CHAPTER III
MR. McEACHERN
At about the time when Jimmy's meditations finally merged themselvesin dreams, a certain Mr. John McEachern, Captain of Police, wasseated in the parlor of his up-town villa, reading. He was a manbuilt on a large scale. Everything about him was large--his hands,his feet, his shoulders, his chest, and particularly his jaw, whicheven in his moments of calm was aggressive, and which stood out,when anything happened to ruffle him, like the ram of a battle-ship.In his patrolman days, which had been passed mainly on the Eastside, this jaw of his had acquired a reputation from Park Row toFourteenth Street. No gang-fight, however absorbing, could retainthe undivided attention of the young blood of the Bowery when Mr.McEachern's jaw hove in sight with the rest of his massive person inclose attendance. He was a man who knew no fear, and he had gonethrough disorderly mobs like an east wind.
But there was another side to his character. In fact, that otherside was so large that the rest of him, his readiness in combat andhis zeal in breaking up public disturbances, might be said to havebeen only an off-shoot. For his ambition was as large as his fistand as aggressive as his jaw. He had entered the force with thesingle idea of becoming rich, and had set about achieving his objectwith a strenuous vigor that was as irresistible as his mightylocust-stick. Some policemen are born grafters, some achieve graft,and some have graft thrust upon them. Mr. McEachern had begun bybeing the first, had risen to the second, and for some years now hadbeen a prominent member of the small and hugely prosperous thirdclass, the class that does not go out seeking graft, but sits athome and lets graft come to it.
In his search for wealth, he had been content to abide his time. Hedid not want the trifling sum that every New York policemanacquires. His object was something bigger, and he was prepared towait for it. He knew that small beginnings were an annoying butunavoidable preliminary to all great fortunes. Probably, CaptainKidd had started in a small way. Certainly, Mr. Rockefeller had. Hewas content to follow in the footsteps of the masters.
A patrolman's opportunities of amassing wealth are not great. Mr.McEachern had made the best of a bad job. He had not disdained thedollars that came as single spies rather than in battalions. Untilthe time should arrive when he might angle for whales, he wasprepared to catch sprats.
Much may be done, even on a small scale, by perseverance. In thoseearly days, Mr. McEachern's observant eye had not failed to noticecertain peddlers who obstructed the traffic, divers tradesmen whodid the same by the side-walk, and of restaurant keepers not a fewwith a distaste for closing at one o'clock in the morning. Hisresearches in this field were not unprofitable. In a reasonablyshort space of time, he had put by the three thousand dollars thatwere the price of his promotion to detective-sergeant. He did notlike paying three thousand dollars for promotion, but there must besinking of capital if an investment is to prosper. Mr. McEachern"came across," and climbed one more step up the ladder.
As detective-sergeant, he found his horizon enlarged. There was morescope for a man of parts. Things moved more rapidly. The worldseemed full of philanthropists, anxious to "dress his front" and dohim other little kindnesses. Mr. McEachern was no churl. He let themdress his front. He accepted the little kindnesses. Presently, hefound that he had fifteen thousand dollars to spare for any smallflutter that might take his fancy. Singularly enough, this was theprecise sum necessary to make him a captain.
He became a captain. And it was then that he discovered that ElDorado was no mere poet's dream, and that Tom Tiddler's Ground,where one might stand picking up gold and silver, was as definite alocality as Brooklyn or the Bronx. At last, after years of patientwaiting, he stood like Moses on the mountain, looking down into thePromised Land. He had come to where the Big Money was.
The captain was now reading the little note-book wherein he kept arecord of his investments, which were numerous and varied. That thecontents were satisfactory was obvious at a glance. The smile on hisface and the reposeful position of his jaw were proof enough ofthat. There were notes relating to house-property, railroad shares,and a dozen other profitable things. He was a rich man.
This was a fact that was entirely unsuspected by his neighbors, withwhom he maintained somewhat distant relations, accepting noinvitations and giving none. For Mr. McEachern was playing a biggame. Other eminent buccaneers in his walk of life had been contentto be rich men in a community where moderate means were the rule.But about Mr. McEachern there was a touch of the Napoleonic. Hemeant to get into society--and the society he had selected was thatof England. Other people have noted the fact--which had impresseditself very firmly on the policeman's mind--that between England andthe United States there are three thousand miles of deep water. Inthe United States, he would be a retired police-captain; in England,an American gentleman of large and independent means with abeautiful daughter.
That was the ruling impulse in his life--his daughter Molly. Though,if he had been a bachelor, he certainly would not have beensatisfied to pursue a humble career aloof from graft, on the otherhand, if it had not been for Molly, he would not have felt, as hegathered in his dishonest wealth, that he was conducting a sort ofholy war. Ever since his wife had died, in his detective-sergeantdays, leaving him with a year-old daughter, his ambitions had beeninseparably connected with Molly.
All his thoughts were on the future. This New York life was only apreparation for the splendors to come. He spent not a dollarunnecessarily. When Molly was home from school, they lived togethersimply and quietly in the small house which Molly's taste made socomfortable. The neighbors, knowing his profession and seeing themodest scale on which he lived, told one another that here at anyrate was a policeman whose hands were clean of graft. They did notknow of the stream that poured week by week and year by year intohis bank, to be diverted at intervals into the most profitablechannels. Until the time should come for the great change, economywas his motto. The expenses of his home were kept within the boundsof his official salary. All extras went to swell his savings.
He closed his book with a contented sigh, and lighted another cigar.Cigars were his only personal luxury. He drank nothing, ate thesimplest food, and made a suit of clothes last for quite an unusuallength of time; but no passion for economy could make him denyhimself smoke.
He sat on, thinking. It was very late, but he did not feel ready forbed. A great moment had arrived in his affairs. For days, WallStreet had been undergoing one of its periodical fits of jumpiness.There had been rumors and counter-rumors, until finally from theconfusion there had soared up like a rocket the one particular stockin which he was most largely interested. He had unloaded thatmorning, and the result had left him slightly dizzy. The main pointto which his mind clung was that the time had come at last. He couldmake the great change now at any moment that suited him.
He was blowing clouds of smoke and gloating over this fact when thedoor opened, admitting a bull-terrier, a bull-dog, and in the wakeof the procession a girl in a kimono and red slippers.