinciana; while as a matter of fact most of them are like myself and get into this sort of game about twice a year."
"Where do you suppose they all come from?" Miss Wardrop inquired. She affected the newer haunts of modern society very little, and this sort of gathering was strange to her.
"Nobody knows," said her host, lightly. "Rahway, Yonkers, Flushing. Probably Harlem would actually account for the majority, if my theory is correct that most of them are as new to this as I am myself."
"Why don't you include Boston in your humble category?" Miss Maitland asked, laughing.
"Because I would be surprised if there were another Bostonian in this room this evening."
"But why do you think so?" the girl persisted.
"Oh, this isn't their style; they don't like this sort of business. No, I'll wager you three macaroons against a lump of sugar that you are the only child of the Back Bay in this place to-night."
"Done!" declared the girl.
"How can the question be decided?" Miss Wardrop inquired. "I don't see how you can either of you prove your contention."
"I will show you," replied her niece. She turned to a waiter, hovering paternally near by, and said, "Will you please go over to that third table where the very light-haired young lady in the blue gown is sitting, and say to the young gentleman whose back is turned toward us that Miss Maitland wishes to speak with him?"
Smith turned, in time to see the young gentleman in question rise at the waiter's message, cast a look at Miss Maitland, and then come cheerfully forward.
"Do you know, I never dine at a place where I hope and expect—and select—to be absolutely unknown, without meeting anywhere from five to nineteen friends, relations, and acquaintances of various degrees of intimacy," he said, shaking hands. "I'm really delighted to see you, Helen—upon my word, I am; but I sincerely hope you are discretion itself."
"Mr. Wilkinson," said the girl, introducing him to her aunt; and with the briefest of glances at Smith, she added, "of Boston."
"I remember Mr. Smith," said Charlie, easily. "There is an epic quality of justice in his being here, because he is indirectly responsible for my presence. At least," he explained, turning to Smith, "if you hadn't made a certain pregnant suggestion of the susceptibility of a trolley magnate to the opinion of the stock market—"
"You don't mean—?" Helen exclaimed.
"As sure as eggs is incubator's children! They hatched. My esteemed uncle listened to my siren voice—and here I am on a celebration trip! By the way," he said to the underwriter, "I asked Bennington Cole, who's handling the schedule for me, to put as much of it as he could in your company."
"That's very good of you," Smith replied; "but it will be a comparatively trifling amount, I'm afraid. The Guardian has just about as much as it is willing to risk in the congested district of Boston, and Silas Osgood and Company are under instructions to keep our liability down to its present amount and take little new business."
"I congratulate you, Charlie," Helen said. "But why did you come here, hoping to be unknown? Is it your beautiful lady? Is she some one you shouldn't know?"
"Well, hardly that. She's not precisely an undesirable citizen—she's all right enough—but you scarcely want to meet her, I'm afraid. You see, Isabel went South and left me in the lurch, and I had to celebrate somehow—hence Amye."
"Amye?" said Smith, with amusement.
"Yes. With an ultimate 'e.' Amye Sinclair on the program; Minnie Schottman in the Hoboken family Bible. She's a nice girl but a trifle unintellectual. She threw me a papier maché orchid once in Boston."
"Young man," said Miss Wardrop, speaking for the first time, "are you a typical example of the young men of to-day?"
"I am," Wilkinson promptly answered. "I am energetic, entertaining, an opportunist, a eudaimonist, and a baseball fan. Yes, I think I may concede I am typical. Do you agree with me, Helen?"
"I always agree with you, Charlie," said the girl, with a smile. "What possible good would it do me if I didn't?"
"Oh, you could—but you'll excuse me, I'm sure. I see the waiter is preparing to serve my table with real food, which is something I have a confessed predilection for. Good-by—I'm perfectly charmed to have seen you all."
And Mr. Wilkinson returned to Amye and the Cotuits.
"Don't look so scandalized, Aunt Mary," said Helen to her relation. "He is really much less abandoned than he would have people believe; and I think Isabel will bring him out all right yet. I rather fancy she has decided to."
"Isabel Hurd, you mean?" responded Miss Wardrop. "You don't mean to say so! But, bless your heart, I'm not scandalized—I've heard boys talk before. Still, if your friend Isabel knows what she is about, she won't stay South too long; she'll come North and let Amye go back to Hoboken."
"Probably she will. But I have not seen the three macaroons which I won with such ease and finesse."
"Waiter," said Smith, disregarding the fact that they had not finished the entrée, "bring three macaroons—exactly three—right away."
An expression of slight mystification appeared on the broad brow of the waiter, but he was inured to eccentric gastronomic requests, and fulfilled this one with his accustomed dignity.
"There!" said Smith. "There's my bet paid, though strictly speaking you couldn't have held me for it, since you were betting on a certainty."
"May I pass the spoils?" replied the girl, with a laugh.
The memory of those three macaroons had to stand Smith in the stead of other things for the last days of November. On his arrival at the office on the morning following Thanksgiving Day, Mr. O'Connor requested him to go down to Baltimore on company business requiring some little time to transact, and not until after the first of December did he set foot again in New York.
He arrived at about eight o'clock in the morning; and as he was obliged to go home first, he did not reach William Street until nearly ten. As he entered the Guardian office, he was aware that something unusual had happened. Business seemed somehow to have been oddly interrupted. Around the map desks and file cases little groups of clerks were gathered, talking in low tones.
Smith watched them in silence for a moment, and as no one volunteered to enlighten him as to what had occurred, he walked over to Mr. Bartels's office and went in.
"What's the matter here this morning? Is there a conflagration anywhere?" he asked the stolid personage at the desk, who barely ceased his figuring to make response:—
"Go and see the boss. He and O'Connor have had a quarrel—funny business—I don't know anything about it, that's all."
Smith went. Mr. O'Connor was in his room, busily engaged at his desk; the table beside him was heaped high with papers and books, which was an unusual sight, for O'Connor was a methodical man and the room was customarily bare of litter. The General Agent walked thoughtfully over to the other side of the office, and glanced through the President's door. Mr. Wintermuth was walking up and down, his hands behind him and his face a little flushed. Smith hesitated, then deliberately opened the door and entered.
