I think Taylor was almost as surprised as Eldredge had been, when, at half-past eight the following morning, I appeared at the bank. He was already at his desk and, when he looked up and saw me, he whistled.
“Whew!” he exclaimed. “So. I didn't dream it, after all. You're here, ain't you.”
“I am here,” I answered, opening the gate and stepping in behind the rail.
“Going to take it back and say you never said it?”
“No.”
“Come to go to work? Really?”
“That is my intention, unless you have changed your mind.”
“Not me. It ain't likely. But, Ros, I—sit down a minute and let's talk. What are you doing this for?”
It was a question I had been asking myself at intervals during a restless night. Now I gave the only truthful answer.
“I don't know,” I said.
“You don't know!”
“No. And I don't seem to care. Suppose we don't talk about it. I am here, and I am ready to begin work. That's enough, isn't it?”
“Why, no; not quite. You're not doing it just to help me out?”
“No.”
“You don't need to work. You've got money enough.”
“No, I haven't. But money isn't my reason. I haven't any reason. Now show me the books, will you?”
“Don't be in a hurry. What does your mother think about it?”
“I haven't told her yet. Time enough for that when I know that I really mean it and you know that I am competent to fill the position. George, if you keep on cross-examining me I am likely to quit before I begin. I don't know why I am doing this, but just now I think I am going to do it if I can. However, I am not sure. So you had better be careful.”
“Humph! What did you catch up at that pond yesterday? I never saw a day's fishing make such a difference in a man in my life. . . . All right, Ros. All right. I won't pester you. Too glad to have you here for that. Now about the salary.”
“Before we speak of that there is one more point. How about your directors? Dean and the rest? Do they know you offered me the position?”
“Sure thing! They put the whole affair in my hands. They'll be satisfied. And as for Cap'n Jed—why, he was the one that suggested hiring you in the first place.”
“Captain Jed! Captain Jed Dean! HE suggested it?”
“Yup. In a way, he did. You may not know it, Ros, but you've made a good deal of a hit with the old man. He ain't been used to having anybody stand up to him as you have. As a general thing Denboro jumps when he snaps the whip. You didn't, and he couldn't understand why. He is the kind that respects anything they can't understand. Then, too, Nellie likes you, and she's his idol, you know. Ah hum!”
He sighed and, for a moment, seemed to forget me altogether. I reminded him by another question.
“But why should the captain think of me for this place?” I asked. “Why should he dream that I would take it? I gave you no encouragement.”
“I don't know as he did dream it. But he and I were speaking of you and he said he'd like to do something to show you what the town thought of your holding out against Colton. That tickled him down to the keel. I said you'd be a first-class helper to me in this bank, that I heard you knew something about banking—”
“George!”
“It's all right. I only mentioned that I heard rumors that you were in a city bank somewhere at one time. He didn't ask any more and I shouldn't have told him if he had. But the idea pleased him, I could see that. 'Why don't you try to get him?' says he. 'Maybe the days of miracles ain't past. Perhaps even he'd condescend to work, if the right job came his way.'”
“So that's what you call his suggesting me, do you? Humph!”
“Well, I told him about it last night, when I was up to see Nellie, and he was pleased as Punch. Surprised, of course, but pleased. He's practically the whole board, as far as settling things is concerned, so it is all right. He ain't the worst friend you've got, by a long shot.”
I imagined that I understood what Captain Jed's “friendship” meant. My accepting the bank position was one more bond binding me to his side in the Shore Lane battle. And, so long as I was under Taylor's eye and his own, I could not be subject to the Colton influence.
George and I discussed the question of salary, if his offer and my prompt acceptance might be called a discussion. The pay was not large to begin with, but it was more than I had a right to expect. And I was perfectly honest when I said that money was not the consideration which led me to make the sudden change in my habit of life. I was sick of idleness; I had longed for something to occupy my life and time; I might as well be doing this as anything; Taylor's offer had appealed to me when he first made it; these were the excuses I evolved for my own satisfaction and I tried to believe them real. But one reason I would not admit, even in my thoughts, as a possibility. It was not that girl, or anything she had said, which influenced me. No! over and over again—no.
Sam Wheeler, the young fellow who acted as assistant bookkeeper and messenger, came in, and Taylor, after showing me the books and giving me a few hints as to what my duties would be, turned me over to him for further instruction. I found I needed but little. The pages, with their rows of figures, seemed like old friends. I almost enjoyed poring over them. Was it possible that I was going to like this new venture of mine?
