CHAPTER XV
BEING SICCED ON PERCEY
Maybe it ain't figured in the headlines, or been noised around enoughfor the common stockholders to get panicky over it, but, believe me, itwas some battle! Uh-huh! What else could you expect with Old HickoryEllins on one side and George Wesley Jones on the other? And me? Say,as it happens, I was right on the firin' line. Talk about your drummerboys of '61--I guess the office boy of this A. M. ain't such a dead one!
Course I knew when Piddie begins tiptoein' around important, and Mr.Robert cuts his lunchtime down to an hour, that there's something inthe air besides humidity.
"Boy," says Old Hickory, shootin' his words out past the stub of athick black cigar, "I'm expecting a Mr. Jones sometime this afternoon."
"Yes, Sir," says I. "Any particular Jones, Sir?"
"That," says he, "is a detail with which you need not burden your mind.I am not anticipating a convention of Joneses."
"Oh!" says I. "I was only thinkin' that in case some other guy by thesame names should----"
"Yes, I understand," he breaks in; "but in that remote contingency Iwill do my best to handle the situation alone. And when Mr. Jonescomes show him in at once. After that I am engaged for the remainderof the day. Is that quite clear?"
"I'm next," says I. "Pass a Jones, and then set the block."
If he thought he could mesmerize me by any such simple motions as thathe had another guess. Why, even if it had been my first day on thejob, I'd have been hep that it wa'n't any common weekday Jones he wasexpectin' to stray in accidental. Besides, the minute I spots thatlong, thin nose, the close-cropped, grizzly mustache, and the tiredgray eyes with the heavy bags underneath, I knew it was George Wesleyhimself. Ain't his pictures been printed often enough lately?
He looks the part too, and no wonder! If I'd been hammered the way hehas, with seventeen varieties of Rube Legislatures shootin' my pastcareer as full of holes as a Swiss cheese, grand juries handin' downnew indictments every week end, four thousand grouchy share-holdershowlin' about pared dividends, and twice as many editorial pensproddin' 'em along----well, take it from me, I'd be on my way towardsthe tall trees with my tongue hangin' out!
Here he is, though, with his shoulders back and a sketchy, sarcasticsmile flickerin' in his mouth corners as he shows up for a hand-to-handset-to with Old Hickory Ellins. Course it's news to me that theCorrugated interests and the P., B. & R. road are mixed up anywherealong the line; but it ain't surprisin'.
Besides mines and rollin' mills, we do a wholesale grocery business,run a few banks, own a lot of steam freighters, and have all kinds ofqueer ginks on our payroll, from welfare workers to would-be statesmen.We're always ready to slip one of our directors onto a railroad boardtoo; so I takes it that the way P., B. & R. has been juggled lately wasa game that touches us somewhere on the raw. Must be some kind of awar on the slate, or Old Hickory'd never called for a topliner likeGeorge Wesley Jones to come on the carpet. If it had been a case ofpassin' the peace pipe, Mr. Ellins would be goin' out to Chicago to seehim.
"Mr. Jones, Sir," says I, throwin' the private office door wide open soit would take me longer to shut it.
But Old Hickory don't intend to give me any chance to pipe off thegreetin'. He just glances casual at Mr. Jones, then fixes themrock-drill eyes of his on me, jerks his thumb impatient over hisshoulder, and waits until there's three inches of fireproof materialbetween me and the scene of the conflict.
So I strolls back to my chair behind the brass rail and winksmysterious at the lady typists. Two of 'em giggles nervous. Say, theygot more curiosity, them flossy key pounders! Not one of the bunch butwhat knew things was doin'; but what it was all about would have takenme a week to explain to 'em, even if I'd known myself.