"Good morning, sir. I have—" he began, but his chief, with an expression in which anger was still the predominant characteristic, said abruptly:—
"Do you know what has happened?"
"No, sir, I do not."
"Mr. O'Connor has tendered his resignation, as Vice-President of theGuardian!"
Smith stood still a long minute without answering, and then he saw suddenly and clearly all that for so many weeks the darkness had hidden from him.
"And did you accept his resignation, sir?" he asked at last.
The President turned swiftly to face the question.
"He tendered his resignation as of December thirty-first. I told him his resignation was accepted as of nine-forty-five this morning. And I told him to pack up his stuff and get out of here and never show himself in the Guardian office again."
In the course of his extended career Mr. Wintermuth had been called upon to face many serious and unexpected crises. Conflagrations; rate wars; eruptions of idiotic and ruinous legislation adopted by state senates and assemblies composed of meddlesome agriculturalists, saloon keepers, impractical young lawyers, and intensely practical old politicians;—all these he had lived through not once, but often, and had always piloted the Guardian's bark to port in safety. In fact, he had done this with such aplomb that long ago he had dismissed from his mind such a thing as the possibility of a wave insurmountable.
In his first flush of anger against O'Connor's betrayal—for by Mr. Wintermuth the action of his Vice-President could not otherwise be regarded—he had but one thought, and that was to make O'Connor's act recoil upon his own head. At that time, however, he was still in ignorance of the full scope of the betrayal, and when the element of bitter personal resentment had largely faded out, his pride and dignity reasserted themselves and bade him choose a different course. Let O'Connor go his way—inevitably justice would overtake him. After all, the first duty was to the company, and the first thing to be done was to fill O'Connor's place.
The cardinal principle of Mr. Wintermuth's administration of the Guardian, during all the years he had been chief executive, had been that all vacancies be filled by promotion of the company's own men. All those who occupied positions of responsibility with the Guardian had come up from the ranks, and it was one of the President's favorite themes for self-congratulation that it had always been possible to fill every opening without going outside the home office.
Unfortunately, however, of late years the current flowing toward the top had been rather clogged by the unusual pertinacity of the incumbents of important places. O'Connor, Bartels, Wagstaff—for years undisturbed all these had held their positions. Even Smith, the youngest man to occupy a place of trust, had been in his present capacity for quite a while. And the natural result of this was that new material in the company, or at least material capable of advancement and development, was painfully scarce.
Bartels was not an underwriter at all, but an accountant, and it was inconceivable that he would ever be anything else. Wagstaff, who supervised the Southern and a part of the Western field, was a good enough machine man, capable in a routine way and within his limitations, but helpless outside them; he had no initiative, wholly lacked dash and imagination, and it was out of the question that he be given charge of the general underwriting of the company, even under such a chief as Mr. Wintermuth. Cuyler, the head of the local department, was a city underwriter pure and simple; his knowledge and his interest stopped short where the jurisdiction of the New York Exchange ended; he knew no more, nor did he care for anything else.
There remained but one possibility—Smith. And Smith was very young. There had been few or no cases in the annals of fire insurance where the underwriting of such a company as the Guardian had been placed in the hands of a man scarcely turned thirty. Mr. Wintermuth, going over the situation carefully, began to wish that he had looked a little farther into the future. A sharp sense of indecision came disagreeably to him, and very reluctantly he reached the conclusion that he did not quite know what to do.
By his order a special meeting of the directors had been called for the next morning, and for the intervening hours he possessed his soul in what patience he could command. If the reflection occurred to him that perhaps it would have been wiser to retain O'Connor until his successor could be selected, he dismissed it at once. The company would have to go on as best it could without a vice-president until such time as the proper man could be found.
It was ten-thirty to the minute when Mr. Wintermuth took the chair and looked about the table at his board. Eleven directors in all, including the President, were in attendance; and although no one except Mr. Wintermuth knew why they had been called together, there was an undercurrent of concern among those present. This was soon crystallized, for Mr. Wintermuth's opening words wakened the active interest and lively perturbation of every man.
"Gentlemen," he said, "this meeting has been called as the result of my having received the following letter. 'James Wintermuth, Esq., and so forth—I hereby tender my resignation as Vice-President of the Guardian Fire Insurance Company of New York, to take effect on December thirty-first or on such earlier date as may suit your convenience. Signed, F. Mills O'Connor.' That is the letter, and so far as I am concerned, that closes the matter, except for the vote whereby I ask you gentlemen to confirm my action in accepting Mr. O'Connor's resignation—as of yesterday morning."
There was no discussion, and the vote was taken.
"Now," continued Mr. Wintermuth, "the office of Vice-president has been declared vacant, and I will request your consideration of the filling of the vacancy. As you know, it has always been the policy of the Guardian to fill all vacancies, official and otherwise, by the promotion of its own men. It is my own belief that this is the only satisfactory and in fact the only honorable system. But Mr. O'Connor's resignation was so unexpected as to leave us unprepared—perhaps more so than we should have been—and it now seems as though a deviation from our usual course might be forced upon us."
He then very briefly acquainted them with the qualities of the men under O'Connor in much the same way that he had reviewed them in his own mind. The directors listened in silence. In short, silence was their only possible attitude, for the contingency which now confronted them was one which took them wholly by surprise.
"To sum up the situation," Mr. Wintermuth concluded, "there is only one man now in the employ of the company who is qualified to fill the vice-presidency, and that is Richard Smith, our present General Agent."
He hesitated. Personally he would have been glad to go farther and recommend Smith for the position, but in his own mind he was not convinced of the wisdom of this.
"Isn't he pretty young?" inquired Mr. Whitehill, of Whitehill and Rhodes, the large real estate operators, who sat at Mr. Wintermuth's right.
"Yes, he is. I'm afraid he's almost too young," was the frank reply.
"How old is he, anyway?" another director asked.
"Thirty-two or thereabouts, I believe. But he's had good training."