Before noon I was fairly certain of it. The work in a country bank is different from that in the large city institutions, in that it is by no means as specialized. I found that, later on, I should be expected to combine the work of teller with that of bookkeeper. And this, too, seemed natural. I worked as steadily as I could, considering interruptions, and the forenoon was over almost before I knew it.
The interruptions, however, were numerous and annoying; some of them, too, were amusing. Depositors came, saw me behind the bars of the window, and, after expressing their astonishment, demanded to know what I was doing there. If I had answered all the questions put to me by the curious Denboroites I should have found time for little else. But Taylor helped me by shooing the curious ones away. “Don't bother the new hand,” he said. “If you want to know particulars ask me. Anything I don't tell you you can read in next week's Item. This is a bank, not a question box.”
Captain Elisha Warren came in and was as surprised as the rest. After an interview with the cashier he returned to my window and requested me to open up. When I did so he reached in a big hand and seized mine.
“Shake, Ros,” he said, heartily. “I'm glad for the bank and I'm gladder still for you. Come hard at fust, does it?”
“A little,” I confessed. “Not as hard as I expected, though.”
“Fust day or two out of port is always the toughest. You'll get your sea legs on pretty soon. Then you'll be glad you shipped, I cal'late.”
“I hope so,” I answered, rather dubiously.
“I know you will. There's nothin' so tiresome as doin' nothin'. I know, because that's been my job for quite a spell. Seems sometimes as if I'd have a fit, I get so sick of loafin'.”
His idea of a “loaf” was rising at six and weeding his garden, superintending the labor on his cranberry swamps or about his barns and grounds, attending bank and Selectmen's meetings, and generally keeping busy until sunset.
“I tell Abbie, my housekeeper,” he continued, “that if 'twan't for my age I believe I'd go to sea again just to keep from fallin' apart with dry rot. I asked her if she'd noticed how my timbers creaked, and she said I didn't keep still long enough for her to notice anything. Ho! ho! Nothin' makes her more provoked than for me to mention gettin' old or goin' to sea. All the same, I envy you your youth, Ros. You've got your life afore you, and I'm glad to see that you're goin' to make somethin' of it. I always said you'd wake up if somebody give you a punch. Who punched you, Ros?”
My reply was non-committal.
“Better mind my own business, hadn't I,” he observed. “All right, I will. No offense meant, you understand. But, you see, I've never believed that work was the cuss of mankind, like some folks, and no matter how much money a young feller's got I think he's better off doin' somethin'. That's the gospel accordin' to Elisha. Well, good luck and a pleasant v'yage. See you again soon. Say,” turning back, “keep an eye on George, will you? Folks in love are l'ble to be absent-minded, they tell me, and I should not want him to be absent with any of my money. Hear that, do you, George?”
Taylor, who was standing near, laughed and walked away. A moment later I saw him looking out of the window with the same strange expression on his face which I had noticed several times before when his approaching marriage was hinted at. Something was troubling him, that was plain. He loved Nellie devotedly, I knew; yet he obviously did not like to hear the marriage mentioned.
Sim Eldredge was one of the first visitors to the bank, but his visit was a short one. He entered the door, walked straight to the teller's window and peered through the bars. I heard him catch his breath.
“Good morning, Sim,” said I. “What can I do for you?”
“Do?” he repeated. “Do for me? Nothin'—nothin', 'special. You—you meant it, then?”
“I told you I did.”
“My soul!” was all the answer he made. Then he turned and walked out.
At about eleven o'clock I was half-way through the addition of a column of figures when I heard some one say, “Well, by time!” with such anguished fervor that it was almost like a prayer for help. I looked up. Lute Rogers was staring in at me, open-mouthed and horror-stricken.
“Hello, Lute!” I said.
Lute swallowed hard.
“They told me 'twas so,” he stammered. “They said so and—and I laughed at 'em. Ros, you ain't, be you?”
“What?”
“Goin' to stay in there and—and take Henry's job?”
“Yes.”
“You be! And you never said nothin' to nobody? To Dorinda? Or even Comfort?”
“No; not yet.”
“Nor to me. To ME, by time! You let them fellers at the store make a fool of me—”
“No one could do that, Lute. I have told you so often.”
“And you let them know it afore I did. And me livin' right in the house with you! By time! I—I—”
“There, there, Lute! don't cry. I'll tell you all about it when I come home for dinner.”
“Yes, I should think you might do that much. Treatin' your own family like—why did you tell Sim Eldredge?”
