CHAPTER XXI

  A TRIFLE

  Few men were less given to dreaming than James Carbhoy. Usually he hadno spare time on his hands for such a pastime. Dreams? Well, perhapshe occasionally let imagination run riot amidst seas of amazingfigures, but that was all. All other dreams left him cold. Now it wasdifferent.

  He was reclining in an old-fashioned rocker chair outside the frontdoor of his prison. The air of the valley was soft and balmy, the sunwas setting, and a wealth of ever-changing colors tinted the distantmountain-tops; a wonderful sense of peace and security reignedeverywhere. So, somehow, he found himself dreaming.

  He filled the chair almost to overflowing and reveled in its comfort,just as he reveled in the comfort even of his prison. His hands wereclasped behind his iron-gray head, and he drank deeply of the pleasant,perfumed air. His captivity had already exceeded three weeks, and thefirst irritation of it had long since passed, leaving in its place aphilosophic resignation characteristic of the man. He no longer stroveseriously to solve the problem of his detention. During the first daysof his captivity he had thought hard, and the contemplation of possibledisaster to many enterprises resulting from this enforced absence hadtroubled him seriously, but as the days wore on and no word came fromhis captors his resignation quietly set in, and gradually a pleasantpeace reigned in place of stormy feelings.

  James Carbhoy possessed a considerable humor for a man who spent hislife in multiplying, subtracting and adding numerals which representedthe sum of his gains and losses in currency, and perhaps it was thiswhich so largely helped him. His temperament should undoubtedly havebeen at once harsh, sternly unyielding and bitterly avaricious. Inreality it was none of these things. It was his lot to cause money tomake money, and the work of it was something in the nature of anamusement. He was warm-hearted and human; he loved battle and thespirit of competition. Then, too, he possessed a deplorable love forthe knavery of modern financial methods. This was the underlyingtemperament which governed all his actions, and a warm, humankindliness saved him from many of the pitfalls into which such atemperament might well have trapped him.

  As he sat there basking in the evening sunlight he felt that on thewhole he rather owed his captors a debt of gratitude for introducinghim to a side of life which otherwise he might never have come intocontact with. He knew at the same time that such a feeling was just asabsurd as that the spirit of fierce resentment had so easily died downwithin him. All his interests were dependent upon his own efforts forsuccess, and here he was shut up, a prisoner, with these very affairs,for all he knew, going completely to the dogs.

  His conflicting feelings made him smile, and here it was that his humorserved him. After all, what did it matter? He knew that some one hadbested him. It was not the first time in his life that he had beenbested. Not by any means. But always in such cases he had ultimatelymade up the leeway and gained on the reach. Well, he supposed he woulddo so again. So he rested content and submitted to the pleasantsurroundings of his captivity.

  There was one feature of his position, however, which he seriously didresent. It was a feature which even his humor could not help him toendure with complacency. It was the simple presence of a Chinaman nearhim. He cordially detested Chinamen--so much so that, in all his greatfinancial undertakings, he did not possess one cent of interest in anyChinese enterprise.

  Hip-Lee was maddeningly ubiquitous. There was no escape from him. Ifthe millionaire's fellow prisoner, the pretty teamstress, entered hisroom to wait on him--and their captors seemed to have forced suchservice upon her--Hip-Lee was her shadow. If he himself elected to gofor a walk through the valley--a freedom accorded him from thefirst--there was not a moment but what a glance over his shoulder wouldhave revealed the lurking, silent, furtive figure in its blue smock,watchful of his every movement, while apparently occupied in anythingbut that peculiar form of pastime. James Carbhoy resented thissurveillance bitterly. Nor did he doubt that beneath that simple bluesmock a long knife was concealed, and, probably, a desire for murder.

  However, nothing of this was concerning him now. The hour was the hourof peace. The perfection of the scene he was gazing upon had cast itsspell about him, and he was dreaming--really dreaming of nothing. Thejoy of living was upon him, and, for the time being, nothing elsemattered.

  In the midst of his dreaming the sound of a footstep coming round theangle of the building to his right roused him to full alertness. Heglanced round quickly and withdrew his hands from behind his head.Mechanically he drew his cigar-case from an inner pocket and selected acigar. But he was expectant and curious, his feelings inspired by hisknowledge that Hip-Lee always moved soundlessly.

  His eyes were upon the limits of the house when the intrudermaterialized. Promptly a wave of pleasurable relief swept over him ashe beheld the pretty figure of his fellow captive. But he gave nosign, for the reason that the girl was obviously unaware of hispresence, and it yet remained to be seen if the yellow-faced reptile,Hip-Lee, was at hand as usual.

  He watched her silently. He was struck, too, by her expression of raptappreciation of the scene before her, which added further to hisreluctance to break the spell of her enjoyment. But as the hated bluesmock did not make its appearance, the man could no longer resisttemptation. The opportunity was too good to miss.