And I expect I wouldn't have had more'n a vague glimmer, either, if ithadn't been for Piddie. You might know he'd play the boob somehow ifanything important was on. Say, if he'd trotted in there once durin'the forenoon he'd been in a dozen times; seein' that the inkwells wasfilled, puttin' on new desk blotters, and such fool things as that.Yet about three-fifteen, right in the middle of the bout, he has toanswer a ring, and it turns out he's forgotten some important papers.
"Here, Boy," says he, comin' out peevish, "this must go to Mr. Ellinsat once."
"Huh!" says I, glancin' at the file title. "Copy of charter of thePalisades Electric! At once is good. Ought to have been on Mr.Ellins's desk hours ago."
"Boy!" he explodes threatenin'.
"Ah, ditch the hysterics, Peddie!" says I. "It's all right now I'm onthe job," and with a grin to comfort him I slips through Mr. Robert'sroom and taps on the door of the boss's private office before blowin'in.
And, say, it looks like I've arrived almost in time for the finalclinch. Old Hickory is leanin' forward earnest, his jaw shoved out,his eyes narrowed to slits, and he's poundin' the chair arm with hisbig ham fist.
"What I want to know, Jones," he's sayin', "is simply this: Are yourfolks going to drop that Palisades road scheme, or aren't you?"
Course, I can't break into a dialogue at a point like that; so I closesthe door gentle behind me and backs against the knob, watchin' GeorgeWesley, who's sittin' there with his chin down and his eyes on the rug.
"Really, Ellins," says he, "I can't give you an answer to that.I--er--I must refer you to our Mr. Sturgis."
"Eh?" snaps old Hickory. "Sturgis! Who the syncopated sculping isSturgis?"
"Why," says Mr. Jones, "Percey J. Sturgis. He is my personal agent inall such matters, and this--well, this happens to be his petenterprise."
"But it would parallel our proposed West Point line," says Mr. Ellins.
"I know," says G. Wesley, sighin' weary. "But he secured his charterfor this two years ago, and I promised to back him. He insists onpushing it through too. I can't very well call him off, you see."
"Can't, eh?" raps out Old Hickory. "Then let me try. Send for him."
"No use," says Mr. Jones. "He understands your attitude. He wouldn'tcome. I should advise, if you have any proposal to make, that you senda representative to him."
"I go to him," snorts Mr. Ellins, "to this understrapper of yours, thisMr. Percey--er----"
"Sturgis," puts in George Wesley. "He has offices in our building.And, really, it's the only way."
Old Hickory glares and puffs like he was goin' to blow a cylinder head.But that's just what Hickory Ellins don't do at a time like this. Whenyou think he's nearest to goin' up with a bang, that's the time whenhe's apt to calm down sudden and shift tactics. He does now.Motionin' me to come to the front, he takes the envelope I hands over,glances at it thoughtful a second, and then remarks casual:
"Very well, Jones. I'll send a representative to your Mr. Sturgis.I'll send Torchy, here."
I don't know which of us gasped louder, me or George Wesley. Got himin the short ribs, that proposition did. But, say, he's a game oldsport, even if the papers are callin' him everything from highwayrobber to yellow dog. He shrugs his shoulders and bows polite.
"As you choose, Ellins," says he.
Maybe he thinks it's a bluff; but it's nothing like that.
"Boy," says Old Hickory, handin' back the envelope, "go find Mr. PerceyJ. Sturgis, explain to him that the president of the P., B. & R. isbound under a personal agreement not to parallel any lines in which theCorrugated holds a one-third interest. Tell him I demand that he quiton this Palisades route. If he won't, offer to buy his blastedcharter. Bid up to one hundred thousand, then 'phone me. Got allthat?"
"I could say it backwards," says I. "Shake the club first; then wavethe kale at him. Do I take a flyin' start?"
"Go now," says Old Hickory. "We will wait here until five. If hewants to know who you are, tell him you're my office boy."
Wa'n't that rubbin' in the salt, though? But it ain't safe to stir upHickory Ellins unless you got him tied to a post, and even then youwant to use a long stick. As I sails out and grabs my new fall derbyoff the
peg Piddie asks breathless:
"What's the matter now, and where are you off to?"