“Sim asked me and so I told him, that was all. Don't stand there fidgeting. Run along home, there's a good fellow. Mr. Taylor has his eye on you already.”
Lute glanced apprehensively toward the cashier's desk and turned to go.
“Well!” he exclaimed, “I've said you was crazy more'n once, that's some satisfaction. Say! can I tell 'em to home?”
I hesitated. “You may tell Dorinda if you like,” I answered. “But I prefer to tell Mother, myself.”
George rose from his desk just then and Lute hurried to the door. I smiled. I imagined his arrival in our kitchen and how he would explode the sensational news upon his unsuspecting wife.
But I was not altogether calm, though I did my best to appear so, when I entered that kitchen at a quarter past twelve. Lute was seated in a chair by the window, evidently watching and waiting. He sprang up as I entered.
“Set down,” ordered Dorinda, who was taking a clam pie from the oven. She merely nodded when I came in. Dorinda often spoke in meeting against “sinful pride”; yet she had her share of pride, sinful or not. She would not ask questions or deign to appear excited, not she.
“But Dorinda,” cried her husband, “it's Ros. Don't you see?”
“You set down, Lute Rogers. Well,” turning to me, “dinner's ready, if you are.”
“I shall be in a few minutes,” I answered. “I want to see Mother first.”
Breaking the news to Mother was a duty which I dreaded. But it turned out to be not dreadful at all. Mother was surprised, of course, but she did not offer a single objection. Her principal feeling seemed to be curiosity as to my reasons for the sudden change.
“Of course, Roscoe, if you are happier I shall be, too,” she said. “I know it must have been very dull for you here. My conscience has troubled me not a little all these years. I realize that a man, a young man like you, needs an interest in life; he wants something more than the care and companionship of a useless creature like me.”
“Mother, how often have I told you not to speak like that.”
“But he does. Many times, when you and I have been here together, I have been on the point of urging you to leave me and go back to the world and take your place in it. More than once, you remember, dear, I have hinted at such a thing, but you have always chosen not to understand the hints, and I have been so weak and selfish that I have not pressed them. I am glad you have done this, if it seems right to you. But does it? Are you sure?”
“I think so, Mother. I confess I am not sure.”
“This country bank is a pretty small place, isn't it? Not big enough for my boy to prove his worth in.”
“It is quite big enough for that. That doesn't require a Rothschild's establishment.”
“But your decision must have been a very sudden one. You did not mention that you thought of such a thing. Not even to me.”
“It was sudden,” I answered. “I took the position on the spur of the moment.”
“But why? What led you to do it?”
“I don't know, Mother.”
“What influenced you? Has any one urged you?”
“George Taylor offered me the place some time ago. He urged me.”
“No one else?”
I avoided the issue. “You don't mind, then, Mother,” I said. “You are willing that I should try the experiment?”
“I am glad, if it pleases you. And you must let me say this now, Roscoe, because it is true and I mean it. If another and better opportunity comes to you, one that might take you away from Denboro—and from me—for a time, of course, I want you to promise me that you will not refuse it on my account. Will you promise?”
“No. Of course I shan't promise any such thing. Is it likely that I would leave you, Mother?”
“I know that you would not leave me unless I were willing for you to go. I know that, Roscoe. But I am much better and stronger than I was. I shall never be well—”
“Don't say that,” I interrupted, hastily.
“But I must say it, because it is true. I shall never be well, but I am strong enough now to bear the thought of your leaving me and when the time comes I shall insist upon your doing so. I am glad we have had this talk, dear. I am glad, too, that you are going to be busy once more in the way you like and ought to be. You must tell me about your work every day. Now go, because your dinner is ready and, of course, you must be getting back to the bank. Kiss me, Boy.”
And as I bent over her she put her arms about my neck.
“Boy,” she whispered, “I know there is some reason for your doing this, a reason which you have not told me. You will tell me some day, won't you?”
I straightened hurriedly and tried to laugh. “Of course I'll tell you, Mother,” I replied. “If there is anything to tell.”
The clam pie was on the table in the dining-room and Dorinda was seated majestically before it. Lute was fidgeting in his chair.
“Here he is,” he exclaimed, as I joined the pair at the table. “Ros, how did you ever come to do it?”
His wife squelched him, as usual. “If Roscoe's got anything to tell,” she observed, with dignity, “he'll tell it without your help or anybody else's. If he ain't, he won't. This pie's colder than it ought to be, but that isn't my fault.”
