CHAPTER II
IN CHASTENED MOOD
Of course, the whole thing was ridiculous. Gordon knew that. No onecould know it better. The more he thought about it the more surely hewas certain of it. He told himself that he, personally, had behavedlike a first-class madman over the whole affair. How on earth was heto make one hundred thousand dollars in six months? It couldn't bedone. That was all. It simply couldn't be done. What power ofmischief had driven him to charge his highly respectable father withgraft? It was a rotten thing to do anyway. And it served him rightthat it had come back on him by pointing the way to the presentimpossible situation.
He was perfectly disgusted with himself.
But after a while he began to chuckle. The thing was not without anatmosphere of humor--of a sort. No doubt his friends would have seen atremendous humor in the idea of his making one hundred thousand dollarsunder any conditions.
One hundred thousand dollars! What a tremendous sum it sounded viewedfrom the standpoint of his having to make it. He had never consideredit a vast sum before. But now it seemed to grow and grow every time hethought of it. Then he laughed. What stupid things "noughts" were.They meant so much just now, and, in reality, they mean nothing at all.
Oh, dear. The whole thing was a terrible trouble. It was worse. Itwas a tragedy. But--he mustn't give his friends the laugh on him.That would be the last straw. No. The whole thing should remain asecret between his father and himself. He almost broke into a sweat ashe suddenly remembered the Press. What wouldn't the Press do with thestory. The son and heir of James Carbhoy, the well-knownmulti-millionaire, leaving home to show the world how to make onehundred thousand dollars in record time! A stupendous farce. Then theswarm of reporters buzzing about him like a cloud of flies in summertime. The prospect was too depressing. Think of the columns in thePress, especially the cheaper Press. They would haunt him from NewYork to--Timbuctoo!
It couldn't be done. He felt certain that in such circumstancessuicide would be justifiable. Thoughts such as these swept on throughhis disturbed brain as he sped up Broadway on his way to say good-by tohis mother and sister. He had been lucky in finding his father'shigh-powered automobile standing outside the palatial entrance of thetowering Carbhoy Building. Nor had he the least scruple incommandeering it.
His visit to the east side of Central Park was in the nature of awhirlwind. He had no desire to be questioned, and he knew his youngsister, Gracie, too well to give her a chance in that direction. Theirfriends were wont to say that, for one so young--she was onlythirteen--she was all wit and intellect. He felt that that was becauseshe was his father's daughter. For himself he was positive she was allprecocity and impertinence. And he told himself he was quiteunprejudiced.
As for his mother, she was one of those gentle Southern women whodeclare that no woman has the right to question the doings of the malemembers of her household, and, in spite of the luxury with which shewas surrounded, and which she never failed to feel the burden of--shewas originally a small farmer's daughter--still yearned for that homelymeal of her youth, "supper"--a collation of coffee, cakes, preservesand cold meats.
Experience warned him that he must give her no inkling of the realfacts. She would be too terribly shocked at the revelation.
So, for an hour or more, in the little family circle, in his mother'ssplendid boudoir, he talked of everything but his own affairs. Nor wasit until he was in the act of taking his leave that he warned them boththat he was leaving the city for six months. He felt it was a cowardlything to do, but, having fired his bombshell in their midst, he fledprecipitately before its stunning effect had time to pass away.
Off he sped, the automobile urged to a dangerous speed, and it was witha great sense of relief that he finally reached his own apartment onRiverside Drive.
Letting himself in, he found his man, Harding, waiting for him.
"Mrs. Carbhoy has been ringing you up, sir," he said in the level tonesof a well-trained servant. "She wants to speak to you, sir--mostimportant."
Gordon hardened his heart.
"Disconnect the 'phone then," he said sharply, and flung himself into agreat settle which stood in the domed hall.
"Very good, sir."
The man was moving away.
"If my mother or sister should come here, I'm out. Send word down tothe office that there's no one in."
The valet's face was quite expressionless. Gordon Carbhoy had his ownway of dealing with his affairs. Harding understood this. He was alsodevoted to his master.