  "It's some scene," he said in a tone calculated not to startle her, hisgray eyes twinkling genially.

  But Hazel was startled. She was startled more than she cared about.Her one object was always to avoid contact with Gordon's father, exceptunder the watchful eyes, of Hip-Lee. She feared that keen, incisivebrain she knew to lie behind his steady gray eyes. She fearedquestions her wit was not ready enough to answer without disaster tothe plans of her fellow conspirators.

  She hated the part she was forced to play, but she was also determinedto play it with all her might. She must act now, and act well. So,with a resolute effort, she faced her victim.

  "I--I just didn't know you were here, sir," she said truthfully, whileher eyes lied an added alarm. "But--but talk low, or the----"

  "You're worrying over that mongrel Chink," said Carbhoy quickly. "Iexpected to see his leather features following you around. I guesshe's got ears as long as an ass, and just about twice as sharp. Say,I'm going to kill that mouse-colored serpent one of these times if hedon't quit his games. Say----"

  He broke off, studying the girl's pretty face speculatively. There wasno doubt her eyes wore a hunted expression--she intended them to.

  "They treating you--right?" he demanded.

  Hazel's effort was better than she knew as she strove for pathos.

  "Oh, yes, I s'pose so," she said hopelessly. "I'm let alone, and--Iget good food. It--it isn't that."

  "What is it?"

  The man's question came sharply.

  Hazel turned her face to the hills and sighed. The movement was wellcalculated.

  "It's my folks." Then, with a dramatic touch, "Say, Mr. Carbhoy, doyou guess we'll ever--get out of this? Do you think we'll get back toour folks? Sometimes I--oh, it's awful!"

  Her words carried conviction, and the man was taken in.

  "Say," he said quickly, "I'm making a big guess we'll get outlater--when things are fixed. This is not a ransom. But itmeans--dollars."

  He lit his cigar, and its aroma pleasantly scented the air.

  Hazel sighed with intense feeling--to disguise her inclination to laugh.

  "Yes, sir," she said hopelessly. "One hundred thousand dollars."

  Gordon's father smiled back at her.

  "I'd hate to think I was held up for less," he said. "It would sort ofwound my vanity."

  The girl could have hugged him for the serenity of his attitude.Nothing seemed to disturb him. She felt that Gordon had every reasonfor his devotion to his father, and ought to be well ashamed of himselffor submitting him to the outrage which had been perpetrated.

  "Who--who do you think has done this?" she hazard
ed hesitatingly."Slosson?"

  "Maybe. Though----"

  "Slosson should have met you himself," the girl declared emphatically.

  "He certainly should," replied Carbhoy, with cold emphasis. "He'llneed to explain that--later. Say, how did you come to be driving me?"

  Hazel suddenly felt cold in the warm air.

  "I was just engaged to, because Mr. Slosson couldn't go himself. Yousee, father has a spare team, and I do a goodish bit of driving. Yousee, we need to do 'most anything to get money here."

  "Yes, that's the way of things." The man's eyes were twinkling again,and Hazel began to hope that she was once more on firm ground.

  Nor was she disappointed when the man went on.

  "I guess we're all out after--dollars," he said reflectively. Then heremoved his cigar and luxuriously emitted a thin spiral smoke frombetween his pursed lips. "It don't seem the sort of work a girl likeyou should be at, though. Still, why not? It's a great play--chasingdollars. It's the best thing in life--wholesome and human. I'vealways felt that way about it, and as I've piled up the years and got apeek into motives and things I've felt more sure thatcompetition--that's fixing things right for ourselves out of thegeneral scrum of life--is the life intended for us by the Creator."

  Hazel nodded.

  "Life is competition," she observed, with a wise little smile.

  "Sure. That's why human nature is dishonest--has to be."

  There was a question in the girl's eyes which the millionaire wasprompt to detect.

  "Sure it's dishonest. Can you show me a detail of human nature whichis truly honest? Say, I've watched it all my life, I've built everysort of construction on it. Wherever I have built in the belief thathonesty is the foundation of human nature things have dropped with asmash. Now I know, and my faith is none the less. Human nature isdishonest. It's only a question of degree. I'm dishonest. You'redishonest. But in your case it's only in the higher ethical sense.You wouldn't steal a pocket-book. You wouldn't commit murder. But putyourself into competition with a girl friend baking a swell layer cake,calculated to disturb the digestion of an ostrich. Say, you'd resortto any old trick you could think of to fix her where you wanted her."

  Hazel laughed.

  "I wouldn't shoot her up, but--I'd do all I knew to beat her."

  "Just so."

  "After what's happened to us here I guess human nature isn't going tofind a champion in me," Hazel went on. "Still, it's pretty hard tolose your faith in human nature that way."