As I ate I told them of my sudden determination to become a laboring man. I gave the reasons that I had given Mother.
“Um-hm,” said Dorinda.
“But I can't understand,” pleaded Lute. “You don't need to work, and I've sort of took a pride in your not doin' it. If I was well-off, same as you be, I bet George Taylor'd have to whistle afore I wore out MY brains in his old bank.”
“He wouldn't have time to whistle more'n once,” was Dorinda's comment.
“Now, Dorinda, what kind of talk is that? Wouldn't have time to whistle? You do say more things without any sense to 'em! Just talk to hear yourself, I cal'late. What are you grinnin' at, Roscoe?”
“I can't imagine, Lute. This clam pie is a triumph. May I have another helping, Dorinda?”
Dorinda did not answer, but the second helping was a liberal one. She was so quiet and the glances she gave me from time to time were so odd that I began to feel uneasy. I was fairly sure that she approved of my new venture, but why did she look at me like that?
“Well,” said I, looking at my watch and rising, “what do you think of it? Am I doing right?”
Lute leaned back in his chair. “There's consider'ble to be said on that subject,” he announced. “Work, as a general thing, I consider all right; I've told you that afore. But when it comes to—”
“What do you think, Dorinda?” I interrupted.
Dorinda stirred her tea.
“Think?” she repeated. “I think . . . When's that Colton girl comin' to call on Comfort again?”
I had taken my hat from the hook. Now, with it in my hand, I turned and faced her.
“How should I know that?” I demanded. “That's a trifle off the subject, isn't it?”
“Um-hm,” said Dorinda. “Maybe 'tis.”
I went out hurriedly.
Within the week I was at home in my new position. The strangeness of regular hours and regular employment wore away with surprising rapidity. There were, of course, mornings when sea and sky and the freshness of outdoors tempted me and I wondered whether or not I had been foolish to give up my fine and easy life. But these periods of temptation were shorter and less frequent as I became more and more familiar with my duties and with the routine of the bank. I found myself taking a greater interest in the institution and, to my astonishment, I was actually sorry when Saturday came. It seemed odd enough to once more have money in my pocket which I had earned. It was not a great amount, of course, but I felt it to be mine. Yes, there was no doubt about it, I had done the right thing, and was glad. I was grateful to Taylor for having given me the opportunity. Perhaps I should have been grateful to the person whose brutal and impertinent frankness had piqued me into grasping that opportunity, but I was not.
She made her second call upon Mother two days after our impromptu picnic at Seabury's Pond. I heard all about it when I came home that afternoon. It appeared that she had brought more flowers and a fresh supply of books. She had remained even longer than on her first visit and she and Mother had talked about almost everything under the sun. One topic, however, had not been discussed, a fact which my guarded questions made certain. She, like myself, had said nothing concerning the day in the woods.
“I told her of your consenting to help Mr. Taylor in his dilemma,” said Mother.
“Did you?” said I. “It was kind of you to put it in that way.”
“That was the truthful way of putting it, wasn't it? She seemed very much interested.”
“Indeed. And surprised, I presume.”
“Why, yes, I think so. She seemed surprised at first; then she laughed; I could not understand why. She has a very pleasant laugh, hasn't she?”
“I have never noticed.” This was untrue.
“She has. She is a charming girl. I am sorry you were not here when she called. I told her you would be home soon and asked her to wait, but she would not.”
“I am glad she didn't.”
“Roscoe!”
“I am, Mother. That young lady comes here to see you merely because she has nothing else to do just now. I shouldn't accept too many favors from her.”
Mother said I was unreasonable and prejudiced and I did not argue the point. Lute and Dorinda discussed the caller at the supper table until I was constrained to leave the room. Mabel Colton might amuse herself with Mother and the two members of our household whom she had described as “characters,” she might delude them into believing her thoughtful and sympathetic and without false pride, but I knew better. She had insulted me. She had, in so many words, told me that I was lazy and worthless, just as she might have told her chauffeur or one of the servants. That it was true made no difference. Would she have spoken in that way to—to Victor Carver, for instance? Hardly. She was just what I had thought her at first, a feminine edition of Victor, with more brains than he possessed.
Captain Jed Dean came into the bank the third day after my installation as bookkeeper and teller. I was alone in the director's room, going over some papers, and he entered and shook hands with me. The old fellow professed delight at my presence there.
“George tells me you're takin' hold fust-rate,” he said. “That's good. I'm glad to hear it.”