"He won't do," said Mr. Whitehill, tersely. "The man for that job ought to be more seasoned—at least forty. Don't you agree with me?"
"I'm afraid I do," the President conceded, rather reluctantly. "At least I am afraid that Smith, good underwriter as he is, needs—as you say—a little more seasoning before being given so responsible a position."
"What's the alternative?" inquired Mr. Griswold, from the other end of the table.
"The alternative," answered Mr. Wintermuth, "is one which I like little better. It is to go outside and hire an underwriter from somewhere else."
"Do you know a good man—one we could get?"
"There are always plenty available if you look in the right place—and back up your invitation with a sufficient monetary inducement," said the President, a trifle caustically. "Little as I myself fancy the idea, it seems to me that it is what we shall have to do. Unless," he added, "you gentlemen should decide to risk giving Smith a chance."
"I'm in favor of going outside," Mr. Whitehill announced. "I've met Smith, and he's a nice clean-cut young fellow, but it would be an injustice to put him in such a place and expect him to make good. He's too much of a kid for such a job with a company like the Guardian."
There was a murmur, whether of approval or of passive acquiescence could not be told.
"Thirty-five is the minimum age for the President of the UnitedStates," suggested Mr. Wintermuth, detachedly.
"Well, thirty-five is quite young enough," retorted Mr. Whitehill."Give the boy a few years' time. I say, hire an underwriter outside."
The President turned to face the table.
"I take it, then, that it is the wish of the Board that the company's rule regarding office promotions be waived in this instance. But we must remember—as I have always maintained—that it has a discouraging effect on loyalty and ambition, to import material to fill important places. However, it is for you gentlemen to decide."
"Have you thought of anyone for the position?" inquired one.
"Not seriously," responded the President. "I have scarcely had time. There are of course plenty of men we might get, but I have really not felt like considering the question of their relative desirability before submitting the matter to you."
"I heard a speech last week," said Mr. Griswold, "by some man who wanted to reduce the fire waste of the whole country. It was delivered before the Chamber of Commerce in Plainfield, New Jersey, where I live—I occasionally attend their meetings. He's got something to do with a Chicago company. I think his name is Lyon. He impressed me as being a clever talker. Do you know anything about him?"
"Oh, yes," replied Mr. Wintermuth, with a smile. "You mean Charles Lyon. He is President of the Liberty Fire—quite a new company. Heisa clever talker—they say he can talk a bird out of a tree. To have organized the Liberty and gotten it started with real cash paid in was a distinct personal achievement. But I'm afraid he's a better promoter than an underwriter; the Liberty has been losing money at an astonishing rate ever since it actually commenced to write business. If he succeeds in cutting the fire waste of the country in two, his own company may survive and may even share in the benefits, although probably not to a disproportionate extent. But I'm afraid he's too much of a philanthropist—a little too unselfish for us. We want an underwriter, not a philanthropist—some one more interested in keeping down the losses of the Guardian Fire Insurance Company than those of the United States of America. And I imagine that Lyon at present would stick to the Liberty anyway, although I fancy he will be open for a new position before very long."
"Well, I move that the President be empowered to hunt up the most likely candidate he can find for Mr. O'Connor's position," said Mr. Whitehill, and the motion was carried. An adjournment was taken for a week, or until such time as Mr. Wintermuth should have a candidate ready for consideration.
There was one decided drawback to the successful accomplishment of the task to which Mr. Wintermuth now addressed himself. This was the fact that the Guardian was not disposed to pay exorbitantly for an underwriting head. It was willing to pay a reasonable salary, but it was not a corporation of unlimited resources or gigantic income, and the expense ratio had perforce to be considered. Plenty of men whose names occurred to the President would have been competent and in every way eligible, but they were men of recognized standing in the profession, and already occupied positions of trust. It is not often that highly capable men are open to change without unusual inducement, and Mr. Wintermuth, scanning the ranks of possibilities, found them dishearteningly scanty. All the men he wanted, he knew perfectly well could not be detached from their present allegiances, and the men who were detachable he didn't want. Moreover, it had been a good many years since Mr. Wintermuth had been actively at work in the field. The men with whose character and ability he was most familiar were too advanced in age; the younger generation he did not know.
Virgil and several others of the early classic authors have commented upon the surprising swiftness with which common rumor travels. If its speed was provocative of comment in those bygone days, which lacked most of the accelerating features now found on every hand, it should certainly fare far faster at the present time. At any rate, no tidings ever spread through the subliminal Chinese empire, warning of Magyar hordes beyond the Wall, with greater celerity than the news of Mr. Wintermuth's quest through the insurance world. The waves of it rolled echoing from office to office, from special agent to special agent, from city to city.
Like vultures out of an empty sky came the effects. Circumspect as Mr. Wintermuth had been, keeping the object of his search as secret as might be, it was not more than four days before he was driven ruefully to reflect that he might just as well have put an advertisement in the paper. Apparently everybody in the insurance world, including especially the insurance editor of the paper in which he did not advertise, knew he had decided to go outside his own office for a managing underwriter; and apparently every person within reach had some one—usually himself—to recommend for the position. Mr. Wintermuth finally found it necessary to deny himself to aspiring applicants who besieged his office, and went out on a still hunt in the lanes and byways where he was less likely to meet people with axes to grind. It was on one of these excursions, in a most natural and unpremeditated manner, that he found himself confronted by Mr. Samuel Gunterson.
Mr. Gunterson had, it was true, been suggested as a possibility, but through an outside source which Mr. Wintermuth felt sure was most unlikely to have been stimulated to the suggestion by the person most interested. The President was in a mood of despondency, incidental to the painful discovery of how frail a tissue of truth most of the recommendations of his applicants' supporters usually possessed. He had spent four days investigating the records of men whose names, enthusiastically presented to him, proved to be the only commendable thing about them. Now, after this discouraging experience, he hailed the prospect of independent selection with relief. It was with much lightened depression that he recognized that Mr. Gunterson was not—actively, at least—endeavoring to secure for himself the Guardian appointment, but seemed, on the contrary, quite well contented in his present position, and Mr. Wintermuth settled down to overtures with almost his customary cheerfulness.