"Yes, sir."
He vanished out of the hall.
Left alone a great change came over Gordon. The old buoyancy and humorseemed suddenly to fall from him. For once his eyes were perfectly,almost painfully serious. He stared about him, searching theremoteness of his surroundings, his eyes and thoughts dwelling on theluxury of the apartment he had occupied for the last three years. Itwas a two-floored masterpiece of builder's ingenuity. It was to be hishome no longer.
That splendid domed hall had been the scene of many innocent revels.Yes, in spite of the accusation of immorality, his parties had beeninnocent enough. He had entertained the boys and girls of hisacquaintance royally, but--innocently. Well, that was all done with.It was just a memory. The future was his concern.
The future. And that depended on his own exertions. For a moment theseriousness of his mood lifted. Surely his own exertions as a businessman was a broken reed to---- What about failure? What was tofollow--failure? He hadn't thought of it, and his father hadn't spokenof it.
Suddenly the cloud settled again, and a sort of panic swept over him.Did his father intend to--kick him out? It almost looked like it. Andyet---- Had he intended this stake as his last? What a perfect foolhe had been to refuse the hundred thousand dollars. Then, in a moment,his panic passed. He was glad he had done so--anyway.
He selected a cigar from his case and sniffed at it. He remembered hisfather's. His handsome blue eyes were twinkling. His own cigars costhalf a dollar more than his father's, and the fact amused him. He cutthe end carefully and lit it. Then he leaned back on the cushions andresigned himself to the reflection that these things, too, must go withthe rest. They, too, must become a mere memory.
"Harding!" he called.
The man appeared almost magically.
"Harding, have you ever smoked a--five-cent cigar?" he inquiredthoughtfully.
The valet cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry to say, sir, I haven't."
"Sorry?" Gordon's eyes were smiling.
"A mere figure of speech, sir."
"Ah--I see. They must be--painful."
"Very, I should think, sir. But, beg pardon, sir, I believe insome--ahem--low places, they sell two for five cents!"
"Two? I--I wonder if the sanitary authorities know about it."
Gordon smiled into the serious face of his devoted henchman. Then hewent on rapidly--
"What baggage do you suggest for a six months' trip?"
"Europe, sir?"
"No."
"South, sir?"
"I--haven't made up my mind."
"General then, sir. That'll need more. There's the three largetrunks. The steamer trunk. Four suit cases. Will you need your polokit, sir, and your----?"
Gordon shook his head.
"Guess your focus needs adjusting. Now, suppose you were getting a manready for a six months' trip--a man who smoked those two-for-fivecigars. What would you give him?"
Harding's eyelids flickered. He sighed.
"It would be difficult, sir. I shouldn't give him cleanunder-garments, sir. I should suggest the oldest suit I could find.You see, sir, it would be waste to give him a good suit. The axles ofthose box cars are so greasy. I'm not sure about a toothbrush."
"Your focus is adjusting itself."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir."
"And the five-cent-cigar man?"
Harding's verdict came p
romptly.
"A hand bag with one good suit and ablutionary utensils, sir. Alsostrong, warm under-garments, and a thick overcoat. One spare pair ofboots. You see, sir, he could carry that himself."
"Good," cried Gordon delightedly. "You prepare for thatfive-cent-cigar man. Now I want some food. Better ring down to therestaurant."
"Yes, sir. An oyster cocktail? Squab on toast, or a little pheasant?What about sweets, sir, and what wine will you take?"
"Great gods no, man! Nothing like that. Think of your five-cent-cigarman. What would he have? Why, sandwiches. You know, nice thick ones,mostly bread. No. Wait a bit. I know. A club sandwich. Two clubsandwiches, and a bottle of domestic lager. Two things Ihate--eternally. We must equip ourselves, Harding. We must mortifythe flesh. We must readjust our focus, and outrage all our moredelicate susceptibilities. We must reduce ourselves to therequirements of the five-cent-cigar man, and turn a happy, smilingworld into a dark and drear struggle for existence. See to it, goodHarding, see to it."