“Why?” I asked. There was a trace of his old pomposity in the speech—or I imagined there was—and I chose to resent it. These were the days when I was in the mood to resent almost anything.
“Why?” he repeated, in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Why are you glad?” I said. “I can't see what difference it makes to you whether I succeed or not.”
He regarded me with a puzzled expression, but, instead of taking offense, he laughed.
“You've got a chip on your shoulder, ain't you, Ros?” he observed. “Workin' you too hard at the start, are we?”
“No,” I answered, curtly.
“Then what is the matter?”
“Why, nothing, unless it is that everyone I meet seems to take such a great interest in my being here. I believe all of Denboro talks of nothing else.”
“Not much else, I shouldn't wonder. But that's to be expected, ain't it? Everybody's glad you're makin' good.”
“Humph! They all seem to regard that as the eighth wonder of the world. The position doesn't require a marvel of intelligence; almost any one with a teaspoonful of brains could fill it.”
“Why no, they couldn't. But that's nothin' to do with it. I see what's the matter with you, Ros. You think all hands are knocked on their beam ends because you've gone to work. Some of 'em are, that's a fact, and you can't blame 'em much, considerin' how long you've lived here without doin' anything. But all of 'em that amount to a three-cent piece are glad, and the rest don't count anyway. You've made a good many friends in this town lately, son.”
I smiled bitterly. “Friends,” I said.
“Why, yes, friends. And friends are worth havin', especially if you make 'em without beggin' for their friendship. I give in that you've surprised some of us. We didn't know that you had it in you. But your standin' up to old Colton was a fine thing, and we appreciated it.”
“That is because you were against his grabbing the Lane.”
“What of it? And 'twan't that altogether. I, for one, ain't complainin' because you stood up to me and wouldn't sell to the town. By the way, Tim Hallet's gang haven't bothered you lately, have they?”
“No. And I advise them not to.”
He chuckled. “I heard you advised 'em to that effect,” he said. “I ain't complainin' at that, either, even though I knew what they was up to and thought 'twas more or less of a joke. But I liked the way you fired 'em out of there, not carin' a tinker's darn who was behind 'em. So long as a man stands square in his boots and don't knuckle to anybody he won't lose anything with Jed Dean. That's me!”
“You ought to like Colton, then,” I said. “He hasn't knuckled, much.”
Captain Jed grinned. “Well,” he said, slowly, “I don't object to that in him. He seems to be a fighter and that's all right. Maybe if I was one of his tribe in New York I should like him. But I ain't. And you ain't, Ros. We're both of us country folks, livin' here, and he's a city shark buttin' into the feedin' grounds. He wants to hog the whole place and you and I say he shan't. I'm thankful to him for one thing: his comin' here has waked you up, and it's goin' to make a man of you, or I miss my guess.”
I did not answer.
“You mustn't get mad because I talk this way,” he went on. “I'm old enough to be your dad, Ros Paine, and I know what I'm talkin' about. I never took much of a shine to you in the old days. You was too much of what the story books call a 'gentleman' to suit me. I've had to scratch all my life for what I've got, but I've got it. When a young, able feller like you was contented to loaf around as you did and take no interest in nothin', I, naturally, figgered he was no-account. I see now I was wrong. All you needed was somethin' to stir you up and set you goin'. KEEP goin', that's my advice to you. And so long as you do, and don't bend when the pressure gets hard, you'll be somebody afore you die. And the friends you've made'll stand back of you.”
“How about the enemies I have made?”
“Enemies? I suppose likely you have made some enemies, but what of it? I've made enemies all my life. It ain't because I'm popular here in Denboro that I'm what I am. Now is it?”
The truthful answer would have been no. Captain Dean was not popular, but he was respected even by the many who disliked and disagreed with him. I hesitated, trying to think what to say.
“You know 'tain't that,” he said. “Popularity I never had, though it's a pleasant enough thing and sometimes I wish—But there, this ain't experience meetin'. I'm glad you're here in this bank. You're smart, and George says you are worth more than Henry Small ever was, even so early. If you really are what it begins to look as if you are I'm glad for Denboro. Maybe there'll be somebody besides George fit to run this town after I'm gone.”
I smiled. The last remark was so characteristic that it was funny. He was turning away, but he noticed the smile and turned back.
“That's a joke, hey?” he asked.
“Captain,” I said, “you are not consistent. When you and I first talked about the Lane you said that you would not blame me if I closed it. If it was yours you wouldn't have Tom, Dick, and Harry driving fish carts through it.”