Mr. Samuel Gunterson was, at this period of his highly variegated underwriting career, some forty-six years of age. A life whose private character no journal had as yet been tempted to divulge had left no trace upon the impassive contour of his face nor on the somber dignity of his bearing. He was of middle height, and somewhat stout, his hair was iron-gray, and he carried himself with a sort of restrained or reflective optimism, as though he forced himself to be cheerful and companionable at the cost of untold anguish to an inner ego that no one knew. It was an effective carriage, and few people attempted to take liberties with its possessor.
During his experience in the fire insurance business Mr. Gunterson had contrived to become connected with and separated from more different concerns than could be readily computed. He had averaged somewhat better than one change bi-yearly, and the history of his peregrinations could never have been written, for no one but himself could have furnished the necessary material, and on all matters concerning himself Mr. Gunterson was as cryptic as were the Delphic oracles of old. He chose to consider himself a victim of an astonishing series of circumstances, and in a certain sense this was true, although the circumstances were largely of his own creation. Good companies and bad, established concerns and promoters' flotations, auspicious ventures and forlorn hopes—he had been associated with them all, and from each one he emerged with untroubled calm while the unhappy machine, its steering gear usually crippled by his hand alone, went plunging downhill over the cliff into the soundless waters of oblivion.
Mr. Gunterson had been either President or underwriting manager of the Eureka Insurance Company of Pittsburgh, whose demise scarcely surprised those who were aware that its remarkable popularity with its agents was mainly due to the willingness with which it accepted their bad business in almost unlimited quantities; of the Florida Fire and Marine, whose annual premium income of about eight times the amount warranted by its resources attracted the thoughtful attention, although scarcely the respect, of some of the leading underwriters in New York; of the United of Omaha, whose heavy investment in the bonds of a subsequently exploded copper company promoted by Mr. Gunterson's brother-in-law precipitated its insolvency even before its underwriting losses could overtake it; of the Planters of Oklahoma, which the Insurance Commissioner of Massachusetts one day examined with the interesting discovery that its liabilities were nearly three times its assets; and of the Constitution Fire of Washington, D.C., which ceased to issue policies by request of the United States Government. From each of these unfortunate endeavors Mr. Gunterson had emerged with unblemished reputation, and even enhanced gravity and authority due to his wider experience, and with his air of slightly melancholy urbanity diminished not at all.
Four years prior to the time when fate led Mr. Wintermuth to his door, he had been the nerve if not the brains of the general agency of Hill and Daggett of William Street, representing in an extensive territory a fleet of some seven small companies with more sporting spirit than assets, and his astute helmsmanship had resulted in running all seven soundly and irrevocably upon the rocks. From the wreck he emerged, in the first lifeboat to leave, with his broad white brow as untroubled and serene as ever. The collapse, however, left him without visible means of support, so he took a short trip abroad, returning in a month or two as the American manager of a large German company which was just entering the United States.
It is doubtful by what, if any, method these Continental-European companies select their representatives in this country. Ability and probity seem to be regarded lightly—as scarcely worth careful investigation. But no well-known man whose lack of success has left unimpaired his fluency of speech need despair. So long as new foreign companies continue to establish American branches and appoint managers, any amiable detrimental with sufficient verbosity may secure for himself a comfortable berth. Mr. Gunterson had now for almost two years been in charge of the United States business of the Elsass-Lothringen on a loss ratio so surprisingly satisfactory that he himself was absolutely at a loss to explain it. For the first time in a considerable period he felt himself to be in a strong strategic position, and he received Mr. Wintermuth in what only his extreme courtesy prevented from being an offhand manner. It was obvious that he had no intention nor desire to meet any one halfway.
Now Mr. Wintermuth had always held that a man too anxious to change his affiliations was no proper man for the Guardian, and this indifference of Mr. Gunterson pleased him. It further developed that Mr. Gunterson had at last, in the Elsass-Lothringen, found almost what he had always been seeking; his company gave him an entirely free hand,—a highly desirable thing for an underwriting manager,—and he did not know whether he should ever care about looking for anything else. At the psychological moment he nonchalantly displayed to Mr. Wintermuth's interested gaze his twenty-two per cent loss ratio for the Elsass-Lothringen, but in the next breath, recalling a few recent preliminary tremors unpleasantly suggestive of other catastrophes through which he had passed, and not to overlook a link in his entangling chain, he stated that after all, though, he was an American, and intimated that as such he sometimes felt he would a little rather devote himself to the interests of an American underwriting institution. Only occasionally did he have this feeling—still, it was there, and he must needs admit it.
Such was the man to whom Mr. Wintermuth had come, and to whom he ultimately extended an invitation to present himself for the consideration of the Guardian's directorate. And Mr. Gunterson, uneasily suspecting that the structure of the German institution might at any moment collapse at some quite unexpected point, and calculating that he might secure the managerial berth for his equally inefficient brother-in-law, and thus keep the salary in the family, cautiously accepted the invitation. So this was the man who, a few days later, faced the full board, who with affable confidence in his own abilities won over even the somewhat skeptical Whitehill, and who was, on the ninth day of December, 1912, elected Vice-President and underwriting manager of the Guardian Fire Insurance Company of New York.
He guaranteed to free himself from his Teutonic engagements and alliances in time to join the Guardian by the first of January. Suave and profound, with his grave glance suggesting unutterable depth, he bowed himself out of the presence of Mr. Wintermuth and the other directors. And the ruminative elevator carried to the street level the best satisfied man in New York.
At once the appointment was made public, and newspapers and individuals alike refrained from expressing what the better informed among them feared and expected. Mr. Wintermuth heard nothing on every hand but flattering comments on his own acumen, and praises of the sterling qualities and experience of his new appointee. In fact, the insurance press as a whole spoke of Mr. Gunterson almost as kindly as though he had died, and it was—unofficially—understood that Mr. O'Connor realized that he had made a great mistake. Mr. O'Connor, however, having with considerable satisfaction moved into the Salamander's big room with "President" in brass letters on the door, ably restrained any irritation he may have felt. Privately he assured Mr. Murch that things could not have turned out better if he had ordered them himself.