  "Lose? Who said 'lose'?" cried the man, with a cordial laugh. "Not I.If I suddenly found it 'honest,' why, I'd hate to go on living. Humannature's got to be just as it is. Honesty lies in Nature. That's thehonesty that folks talk about and dream about. It isn't practicable inhuman life. Dishonesty is the leavening that makes honesty, in theabstract, palatable. Say, think of it--if we were all honest likeidealists talk of. What would we have worth living for? Do you knowwhat would happen? Why, we'd all be sitting around making hymns foreverybody else to sing, till there was such an almighty hullabaloo we'dall get crazy and have to sign a petition to get it stopped. We'd allbe fixed up in a sort of white suit that wouldn't ever need a laundry,and every blamed citizen would start right in to turn the world into asort of hell by always telling the truth. Just think what it wouldmean if you had to tell some friend of yours what you thought of herfor sneaking your latest beau."

  "It certainly would be liable to cause a deal of trouble," laughedHazel.

  "Trouble? I should say." The millionaire chuckled softly as hereturned his cigar to his mouth. "Say, I was reading the obituary of apreacher--my wife's favorite--the other day. He lost his grip on lifeand fell through. That reporter boy was bright, and I wondered when Iwas reading what he'd have said if he'd spoke the truth as he saw it.To read that obituary you'd think that preacher feller was the greatestsaint ever lived. I felt I could have wept over that poor feller, thetalk was so elegant and poetic. I just felt the worst worm ever livedbeside that preacher. I felt I ought to spend the last five dollars Ihad to fix his grave up with pure white lilies, if I had to go withoutfood to do it. It was fine. But the writer never said a word aboutthat preacher living in a swell house in Fifth Avenue, and the $20,000he took every year for his job, and the elegant automobile he chasedaround to the houses of his rich congregation in. If he'd died in theslums on the east side I guess that newspaper wouldn't ever have heardof him, and that writer wouldn't have got dollars for the prettylanguage it was his job to scratch together for such an occasion."

  "It doesn't sound nice put that way," sighed Hazel. "I suppose it'sall competition even trying to make folks live right. I suppose thatpreacher was successful in his calling--the same as you are in yours.I suppose his human nature was no different to other folks'."

  "That's it. Life's splendidly dishonest and a perfect sham. Come tothink of it, Ananias must have been all sorts of a great man to besingled out of a world of liars. On the other hand, he'd have had somerival in the feller who first accused George Washington of never lying.Psha! life's a great play, and I'd hate it to be different from what itis. We're all just as dishonest as we can be and still keep out ofpenitentiary: which makes me feel mighty sorry for them that don't.From the fisherman to the Sunday-school teacher we're all liars, and ifyou charged us with it we'd deny it, or worse, and thereby add furtherproof to the charge. I've thought a deal over this hold-up, and itseems to me those guys bluffed us some."

  "You mean about the--ransom," said Hazel, the last sign of amusementdying swiftly out of her eyes.

  "Why, yes." The millionaire smoked in silence for some moments. Thenquite suddenly he removed the cigar from between his lips. "Maybe youdon't know I'm working on a big land scheme in these parts. It seemsto me some bright gang intend to roll me for my wad. I don't guessSlosson's in it."

  "Then who is it, sir?" demanded the girl, with unconscious sharpness.

  The man's steady eyes surveyed her through their half-closed lids. Heshook his head.

  "I can't just say--yet. We'll find out in good time." His smile wasquietly confident. "Anyway, for the moment some one's got the drop onme, and I'll just have to sit around. But--it's pretty tough on you,Miss--Miss----"

  "Mallinsbee," said Hazel, without thinking.

  "Mallinsbee?"

  The man's gray eyes became suddenly alert, and Hazel felt like killingherself. She believed, in that one unguarded moment, she had ruinedeverything. She held her breath and turned quickly towards the settingsun, lest her face should betray her.

  Then her terror passed as she heard the quiet, kindly laugh of the manas he began speaking again.

  "Well, Miss Mallinsbee, here we are, and here we've just got to stay.I came here to get the best of a deal. We're all out to do some one orsomething, somehow or somewhere. It don't much matter who. And when aman acts right he don't squeal when the other feller's on top. He justsits around till it's his move, and then he'll try and get things back.I'm not squealing. It's my turn to sit around--that's all. Meanwhile,with the comforts at my disposal--good wines, good cigars and mountainair--I'm having some vacation. If it weren't for that darned Chinkwith his detestable blue suit I'd----"

  "Hush!" Hazel had turned and held up a warning finger.

  In response the man glanced sharply about him. There, sure enough,standing silent and immovable at the corner of the building, was thehated vision of blue with its crowning features of dull yellow.

  James Carbhoy flung himself back in his rocker. All the humor andpleasure had been banished from his strong face, and only disgustremained.

  "Oh, hell!" he exclaimed, and flung his cigar with all his force in thedirection of the intruder.