“Did I say that?”
“Yes. And you said, on another occasion, that anyone would sell anything if they were offered money enough.”
“Humph! Well, sometimes I say 'most anything but my prayers. Matildy says I forget them pretty often, but I tell her her Friday night speeches are long enough to make up. Maybe I meant what I said to you at those times, Ros. I shouldn't wonder if I did. But 'twas a lie just the same. There are things I wouldn't sell, of course. Nellie, my daughter's one of 'em. She's goin' to get a good husband in George here, but her happiness means more to me than money. She's one of the things I wouldn't sell. And my Selectman's job is another. I fought for that, not so much for the honor, or whatever you call it, but because—well, because I wanted to show 'em that I could get it if I set out to. I don't presume likely you can understand that feelin'.”
“I think I can,” I answered. “Mr. Colton gave about the same reason for his determination to close the Lane. You and he seem to be a good deal alike, after all.”
He looked at me from beneath his bushy brows. His mouth twisted in a grim smile.
“Say, son,” he said, “if I hadn't been so free with my proclamations about bein' your friend you and me would have a settlement for that little bit of talk. The Emperor and me alike! Ugh!”
The next afternoon he came in again and asked me to step outside the railing. He had something to say to me, he declared.
We sat down together on the settee by the wall.
“Ros,” he said, in a low tone, “have you had any new offer for your property? Not from Colton or the town, but from anybody else?”
“No,” I answered. “What do you mean?”
“You ain't heard anything from a Boston firm claimin' to represent the Bay Shore Development Company, or some such?”
“No. What sort of a company is that?”
“I don't know; that is, I don't know much about it. But there's talk driftin' 'round that a Boston syndicate is cal'latin' to buy up all the shore front land from South Ostable to the Bayport line and open it up for summer house lots. The name is the Bay Shore Development Company, or somethin' like that. You ain't heard from 'em, then?”
“Not a word. Where did your information come from?”
“From nobody in particular. It just seems to be in the air. Alvin Baker heard it over to Ostable. The feller that told him got it from somebody else, who got it from another somebody, and so on. There's talk about good prices bein' offered and, accordin' to Alvin, Ostable folks are pretty excited. Elnathan Mullet, who owns that strip below your house, knows somethin' about it, I think. I shouldn't wonder if he'd had an offer, or a hint, or somethin'. But Elnathan's mouth shuts tighter than a muskrat trap and I couldn't get nothin' out of him. He just looked knowin' and that was all. But, if it's so, it may mean a heap to Denboro.”
I was considering the news when he spoke again.
“It might mean a lot to you, Ros,” he whispered.
“How so?”
“Why, this way: If this concern offered you enough money you might sell out to them, mightn't you? Sell all your place, I mean; you could get another one easy enough. You ain't particular about livin' by the shore.”
“But—you urge me to SELL!” I exclaimed. “Sell the Shore Lane with the rest?”
“Why not? You wouldn't be sellin' to Colton. And, if this development scheme is what they say it is, there'll be roads cut through all along shore. The town could use any of 'em; at least that arrangement might be made. Think it over, Ros. If they do offer and offer enough, I'd sell, if I was you. Say! that would be a reef under His Majesty's bows, hey? Jolt him some, I cal'late.”
I did not answer. This was a new possibility. Of course his reason for advising my selling was plain enough, but, leaving the Coltons entirely aside, the idea was not without allurement. The town's convenience in the matter of a road might be considered, just as he said. And my scruples against selling at a profit were, after all, based upon that feature.
“You think it over,” he counseled. “Don't say nothin' to nobody, but just think—and wait. I'll keep my eye to wind'ard and see what I can find out. I tell you honest, Ros, I'll feel safer when I know old Imperial's game's blocked for good and all.”
Old Imperial himself made his appearance before closing hours. I looked up from my work to see him standing by the window. He had not expected to see me there—evidently his daughter had not considered Mother's news of sufficient importance to repeat—and, at first, he did not recognize me.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Colton,” said I.
He nodded. “Cash this for me, will you,” he said, pushing a check through the opening. “What? Hello! What in blazes are you doing in there?”
“I am employed here now,” I answered.
“Humph! how long since?”
“Ten days, or such matter.”
“What are you doing in a bank?”
“Banking was my business, at one time.”
“Thought you hadn't any business.”
“I haven't had any, for some years. Now I have. How do you wish this money? In tens and fives?”