"Gunterson is the very man for our purposes," he said. "He's a stuffed shirt if there ever was one. I couldn't have made a better appointment—for us—myself. We can bleed the Guardian of every desirable agent they've got, and he won't know how to stop us."
And Mr. Murch, smiling, suggested that the bleeding begin as soon as possible.
In the Guardian itself, opinion was divided. No one in the office knew much, if anything, about the new underwriter, and most of the men were inclined, in view of Mr. Wintermuth's recommendation, to take him at his own assessed valuation. But not so Wagstaff, and not so Smith. Wagstaff because it hung in his memory how, many years before, this same Gunterson had by rather questionable methods worsted him in a transaction affecting a schedule of cotton compresses in Georgia; Smith because he believed Mr. Gunterson to be a fraud of such monumental proportions that he deserved a place among the storied charlatans of the world.
His company and its reputation being more to Smith than almost anything else, he felt this thing very nearly in the light of a tragedy. Gloomily regarding the prospect, all he could see ahead was trouble and disgrace. And he knew that his own hands were tied. He was of course only an employee of the company, which could select as officers whom it chose, and any protest from him would very properly be disregarded—and worse than that, he would naturally and inevitably be suspected of speaking once for the company and twice for himself.
It was a rather troubled face that in spite of himself he presented inWashington Square North an evening or two after that eventful ninth ofDecember.
"What is the matter with you? You look too discouraged for words,"Helen told him, when the conversation was barely begun.
"Do I show it as plainly as that?" he replied, somewhat ruefully. "Well, I'll admit that, funereal as I may look, it's not a circumstance to the way I feel. That's partly why I came here—to see you and be cheered up."
Somewhere down in the still, chill Boston archives of Miss Maitland's supposedly well-schooled emotions a little quiver awoke and stirred. This was quite without warrant or suggestion from the girl herself, and she strove to convince herself that no stir had been felt. Unfortunately, however, she had received that day a letter from her mother bringing her to a decision which she must now convey to the man before her, and she felt a flash of almost reckless curiosity to see how he would receive it.
"If I were a horrible egotist," she said lightly, "I should think that a little part of your depression came from anticipating that I was going to tell you I am going back home next week."
Smith looked at her in silence. He looked at her until she felt the pause and broke again into speech.
"You see, I have to get back to be with mother at Christmas, and there are a lot of things to do before then—" she began, but he interrupted her.
"I said I came here to be cheered up—and that is what you tell me!" he said. "I came up here half hoping to be soothed back into my customary optimism—and this is what I get! This is certainly an accursed month in an accursed year!"
It occurred to Helen that, regarding the matter strictly from a standpoint of gallantry, the year wherein a young man met her and successfully won her friendship should not properly be termed in all ways and wholly accursed. She scarcely felt like pointing this out, however; and the compliment of Smith's real concern at her departure would compensate for a little gaucherie of expression. As though he had read her thought, Smith spoke again, this time with all trace of the sardonic gone from his tone.
"I beg your pardon—I didn't mean that," he said. "It has been a fine year. I won't revile it just because it ends with a double catastrophe. How soon do you expect to leave?"
"The end of next week, I think," the girl answered. There was an expression in his eyes which she did not quite understand, and therefore distrusted; and she hurriedly turned the conversation into another channel.
"If you flatter me by regarding my departure as one catastrophe, what is the other?" she asked. "What has happened? Is it something to do with O'Connor?"
"Well, it's all part of the same thing, I suppose," he said. "I had almost forgotten O'Connor, though, since Gunterson drove him out of my head."
"Who or what is Gunterson, please?"
Smith told her.
"If O'Connor can get the Eastern Conference to put through a separation rule now, we're absolutely helpless," he concluded. "Gunterson wouldn't have the vaguest idea of what to do—and wouldn't let any one else tell him. I can pretty nearly see the Guardian, under Samuel Gunterson's suicidal direction, setting sail with all flags flying, and heading straight for the bottom of the sea."
Helen could think of nothing to say.
"And you are leaving for Boston!" Smith added. "Well, it looks to me as though I might be out of a job before long, and perhaps I'll come up to Boston and strike your Uncle Silas for one. I think Mr. Osgood always rather liked me. And Boston's a pretty good town—or will be after next week."
He spoke a little bitterly, for it seemed that the possibility he mentioned was perhaps not so remote, after all. Even if the Guardian survived the staggering load of its Vice-President, he felt that he could not serve very long under such a man as Gunterson. And if such a thing should come to pass, he would be in no position to hope as he was now hoping, or to dream as he was now dreaming. Yet, after all, no wall that was ever built can shut out dreams.
The second day of January, 1913, was marked by the installation of Samuel Gunterson as underwriting head of the Guardian and by the announcement of a radical separation rule by the combined companies of the Eastern Conference. Each was likely to have a far-reaching effect.
Smith read the news with stolid eyes. He did not credit O'Connor with having had sufficient influence to carry the separation act through the Conference, but all that the astute President of the Salamander had hoped for, and in anticipation of which had laid his plans, had come to pass—the Guardian was out of the Conference, the separation rule was to take effect almost immediately—and Gunterson was at the wheel. Smith well knew what a leverage would be used against his company. He was still brooding over the fateful item when Mr. Wintermuth sent for him.
"Have you met your new chief yet?" asked the President, in a friendly manner.
"Yes," said the other, shortly. He held out the paper. "Have you seen this yet?" he inquired, in turn.
"The Journal of Commerce? No. Is there anything especial in it?"
For answer Smith laid the paper open on the desk, pointing silently to the item which meant so much to the Guardian—and to every company outside the Conference.
Mr. Wintermuth adjusted his glasses and read the article carefully.