The man withdrew, puzzled. Used as he was to Gordon's vagaries, thethought of his master dining off two hideous club sandwiches and abottle of _domestic_ lager made his staunch stomach positively turn.
His perfect training, however, permitted of no verbal protest. And hewaited on the diner with as much care for punctilio as though a formalbanquet were in progress. Then came another violent shock to hisfeelings. Gordon leaned back in his chair with a sigh of amusedcontentment.
"Do you think you could get me a--five-cent cigar, Harding?" hedemanded. "Say, I enjoyed that food. That unique combination ofchicken, hot bacon and--and something pickly--why, it's great. And asfor _domestic_ lager--it's got wine beaten a mile. Guess I'm mightyanxious to explore a--five-cent cigar."
Harding cleared his throat.
"I'll do my best, sir. It may be difficult, but I'll do my best. I'llconsult the clerk downstairs. He smokes very bad cigars, sir."
"Good. You get busy. I'll be around in my den."
"Yes, sir," Harding hesitated. Then with an unusual diffidence,"Coffee, sir? A little of the '48 brandy, sir?"
Gordon stared.
"Can I believe my ears? Spoil a dinner like that with--'48 brandy?I'm astonished, Harding. That focus, man; that five-cent-cigar focus!"
Gordon hurried off into his den with a laugh. Harding gazed after himwith puzzled, respectful eyes.
Once in the privacy of his den, half office, half library, and wholly aroom of comfort, Gordon forgot his laugh. His mind was quite made up,and he knew that a long evening's work lay before him.
He picked up the receiver of his private 'phone to his father's officeand sat down at the desk.
"Hello! Hello! Ah! That you, Harker? Splendid. Guess I'm glad Icaught you. Working late, eh? Sure. It's the way in er--big finance.Yes. Got to lie awake at nights to do the other feller. Say. No.Oh, no, that's not what I rang you up for. It's about--finance. Ha,ha! It's a check for me. Did the governor leave me one? Good. Fivethousand dollars, isn't it? Well, say, don't place it to my credit.Get cash for it to-morrow, and send it along to---- Let me see. Yes,I know. You send along a bright clerk with it. He can meet me at thePennsylvania Depot to-morrow, at noon--sharp. Yes. In thewaiting-room. Get that? Good. So long."
"That's that," he muttered, as he replaced the receiver. "Now forCharlie Spiers."
He turned to the ordinary 'phone, picked up the receiver, gave theoperator the number, and waited.
"Hello! Hello, hello, hello! That you, Charlie? Bully. I wasn'tsure getting you. Guess my luck's right in. How are you? Goo----No, better not come around to-night. Fact is, I'm up to my back teethpacking and things. I've got to be away awhile. Business--important."He laughed. "Don't get funny. It's not play. No. Eh? What's that?A lady? Quit it. If there's a thing I can't stand just about now it'sa suggestion of immorality. I mean that. The word 'immoral' 's aboutenough to set me chasing Broadway barking and foaming at the mouth. Isaid I'm going away on business, and it's so important that not even mymother knows where I'm going. Yes. Ah, I'm glad you feel that way.It's serious. Now, listen to me; it's up to you to do me a kindness.I'm going to write the mater now and again. But I can't mail direct,or she'll know where I am, see? Well, I can send her mail under coverto you, and you can mail it on to her. Get me? Now, that way, you'llknow just where I am. That's so. Well, you've got to swear rightalong over the wire you won't tell a soul. Not the governor, or themater, or Gracie, or--or anybody. No, I don't need you to cuss like arailroader about it. Just swear properly. That's it. That's fine.On your soul and honor. Fine. I'm glad you added the 'honor' racket,it makes things plumb sure. Oh, yes, your soul's all right in its way.But---- Good-by, boy. I'll see you six months from to-day. No. Toobusy. So long."