"Outside business for the boss," says I. "Buyin' up a railroad forhim, that's all."
I left him purple in the face, dashes across to the Subway, and insideof fifteen minutes I'm listenin' fidgety while a private secretaryexplains how Mr. Sturgis is just leavin' town on important business andcan't possibly see me today.
"Deah-uh me!" says I. "How distressin'! Say, you watch me flag him onthe jump."
"But I've just told you," insists the secretary, "that Mr. Sturgiscannot----"
"Ah, mooshwaw!" says I. "This is a case of must--see? If you put meout I'll lay for him on the way to the elevator."
Course with some parties that might be a risky tackle; but anyone witha front name like Percey I'm takin' a chance on. Percey! Listens likeone of the silky-haired kind that wears heliotrope silk socks, don'tit? But, say, what finally shows up is a wide, heavy built gent with abig, homespun sort of face, crispy brown hair a little long over theears, and the steadiest pair of bright brown eyes I ever saw. Nothingfancy or frail about Percey J. Sturgis. He's solid and substantial,from his wide-soled No. 10's up to the crown of his seven three-quarterhat. He has a raincoat thrown careless over one arm, and he's smokin'a cigar as big and black as any of Old Hickory's.
"Well, what is it, Son?" says he in one of them deep barytones that youfeel all the way through to your backbone.
And this is what I've been sent out either to scare off or buy up!Still, you can't die but once.
"I'm from Mr. Ellins of the Corrugated Trust," says I.
"Ah!" says he, smilin' easy.
Well, considerin' how my knees was wabblin', I expect I put theproposition over fairly strong.
"You may tell Mr. Ellins for me," says he, "that I don't intend toquit."
"Then it's a case of buy," says I. "What's the charter worth, spotcash?"
"Sorry," says he, "but I'm too busy to talk about that just now. I'mjust starting for North Jersey."
"Suppose I trail along a ways then?" says I. "Mr. Ellins is waitin'for an answer."
"Is he?" says Percey J. "Then come, if you wish." And what does he dobut tow me down to a big tourin' car and wave me into one of the backseats with him. Listens quiet to all I've got to say too, while we'retearin' uptown, noddin' his head now and then, with them wide-set browneyes of his watchin' me amused and curious. But the scare I'm tryin'to throw into him don't seem to take effect at all.
"Let's see," says he, as we rolls onto the Fort Lee ferry, "just whatis your official position with the Corrugated?"
I'd planned to shoot it at him bold and crushin'. But somehow it don'thappen that way.
"Head office boy," says I, blushin' apologizin'; "but Mr. Ellins sentme out himself."
"Indeed?" says he. "Another of his original ideas. A brilliant man,Mr. Ellins."
"He's some stayer in a scrap, believe me!" says I. "And he's got theharpoon out for this Palisades road."
"So have a good many others," says Mr. Sturgis, chucklin'. "In fact, Idon't mind admitting that I am as near to being beaten on thisenterprise as I've ever been on anything in any life. But if I ambeaten, it will not be by Mr. Ellins. It will be by a hard-headed oldScotch farmer who owns sixty acres of scrubby land which I must crossin order to complete my right of way. He won't sell a foot. I've beentrying for six months to get in touch with him; but he's as stubborn asa cedar stump. And if I don't run a car over rails before next June mycharter lapses. So I'm going up now to try a personal interview. If Ifail, my charter isn't worth a postage stamp. But, win or lose, itisn't for sale to Hickory Ellins."
He wa'n't ugly about it. He just states the case calm andconversational; but somehow you was dead sure he meant it.
"All right," says I. "Then maybe when I see how you come out I'll havesomething definite to report."
"You should," says he.