“Yes. Nothing bigger. Down here it restricts the circulation if you spring a twenty dollar bill on them. So you've taken to banking? I was thinking of corraling you for a gunning trip one of these days. Now it's all off, I suppose.”
“It looks that way. Sorry I am to be deprived of the pleasure.”
“Humph!” Then, with one of his sudden changes, “How big a business does this concern do? What do your deposits amount to?”
I gave him the figures, as printed in the yearly statement. He made no comment. Instead he observed, “You haven't been around to accept that offer of mine yet, Paine.”
“Not yet,” I answered.
“Suppose I ought to raise it, now that you're a financier yourself. However, I shan't.”
“I haven't asked you to.”
He smiled. “No, you haven't,” he said. “Well, it is open—for a while. If I were you I'd accept it pretty soon.”
“Possibly.”
“Meaning that I am not you, hey? I'm not. I haven't your high principles, Paine. Can't afford 'em. You're what they call a 'Progressive' in politics, too, aren't you?”
“Here is your money,” I said, ignoring the question.
“I'll bet you are!” he declared, taking the bills. “I never saw one of you high-principled chaps yet that wasn't—until he got rich enough to be something else. Progress is all right, maybe, but I notice that you fellows pay for it and the rest of us get it. Just as I am going to get that land of yours.”
“You haven't got it yet,” I said, serenely. I had made up my mind that this time he should not provoke me into losing my temper.
He seemed to divine my determination. His eye twinkled. “You're improving, Paine,” he observed. “I'll give you a piece of advice; it has cost me a good deal to learn, but I'll give it to you: Don't ever let the other fellow make you mad.”
I remembered our first interview and I could not resist the temptation to retort.
“If my recollection is correct,” I said, “you forgot that the first time we met.”
He laughed aloud. “So I did,” he admitted. “Maybe if I hadn't it would not cost me so much to get my own way in your case.”
He walked out of the building. I heard one exclamation from behind and, turning, saw Sam Wheeler, my youthful assistant, staring at me.
“My—gosh!” exclaimed Sam, his tone a mixture of wonder and admiration, “I don't see how you dast to talk back to him like that, Ros. He'll sic the—the 'System' onto you, won't he?”
It was evident that Sam had been reading the magazines.
I heard no more from Captain Jed and nothing from the mysterious “Development Company” for the remainder of that week. But on Sunday, as I sat in the boat house, smoking my after dinner pipe and reading, Lute excitedly entered, followed by a well-dressed, smooth-shaven man of middle age, whom he introduced as Mr. Keene of Boston, “who's driven all the way from Ostable a-purpose to see you, Ros.”
Mr. Keene shook hands with me cordially and apologized for intruding upon my day of rest. He intended returning to the city in the morning, he said, and, as he had a little matter to discuss with me, had taken the liberty of calling. “I shan't take more than half an hour of your time, Mr. Paine,” he explained. “At least I feel certain that you and I can reach an agreement in that period. If I might be alone with you—”
This hint, evidently intended for Lute's benefit, was quite lost upon the last named individual, who had seated himself on the edge of the work bench and was listening with both ears. I was obliged to tell him that his presence was superfluous and request his returning to the house, which he reluctantly did, moving slowly and looking back with an expression of grieved disappointment. After he had gone I asked Mr. Keene what his “little matter” might be.
His reply was prompt and to the point. He gave me his card. He was, it seemed, junior partner in the firm of Barclay and Keene, real estate brokers and promoters, Milk Street, Boston. And, just now, he was acting as representative of the Bay Shore Development Company. “A concern of which, in spite of all our precautions and attempts at secrecy, you may, perhaps, have heard, Mr. Paine,” he added, smiling.
I admitted that I had heard rumors concerning the company's existence. But, except for these very vague rumors, I knew nothing about it.
He expected that, he said, and was glad to give me further and complete information. In fact, that was his reason for coming so many miles to see me. If I would be good enough to listen he would tell me just what the Bay Shore Company was and what it contemplated doing.
I listened and he talked. According to him the Bay Shore syndicate—that is what it was, a syndicate of capitalists—represented one of the biggest real estate propositions ever conceived. Those behind it were awake to the possibilities of the Cape as a summer resort. Shore land, water front property in the vicinity, was destined to increase in value, provided it was properly exploited and developed. The company's idea was to do just that—exploit and develop.