"Well, well!" he said thoughtfully. "So they passed it, after all! I never believed they would dare. It's a little too much like a boycott—it gives them too much the appearance of a combination in restraint of trade. Tariff and rate-making associations are proper and necessary, but to attempt to dictate to agents what companies they shall not represent—or at any event penalize them for so doing—is going pretty far. No, I didn't think they'd dare."
"Three months ago perhaps they wouldn't have," Smith suggested. "It looks like a reprisal aimed at us, more than any one else. All the other outsiders are old hands and can take care of themselves, but we haven't gotten acclimated—we're liable to have a bad time. And I think I know who accelerated the whole movement, sir."
"Yes—I understand whom you mean," said the President, compressing his lips. "No doubt this was part of his plan. Well, you seem to have followed this thing pretty closely, Richard—what do you think we had better do?"
"Isn't that rather a matter for Mr. Gunterson to decide now, sir? I don't want him to start with the idea that I am trying to dictate the underwriting policy of the company. Of course, I have my own idea of what would best serve the interest of the company to do—although in some ways I'd hate to see us do it."
"And what may it be?"
"Go back into the Conference."
"What! Go limping back with our tail between our legs? Put O'Connor in a position where he could say that we were strong enough to go out and stand alone when he was with us, but after he left we were too weak to stick it out? Never! I won't go back into the Eastern Conference, if it costs the Guardian every agency in the field. . . . Boy, ask Mr. Gunterson if he will be so good as to step here a moment."
In the brief interval before the new Vice-President put in his dignified appearance, neither of the occupants of the office spoke.
"Ah, Mr. Gunterson. Good morning once more. You know Mr. Smith, ourGeneral Agent, I believe?"
Mr. Gunterson bowed with urbanity. Courtesies exchanged—a matter of some little time—the President again spoke.
"Did you notice, in this morning'sJournal, that the Eastern Conference has passed a separation rule, Mr. Gunterson? I do not know whether you are aware that the Guardian is not a member of the Conference; shortly before the resignation of your predecessor we withdrew—largely upon his recommendations. There is no reasonable doubt that at the time Mr. O'Connor believed such a rule would go into effect, and very likely he was more or less instrumental in getting it adopted. At all events it is clear that he wanted us to get out, and here we are—out! And almost any time, now, we are likely to be put out of nearly every agency in the East where Conference companies predominate—which means ninety per cent of our agencies."
"I see," observed Mr. Gunterson, sagely. "I see."
"Now the question is: what are we going to do? Mr. Smith here advises that we confess our inability to operate in an open field without the invaluable assistance of our late Vice-president, and go back into the Conference. By merely sacrificing our self-respect we could save our Eastern agency plant. I have put you in charge of the underwriting of the Guardian, Mr. Gunterson, and I would like your advice on this."
The attitude to be assumed by the Vice-president was too obvious to be creditable to his sense of perception.
"I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing us reverse our policy and confess ourselves defeated—surrender before a gun was fired. We can fight and win," said Mr. Gunterson, promptly.
It was rudimentary cleverness; a babe could have perceived what replyMr. Wintermuth desired.
"Good!" said that gentleman, much encouraged. "I'm glad to hear you say so. That's exactly the way I feel about it, myself. I'll see O'Connor damned before I'll let him think he has forced our hand. I think your attitude is quite correct, Mr. Gunterson—I like the way you begin."
"Thank you, sir," said the Vice-president, modestly; then, deprecatingly nodding toward Smith:—
"Probably from a strictly conservative viewpoint Mr. Smith's advice is good. And the Guardian is a conservative company. But a little properly placed radicalism is not a bad thing at times—is not that true, Mr. Wintermuth?"
To which Mr. Wintermuth assented with a smile.
"At all events the fight, if there is one, will be confined to the smaller places. They can't touch us in the big cities, can they?" pursued Mr. Gunterson, following up his advantage.
"No," said Smith, shortly. "The rule won't affect us here in New York, nor in Boston, nor Philadelphia, nor Buffalo, nor Baltimore. At least those places, and some others, have always been excepted cities—making their own rules. Unless the local agents through the local boards vote for separation, we're safe there. I'd hate to see a fight started in those towns, though."
"You seem a little reluctant to get into any controversy, Richard," said Mr. Wintermuth, kindly. "To be sure, you haven't been through so many as we have. But sometimes it is necessary to fight—and fight hard, too."
"He has not weathered as many storms as you, sir," Gunterson interpolated with a smile. "Nor," he added, "as many as I myself, perhaps."
"Perhaps not," said Smith, dryly. "Is there anything else you want of me, sir?" he turned to the President. "If not, I guess I'll get back to my mail."
"Go ahead," returned his chief. "Mr. Gunterson and I will plan this thing out together."
And Smith left the office with as much numb despondency in his heart as he had ever felt in his thirty-odd years. He knew—what the others did not seem fully to appreciate—that there was an animus in this attack of O'Connor's which would stick at nothing. He saw, or he believed he saw, the excepted cities of Boston, Philadelphia, and the rest, under the polite coercion of the Eastern Conference, passing similar separation rules of their own. He foresaw the Guardian forced out of Graham and Peck's agency in Philadelphia, out of the Silas Osgood office in Boston, and losing its long established connections in other cities where the Guardian's business was as well selected and profitable as that of any company of them all. He looked gloomily down a long vista of losses and disappointments, and it appeared to him there could naturally be but one end. However, it was no doing of his. He was there to obey orders and to transact the company's business as the management desired it to be done, and in the press of other crowding matters he was glad to forget everything but the tasks before him.
The days succeeding the Conference announcement brought very little in the way of further developments. So still was the insurance stage, indeed, that Mr. Gunterson began to think that there would be no trouble, after all, and Smith to speculate on the ominous stillness and on what new moves would flash from behind this seeming curtain of inaction.
Almost at the very time of this speculation on his part, a train was carrying toward Boston no less a person than F. Mills O'Connor of the Salamander. Almost at the very hour of a Tuesday morning, when Mr. Gunterson was gravely assuring Mr. Wintermuth that he believed he would be able, in spite of the Eastern Conference, to preserve the company's agency force without the loss of a single important agent, Mr. O'Connor, after more or less indirect preliminary conversation, was presenting his desires quite bluntly to Mr. Silas Osgood.