That's where we dropped the subject. It's some swell ride we had upalong the top of the Palisades, and on and on until we're well acrossthe State line into New York. Along about four-thirty he says we'remost there. We was rollin' through a jay four corners, where thepostoffice occupies one window of the gen'ral store, with the MasonicLodge overhead, when alongside the road we comes across a littletow-headed girl, maybe eight or nine, pawin' around in the grass andsobbin' doleful.
"Hold up, Martin," sings out Mr. Sturgis to the chauffeur, and Martinjams on his emergency so the brake drums squeal.
What do you guess? Why Percey J. climbs out, asks the kid gentle whatall the woe is about, and discovers that she's lost a whole nickel thatDaddy has given her to buy lolly-pops with on account of its bein' herbirthday.
"Now that's too bad, isn't it, little one?" says Mr. Sturgis. "But Iguess we can fix that. Come on. Martin, take us back to the store."
Took out his handkerchief, Percey did, and swabbed off the tear stains,all the while talkin' low and soothin' to the kid, until he got hercalmed down. And when they came out of the store she was carryin' apound box of choc'late creams tied up flossy with a pink ribbon. Withher eyes bugged and so tickled she can't say a word, she lets go of hishand and dashes back up the road, most likely bent on showin' the folksat home the results of the miracle that's happened to her.
That's the kind of a guy Percey J. Sturgis is, even when he has worriesof his own. You'd most thought he was due for a run of luck after akind act like that. But someone must have had their fingers crossed;for as Martin backs up to turn around he connects a rear tire with abroken ginger ale bottle and--s-s-s-sh! out goes eighty-five pounds'pressure to the square inch. No remark from Mr. Sturgis. He lights afresh cigar and for twenty-five minutes by the dash clock Martin isbusy shiftin' that husky shoe.
So we're some behind schedule when we pulls up under the horse chestnuttrees a quarter of a mile beyond in front of a barny, weather-beatenold farmhouse where there's a sour-faced, square-jawed old piratesittin' in a home made barrel chair smokin' his pipe and scowlin'gloomy at the world in gen'ral. It's Ross himself. Percey J. don'twaste any hot air tryin' to melt him. He tells the old guy plain andsimple who he is and what he's after.
"Dinna talk to me, Mon," says Ross. "I'm no sellin' the farm."
"May I ask your reasons?" says Mr. Sturgis.
Ross frowns at him a minute without sayin' a word. Then he pries thestubby pipe out from the bristly whiskers and points a crooked fingertoward a little bunch of old apple trees on a low knoll.
"Yon's my reason, Mon," says he solemn. "Yon wee white stone. Threebairns and the good wife lay under it. I'm no sae youthful mysel'.And when it's time for me to go I'd be sleepin' peaceful, with none o'your rattlin' trolley cars comin' near. That's why, Mon."
"Thank you, Mr. Ross," says Percey J. "I can appreciate yoursentiments. However, our line would run through the opposite side ofyour farm, away over there. All we ask is a fifty-foot strip acrossyour----"
"You canna have it," says Ross decided, insertin' the pipe once more.
Which is where most of us would have weakened, I expect. Not Mr.Sturgis.
"Just a moment, Friend Ross," says he. "I suppose you know I have theP., B. & R. back of me, and it's more than likely that your neighborshave said things about us. There is some ground for prejudice too.Our recent stock deals look rather bad from the outside. There havebeen other circumstances that are not in our favor. But I want toassure you that this enterprise is a genuine, honest attempt to benefityou and your community. It is my own. It is part of the generalpolicy of the road for which I am quite willing to be held largelyresponsible. Why, I've had this project for a Palisades trolley roadin mind ever since I came on here a poor boy, twenty-odd years ago, andtook my first trip down the Hudson. This ought to be a rich,prosperous country here. It isn't. A good electric line, such as Ipropose to build, equipped with heavy passenger cars and running acheap freight service, would develop this section. It would open tothe public a hundred-mile trip
that for scenic grandeur could beequaled nowhere in this country. Are you going to stand in the way,Mr. Ross, of an enterprise such as that?"