“We've been quietly looking about,” he continued, “and are all ready for the preliminaries. And naturally, the first preliminary is to secure the land to develop. You have some of that land, Mr. Paine. We know just how much, as we do the holdings of every other party we have approached or intend to approach. I am here to get your figures and, if possible, conclude the purchase of your property this afternoon. It is Sunday, of course,” he added, with a good-humored laugh, “and contracts signed to-day are not legal; but we can make a verbal contract and the papers may be signed later. I will defer my departure until the afternoon train to-morrow for that purpose. Now name your figure, Mr. Paine.”
Of course I had guessed what was coming. If I intended to sell at all here was my opportunity to do so—to, as Captain Jed expressed it, “block Colton's game” without sacrificing the principle for which I had fought, and make a good bit of money for myself. Another home near by could be secured, I had no doubt, and to it Mother might be safely and easily moved. Yet I hesitated to express even a qualified willingness.
“You appear to be certain that I will sell,” I observed. “Isn't that taking a good deal for granted, Mr. Keene?”
He smiled—in fact he smiled almost too often to please me. There is such a thing as being too cordial and good-natured; and he was so very friendly on short acquaintance.
“I understand,” he said. “I have heard about you, Mr. Paine. This, however, is a different matter. We are not hogs, Mr. Paine, but business men. If our plans go through, Denboro will be grateful to us and to you.”
“IF they go through? I thought you were certain of their going through.”
“Certainly, certainly. There is, of course, an 'if' in all human plans, but our particular 'if' is a small one. I hope you will name your figure now, at once. Don't be afraid. We are disposed to be liberal. And, understand, this is entirely a cash transaction. You shall have the money in one hand as you sign the contract with the other. Ha! ha! What is the price to be?”
But I would not name a price. I seemed to feel as unreasonably reluctant to close with the Bay Shore Development Company as I had been with Captain Jed or Colton.
“Shall I make a bid?” asked Keene.
“No, not yet at any rate. Tell me, this: Whose land have you already bought?”
He shook his head. “That, of course,” he said, with the same gracious smile, “I can hardly tell even to you. Some of the deals are not yet closed, and, as a business man yourself, Mr. Paine, you—”
“I am not a business man,” I interrupted, impatiently. “At least, not much of a one. You say there are capitalists behind your scheme. Who are they?”
He laid his hand on my knee. “Why, that,” he said, “is a secret no one is supposed to know. Men—financiers such as we are proud to serve—permit their names to be known only when the corporation is ready to begin actual operations. That is natural enough. If I were to mention names—well, some of your Yankee neighbors would want to become millionaires before selling.”
There was truth in this. I imagine that he guessed he had made an impression, for he went on to shout his praises of the company and the greatness of its plan. He talked and talked; in fact he talked too much. I did not like to hear him. I did not like HIM, that was the trouble. He was too smooth and voluble altogether. And he made a mistake in patting my knee.
“Very well,” said I, rising from my chair; “I'll think it over.”
He was plainly disappointed. “I don't wish to hurry you, of course,” he said, not moving from his chair, “but we are anxious to close. This is to be cash, remember, and I stand ready to make an offer. I am sure we can reach an agreement, satisfactory to both sides, Mr. Paine.”
“Perhaps, but I prefer to think the matter over before naming a price or hearing your offer.”
As a matter of fact I did not intend to sell, or consider selling, until I had discussed the whole affair with Mother. But there was no need to tell him that.
“I am sorry, I confess,” he said. “I hoped this particular deal might be closed. We have so many of these little details, Mr. Paine, and time is money. However, if you insist upon it, I presume the company will be willing to wait a few days.”
“I am afraid it will have to.”
“Very well, very well. I shall be down again in a day or two. Of course, waiting may have some effect upon the price. To-day I was empowered to . . . You don't care to hear? Very well. So glad to have met you, Mr. Paine. Of course you will not mention the subject of our interview to anyone. Business secrets, you know. Thank you, thank you. And I will see you again—Thursday, shall we say?”
I refused to say Thursday, principally because he had said it first. I suggested Saturday instead. He agreed, shook hands as if I were an old friend from whom he parted with regret, and left me.
No, I did not like Mr. Keene. He was too polite and too familiar. And, as I thought over his words, the whole prospectus of the Bay Shore Development Company seemed singularly vague. The proposal to buy my land was definite enough, but the rest of it was, apparently, very much in the air. There was too much secrecy about it. No one was to tell anyone anything. I was glad I had insisted upon time for consideration. I intended to consider thoroughly.
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