"To be perfectly frank, Mr. Osgood, the Salamander has never gotten the premium income it should get from Boston, and worse than that, it has always lost money. Now you've got a place for us in your office, and it's the Guardian's place. No—hold on a minute—let me finish. I know that Mr. Wintermuth is an old friend of yours, but Mr. Wintermuth is about finished with the fire insurance business. Now you know that your relations with Gunterson, who is a hopeless incompetent, will never be satisfactory, and you also know that Gunterson will probably put the company out of business within two years. You appreciate also that the Salamander is a bigger company than the Guardian—it has twice the Guardian's premium income—"
"And half the Guardian's surplus," interrupted Mr. Osgood, softly.
"No matter about the surplus. Edward E. Murch and his people are back of us, we've got the premium income, and we're in the game to stay, while you as a practical insurance man know, no matter how far your sympathies may go in the opposite direction, that the days of the Guardian are numbered. I'm offering you the chance to take on one of the livest companies in the field to-day in place of a concern that's headed for oblivion by the most direct route. It's a chance I would jump at if I were in your place, but I understand the sentimental consideration enters in,—it does credit to your heart, Mr. Osgood, and I respect you for it,—and in view of all that sort of thing I came here prepared to give you certain inducements to switch the Guardian's business to the Salamander."
"Inducements? Of what sort do you mean?" inquired Mr. Osgood, mildly, although his face was a little flushed.
"Well, increased latitude on lines and classes—a larger authorization in the congested district—those are some things. Possibly also," he suggested delicately, "a little extra allowance—let us say an entertainment fund—to be used in cultivating brokers with an especially desirable business."
"But," said Mr. Osgood, "we are members of the Boston Board. We cannot offer any greater inducements to brokers than any of our fellow members offer."
O'Connor saw his suggestion had not been taken kindly.
"Of course not," he agreed. "Although I know one Boston agent who once a month plays cards with his best broker, and curiously enough he always loses exactly five per cent of that broker's account with him for the previous month. Such things are sickening—and they put at a disadvantage those of us who live up to our agreements. But I don't suppose any Board could make a rule preventing an agent from taking a good customer out to dinner and perhaps the theater once in a while—that was all I meant to suggest."
Mr. Osgood, who felt considerable doubt as to this innocent limitation, rose.
"I presume you would like my decision, Mr. O'Connor," he said, in a low voice.
"Why, yes—as soon as convenient—the sooner the better," the other man replied easily.
"Well, then, I will give it to you now," said the Bostonian. "Mr. O'Connor, I am an old man; I have lived in this city for nearly seventy years, and during those years I do not think I ever made a bargain which I would have been ashamed for the world to have seen. I am too old to begin to be either disloyal or dishonest now—for I do not see what else you can call what you have proposed but disloyalty to my friend Mr. Wintermuth and his company and dishonesty to my associates in the Boston Board. If I thought you intended to insult me, I would ask you to leave my office, but I do not think you intended your proposal as an insult, for I do not believe that by your own code you are doing anything which that code would condemn."
His visitor started to voice a protest, but the other man stopped him.
"Let me finish," he said. "I have known your former chief, Mr. Wintermuth, considerably more than half my lifetime. When I resign the Boston agency of the Guardian, it will be either at his request or because my day in the insurance world is over and I can no longer give the company a sufficient business. That is all. And now, Mr. O'Connor, I do not ask you to leave my office, but I hope you will never come into it again so long as I am here."
The President of the Salamander got to his feet, and his eyes narrowed.
"All right, Mr. Osgood," he said. "Don't worry—I won't stay where I'm not wanted. But my offer was made in good faith, it would have been advantageous to your firm, and I'm sorry you turned it down. I wanted to give you a chance, in a way that I admit would have been a good thing for me, to keep your own office organization intact—for the impression seems to be gaining ground that the Boston Board will pass a separation rule, and in that event you will have to give up the Guardian agency, anyway."
The Bostonian turned back to his desk.
"That is too remote a contingency for me to discuss with you," he replied, somewhat curtly. "Good-day, sir."
"Good-day, Mr. Osgood," said F. Mills O'Connor. He paused at the threshold. "I don't believe you've heard the last of this yet," he remarked, as he closed the door behind him.
It is a common saying with regard to any especially clever criminal: what a great man he would have made of himself if only he would have applied all this cleverness to legitimate ends! This is probably untrue in nine cases out of every ten, and perhaps in even a larger ratio, for the successful crook is successful only along crooked lines; his mind will work only in forbidden channels; it needs the spice and flavor of the illicit to stimulate its brilliancy. Let him address himself to a legitimate problem, ethical or commercial, and his efficiency evaporates—or rather it is non-existent.
Although not a criminal, F. Mills O'Connor was, to a limited degree, a demonstration of this fact. Mr. O'Connor had been competent but never particularly clever along strictly legitimate lines; it was always and only along ways just a little devious, a little tricky, a little sophistical, that his acumen mounted above the ordinary. His greatest successes with the Guardian had always been gained by methods which had been kept secret from his chief, for Mr. Wintermuth's keen sense of business honor would have prevented the fruition of every one.
He was now in the right company. The Salamander took its key from its leading director, and Mr. Murch's code of ethics briefly consisted of a belief that it was advisable to "stay inside the law"—unless he were absolutely certain that transgression would be undiscoverable or unpenalized. Into this scheme of things Mr. O'Connor fitted like water in a skin. Hence one need not have been astonished, half an hour later, had he overheard one end of a conversation conducted from Mr. Bennington Cole's private phone in the office of Silas Osgood and Company.
"Yes—this is Mr. Cole."
"Yes—I know who is speaking."
"Yes—I presume I could come over. Young's Hotel, did you say?"
"I understand. Room forty-three. I'll be there in about twenty minutes."
In twenty minutes room forty-three saw Mr. Cole being suavely greeted by Mr. O'Connor, and then it proceeded to furnish the scene for a little drama of business intrigue that would have been very interesting to an audience of law-abiding Conference companies who believed in living up to their pledges.