Yep, he was. He puffs away just as mulish as ever.
"Of course," goes on Percey, "it's nothing to you; but the one ambitionof my life has been to build this road. I want to do for this districtwhat some of our great railroad builders did for the big West. I'm nota city-bred theorist, nor a Wall Street stock manipulator. I was bornin a one-story log house on a Minnesota farm, and when I was a boy wehauled our corn and potatoes thirty miles to a river steamboat. Thenthe railroad came through. Now my brothers sack their crops almostwithin sight of a grain elevator. They live in comfortable houses,send their children to good schools. So do their neighbors. Therailroad has turned a wilderness into a civilized community. On asmaller scale here is a like opportunity. If you will let us have thatfifty-foot strip----"
"Na, Mon, not an inch!" breaks in Ross.
How he could stick to it against that smooth line of talk I couldn'tsee. Why, say, it was the most convincin', heart-throbby stuff I'dever listened to, and if it had been me I'd made Percey J. a present ofthe whole shootin' match.
"But see here, Mr. Ross," goes on Sturgis, "I would like to show youjust what we----"
"Daddy! Daddy!" comes a pipin' hail from somewhere inside, and outdances a barefooted youngster in a faded blue and white dress. It'sthe little heroine of the lost nickel. For a second she gawps at ussort of scared, and almost decides to scuttle back into the house.Then she gets another look at Percey J., smiles shy, and sticks onefinger in her mouth. Percey he smiles back encouragin' and holds out abig, friendly hand. That wins her.
"Oh, Daddy!" says she, puttin' her little fist in Percey'sconfidential. "It's the mans what gimme the candy in the pitty box!"
As for Daddy Ross, he stares like he couldn't believe his eyes. Butthere's the youngster cuddled up against Percey J.'s knee and glancin'up at him admirin'.
"Is ut so, Mon?" demands Ross husky, "Was it you give the lass thesweeties?"
"Why, yes," admitted Sturgis.
"Then you shall be knowin'," goes on Ross, "that yon lassie is all Ihave left in the world that I care a bawbee for. You've done it, Mon.Tak' as much of the farm as you like at your own price."
Well, that's the way Percey J. Sturgis won out. A lucky stroke, eh?Take it from me, there was more'n that in it. Hardly a word he saysdurin' the run back; for he's as quiet and easy when he's on top aswhen he's the under dog. We shakes hands friendly as he drops meuptown long after dark.
I had all night to think it over; but when I starts for Old Hickory'soffice next mornin' I hadn't doped out how I was goin' to put it.
"Well, what about Percey?" says he.
"He's the goods," says I.
"Couldn't scare him, eh?" says Old Hickory.
"Not if I'd been a mile high," says I. "He won't sell, either. Andsay, Mr. Ellins, you want to get next to Percey J. The way I look atit, this George Wesley Jones stiff ain't the man behind him; Percey isthe man behind Jones."
"H-m-m-m-m!" says Old Hickory. "I knew there was someone; but Icouldn't trace him. So it's Sturgis, eh? That being so, we need himwith us."
"But ain't he tied up with Jones?" says I.
"Jones is a dead dog," says Old Hickory. "At least, he will be insideof a week."
That was some prophecy, eh? Read in the papers, didn't you, how G.Wesley cables over his resignation from Baden Two Times? Couldn'tstand the strain. The directors are still squabblin' over who to putin as head of the P., B. & R.; but if you want to play a straightinside tip put your money on Percey J. Uh-huh! Him and Old Hickoryhave been confabbin' in there over an hour now, and if he hadn'tflopped to our side would Mr. Ellins be tellin' him funny stories?Anyway, we're backin' that Palisades line now, and it's goin' throughwith a whoop.
Which is earnin' some int'rest on a pound of choc'lates and a smile.What?