When Jack, in reply to Breen's note, stepped into his uncle's office, no one would have recognized in the quick, alert, bronze-faced young fellow the retiring, almost timid, boy who once peered out of the port-hole of the cashier's desk. Nor did Jack's eyes fall on any human being he had ever seen before. New occupants filled the chairs about the ticker. A few lucky ones—very few—had pulled out and stayed out, and could now be found at their country seats in various parts of the State, or on the Riviera, or in Egypt; but by far the larger part had crawled out of the fight to nurse their wounds within the privacy of their own homes where the outward show had to be kept up no matter how stringent the inside economies, or how severe the privations. Others, less fortunate, had disappeared altogether from their accustomed haunts and were to be found filling minor positions in some far Western frontier town or camp, or menial berths on a railroad, while at least one victim, too cowardly to leave the field, had haunted the lunch counters, hotel lobbies, and race-tracks for months, preying on friends and acquaintances alike until dire poverty forced him into crime, and a stone cell and a steel grille had ended the struggle.
Failing to find any face he recognized, Jack approached a group around the ticker, and inquired for the head of the firm. The answer came from a red-cheeked, clean-shaven, bullet-headed, immaculately upholstered gentleman—(silk scarf, diamond horse-shoe stick-pin, high collar, cut-away coat, speckled-trout waistcoat—everything perfect)—who stood, paring his nails in front of the plate-glass window overlooking the street, and who conveyed news of the elder Breen's whereabouts by a bob of his head and a jerk of his fat forefinger in the direction of the familiar glass door.
Breen sat at his desk when Jack entered, but it was only when he spoke that his uncle looked up;—so many men swung back that door with favors to ask, that spontaneous affability was often bad policy.
“I received your letter, Uncle Arthur,” Jack began.
Breen raised his eyes, and a deep color suffused his face. In his heart he had a sneaking admiration for the boy. He liked his pluck. Strange, too, he liked him the better for having left him and striking out for himself, and stranger still, he was a little ashamed for having brought about the revolt.
“Why, Jack!” He was on his feet now, his hand extended, something of his old-time cordiality in his manner. “You got my letter, did you? Well, I wanted to talk to you about that ore property. You own it still, don't you?” The habit of his life of going straight at the business in hand, precluded every other topic. Then again he wanted a chance to look the boy over under fire,—“size him up,” in his own vocabulary. He might need his help later on.
“Oh, we don't own a foot of it,—don't want to. If Mr. MacFarlane decides to—”
“I'm not talking about MacFarlane's job; I'm talking about your own property,—the Cumberland ore property,—the one your father left you. You haven't sold it, have you?” This came in an anxious tone.
“No,” answered Jack simply, wondering what his father's legacy had to do with his Chief's proposed work.
“Have you paid the taxes?” Arthur's eyes were now boring into his.
“Yes, every year; they were not much. Why do you ask?”
“I'll tell you that later on,” answered his uncle with a more satisfied air. “You were up there with MacFarlane, weren't you?—when he went to look over the ground of the Maryland Mining Company where he is to cut the horizontal shaft?” Jack nodded. “So I heard. Well, it may interest you to learn that some of our Mukton people own the property. It was I who sent MacFarlane up, really, although he may not know it.”
“That was very kind of you, sir,” rejoined Jack, without a trace of either gratitude or surprise.
“Well, I'm glad you think so. Some of our directors also own a block of that new road MacFarlane is finishing. They wouldn't hire anybody else after they had gone up to Corklesville and had seen how he did his work, so I had the secretary of the company write MacFarlane, and that's how it came about.”
Jack nodded and waited; his uncle's drift was not yet apparent.