In the course of this undivulged conversation it developed that Mr. O'Connor was satisfied with what had just gone before; that Mr. Osgood had done exactly what both O'Connor and Cole had expected he would do, making it possible for Cole, by the proper playing of his cards, to succeed almost immediately to the management of the Osgood agency, and that aided thereto by the fact that the scrupulous Mr. Osgood would doubtless hesitate to interfere in any way with any act of his successor, the fuse was all laid for the introduction of the Salamander into the Osgood office by means of the passage of a separation rule in Boston at the very next meeting of the local board. The interview must have been a satisfactory one, for Cole's step, as he walked back to Kilby Street, was buoyant, and Mr. O'Connor bore himself as a deeply satisfied man.
Among the local agents in Boston there had never been any marked sentiment either for or against the adoption of a separation scheme. Some of the agents believed in it and some did not; but as most of the principal offices represented, with a few unimportant exceptions, only Conference companies, it had never been really a vital issue up to the time Mr. O'Connor came to Boston for the Salamander. By what means he contrived to bring the agents into line will never be known. Undoubtedly the time was precisely ripe, and he had the very influential cooperation of many of the strongest Conference companies. At all events, however he went to work, that way proved efficacious. The passage of the rule through the Board was assured. After its vote on the coming Wednesday, no agent in Boston representing a Conference company could, at the expiration of thirty days, continue to represent an outsider.
The effect that such a rule would have on the local interests of the Guardian was at once apparent. Representing, as the Osgood office did, a number of Conference companies, three of which it had represented almost as long as the Guardian, Mr. Osgood would have no practical choice. It was a case of one against the rest—and naturally the one would fall. Of all this, however, Mr. Osgood himself knew nothing as yet, save for the vague menace conveyed by O'Connor's valedictory address. Of this also the Boston insurance fraternity at large knew almost nothing, for the matter was to be jammed through the Board, and those behind it were sworn to secrecy.
Outside the inner ring who were back of the move, only one man in Boston caught wind of the matter which now only waited the coming of Wednesday to take its place among the rules of the Boston Board. This man was Mr. Francis Hancher of the BostonIndex, the most alert insurance-news gatherer of New England. If anything of moment went on in the insurance world that centers in Boston, without coming under the attention of the inquisitive Mr. Hancher, it had to wear felt slippers and move about only at night. He had as unerring an instinct for insurance news as any ward boss for graft, and he was a man of humanity and bonhomie besides. Into his ears came the first faint rumors of things astir, and he began to work on the almost impalpable scent. Silently he worked, craftily, without arousing suspicion in the minds of those he questioned. Bit by bit, fragment by fragment, he gathered the makings of a Story, until at last, on the Saturday morning before the fateful Wednesday, he happened into the office of Silas Osgood and gained the last link in his chain.
"What's new?" was his greeting to Mr. Osgood.
"Could there be anything new that you do not know?" replied the other, with a smile.
"I see O'Connor's in town," said Hancher, abruptly, and his interest quickened when he saw the sudden change of Mr. Osgood's expression. "You've seen him, I suppose?" the journalist pursued nonchalantly.
"Yes," Mr. Osgood rather stiffly admitted.
Mr. Hancher took a sudden resolution. He drew up his chair a little closer, and leaned forward.
"I think you'd better tell me what he's here for—all you know about it," he said bluntly. "You know me—I won't use what you tell me unless I have your permission. And I've got an idea that you ought to know what's going on."
"I would very greatly prefer that it should not become common knowledge," Mr. Osgood replied with some hesitation; "but I may tell you, Mr. Hancher, that Mr. O'Connor came to see me with a proposal that we take the agency of the Salamander and turn over the Guardian's business to them. I told him—were you going to say anything?"
"No. That's it, then. Go on—what did you tell him?"
"I told him no. I didn't care to consider the matter," said the older man, simply.
"Mr. Osgood," said the other, "you've given me what I need to make what I suspected stand on a solid bottom. I can see the motive now for what's being done. It's the fact that O'Connor wants the Guardian's business. Now, I want to tell you something—or rather ask you something. Do you think your refusal to consider his proposition closed up the whole business completely?"
"Well, no," Mr. Osgood replied; "I suppose not. In fact, when he left, he rather intimated that I might look for further developments."
"That was temper," Hancher commented judicially. "Not good judgment, at all. Ordinarily he'd never have said such a thing. But he meant it, all right—you can believe that. If he can't get the Guardian business one way, he'll try it another. And the second way he has chosen is this—after the meeting of the Boston Board next Wednesday you will be obliged to choose between resigning either the Guardian or all your other companies."
"You mean that a separation rule will be put through?" Mr. Osgood inquired quickly.
"Surest thing you know," the journalist declared. "That is, unless somebody puts a little sand on the slide pretty all-fired soon. I say, Mr. Osgood,—I'm a non-combatant, but I like to see fair play,—why don't you write the Guardian people?—or wire them? I think this is something your friend Wintermuth ought to know."
Mr. Osgood reached toward the button that summoned his stenographer, and then drew back his hand.
"No," he said slowly. "What's the use? If it's decided, I can't stop it. And I fancy the best of my fighting days are over. That's for the younger men to do. I'll talk to Cole about it, and see what he thinks we'd better do."
The journalist glanced at him somewhat skeptically.
"Well, you needn't fight, yourself—let the Guardian people attend to that. And if you take my advice, you'll write Wintermuth. Good-by."
Mr. Osgood wrote, and on Monday morning his letter came to the hand of Mr. Wintermuth, whose eye brightened at the sight of his friend's signature. But there was no pleasure in his tone when a moment later he sent for Mr. Gunterson.
"Look here," he said, "I'm afraid these Eastern Conference people mean trouble. We've been assuming that the excepted cities were safe—nothing could happen there. Well, I don't believe they're as safe as we thought. Read what Osgood says about Boston. Boston! where we've got as fine a business as any company of our size in the field. Look at that!"