Gordon hung up the receiver and turned back to his desk with a sigh.He opened a drawer and took out his check-book, and gave himself up toa few minutes of figures. There was not a great deal of money to hiscredit at the bank, but it was sufficient for his purposes. He wroteand signed three checks. Then he tore the remaining blanks up andflung them into the waste-basket.
After that he turned his attention to a systematic examination of hispapers. It was a long, and not uninteresting process, but one thattook a vast amount of patience. He tore up letter after letter,photographs, bills, every sort of document which a bachelor seemsalways to accumulate when troubled by the disease of youth.
In the midst of his labors he came across his father's private code forcable and telegraph. It brought back to him the memory of his positionas one of his father's secretaries. He smiled as he glanced throughit. It must be sent back to the office. He would hand it to the clerkwho brought him his money in the morning. So he placed it carefully inthe inside pocket of his coat and continued his labors.
Half an hour later Harding appeared.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said. "I had some difficulty, but"--he held upan oily-looking cigar with a flaming label about its middle, betweenhis finger and thumb--"I succeeded in obtaining one. I had to takethree surface cars, and finally had to go to Fourth Avenue. It was alower place than I expected, sir, seeing that it was a five-cent cigar."
"That means it cost me twenty cents, Harding--unless you were able totransfer."
Gordon eyed the man's expressionless face quizzically.
"I'm sorry, sir. But I forgot about the transfer tickets."
Gordon sighed with pretended regret.
"I'm sure guessing it's--bad finance. We ought to do better."
"I could have saved the fares if I'd taken your car, sir," saidHarding, with a flicker of the eyelids.
"Splendid, gasoline at thirteen cents, and the price of tires going up."
Gordon drummed on the desk with his fingers and became thoughtful. Hehad a painful duty yet to perform.
"Harding," he said at last, with a genuine sigh, his eyes painfullyserious. "We've got to go different ways. You've--got to quit."
The valet's face never moved a muscle.
"Yes, sir."
"Right away."
"Yes, sir."
Then the man cleared his throat, and laid the oily-looking cigar on thedesk.
"I trust, sir, I've given satisfaction?"
"Satisfaction?" Gordon's tone expressed the most cordial appreciation."Satisfaction don't express it. I couldn't have kept up the farce ofexistence without you. You are the best fellow in the world. Guessit's I who haven't given satisfaction."
"Yes, sir."
"Oh--you agree?"
"Yes, sir. That is, no, sir."
Harding passed one thin hand across his forehead, and the movement wasone of perplexity. It was the only gesture he permitted himself as anyexpression of feeling.
"I'm going away for six months--as a five-cent-cigar man," Gordon wenton, disguising his regret under a smile of humor. "I'm going awayon--business."
"Yes, sir." The respectful agreement came
in a monotonous tone.
"So you'll--just have to quit. That's all."
"Yes, sir."
"Ye-es."
"You will--need a man when you come back, sir?" The eagerness wasunmistakable to Gordon.
"I--hope so."
Harding's face brightened.
"I will accept temporary employment then, sir. Thank you, sir."
Gordon wondered. Then he cleared his throat, and held out two of thechecks he had written.
"Here's two months' wages," he said. "One is your due. Guess theother's the same, only--it's a present. Now, get this. You'll need tosee everything cleared right out of this shanty, and stored at theManhattan deposit. When that's done, get right along and report thingsto my father, and hand him your accounts for settlement. All my cigarsand cigarettes and wine and things, why, I guess you can have for apresent. It don't seem reasonable to me condemning you to five-centcigars and domestic lager. Now pack me one grip, as you said. I'llwear the suit I've got on. Mind, I need a grip I can totemyself--full."
"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"Why, yes." Gordon was smiling again. "Hand this check in at the bankwhen it opens to-morrow, and get me cash for it, and bring it rightalong. That's all, except you'd better get me another disgustingsandwich, and another bottle of tragedy beer for my supper. There'snothing else."
With a resolute air Gordon turned back to his work, as, with an obvioussigh of regret, Harding silently withdrew.