“Well, what I wanted to see you about, Jack, is this:” here he settled his fat back into the chair. “All the ore in that section of the county,—so our experts say, dips to the east. They've located the vein and they think a horizontal shaft and gravity will get the stuff to tide water much cheaper than a vertical shaft and hoist. Now if the ore should peter out—and the devil himself can't tell always about that—we've got to get some ore somewhere round there to brace up and make good our prospectus, even if it does cost a little more, and that's where your Cumberland property might come in,—see? One of our lawyers looked over a record of your deed in the town hall of Mulford—” here he bent forward and consulted a paper on his desk—“No,—that's not it,—Morfordsburg,—yes, that's it,—Morfordsburg,—looked up the deed, I say, Jack, and from what he says I don't believe your property is more than a quarter of a mile, as the crow flies, from where they want MacFarlane to begin cutting. If the lawyer's right there may be a few dollars in it for you—not much, but something; and if there is,—of course, I don't want to commit myself, and I don't want to encourage you too much—but if he's right I should advise your bringing me what papers you've got and have our attorney look them over, and if everything's O.K. in the title, your property might be turned over to the new company and form part of the deal. You can understand, of course, that we don't want any other deposits in that section but our own.”
Breen's meaning was clear now. So was the purpose of the letter.
Jack leaned back in his chair, an expression first of triumph and then of disgust crossing his face. That his uncle should actually want him back in his business in any capacity was as complimentary as it was unexpected. That the basis of the copartnership—and it was this that brought the curl to his lip—was such that neither a quarter of a mile nor two miles would stand in the way of a connecting vein of ore on paper, was to be expected by any one at all familiar with his uncle's methods.
“Thank you, Uncle Arthur,” he answered simply, “but there's nothing decided yet about the Morfordsburg work. I heard a bit of news coming down on the train this morning that may cause Mr. MacFarlane to look upon the proposed work more favorably, but that is for him to say. As to my own property, when I am there again, if I do go,—I will look over the ground myself and have Mr. MacFarlane go with me and then I can decide.”
Breen knitted his brows. It was not the answer he had expected. In fact, he was very much astonished both at the reply and the way in which it was given. He began to be sorry he had raised the question at all. He would gladly have helped Jack in getting a good price for his property, provided it did not interfere with his own plans, but to educate him up to the position of an obstructionist, was quite another matter.
“Well, think it over,” he replied in a tone that was meant to show his entire indifference to the whole affair,—“and some time when you are in town drop in again. And now tell me about Ruth, as we must call her, I suppose. Your aunt just missed her at the Cosgroves' the other day.” Then came a short disquisition on Garry and Corinne and their life at Elm Crest, followed by an embarrassing pause, during which the head of the house of Breen lowered the flow line on a black bottle which he took from a closet behind his desk,—“his digestion being a little out that morning,” he explained. And so with renewed thanks for the interest he had taken in his behalf, and with his whole mind now concentrated on Peter and the unspeakable happiness in store for him when he poured into the old gentleman's willing and astonished ears the details of the interview, Mr. John Breen, Henry MacFarlane's Chief Assistant in Charge of Outside Work, bowed himself out.
He had not long to wait.
Indeed, that delightful old gentleman had but a short time before called to a second old gentleman, a more or less delightful fossil in black wig and spectacles, to take his place at the teller's window, and the first delightful old gentleman was at the precise moment standing on the top step of the Exeter, overlooking the street, where he had caught sight of Jack wending his way toward him.
“Jack! JACK!” Peter cried, waving his hand at the boy.
“Oh! that's you, Uncle Peter, is it? Shall I—?”
“No, Jack, stay where you are until I come to you.”
“And where are you going now?” burst out Jack, overjoyed at reaching his side.
“To luncheon, my dear boy! We'll go to Favre's, and have a stuffed pepper and a plate of spaghetti an inch deep, after my own receipt. Botti cooks it deliciously;—and a bottle of red wine, my boy,—WINE,—not logwood and vinegar. No standing up at a trough, or sitting on a high stool, or wandering about with a sandwich between your fingers,—ruining your table manners and your digestion. And now tell me about dear Ruth, and what she says about coming down to dinner next week?”
It was wonderful how young he looked, and how happy he was, and how spry his step, as the two turned into William Street and so on to the cheap little French restaurant with its sanded floor, little tables for two and four, with their tiny pots of mustard and flagons of oil and red vinegar,—this last, the “left-overs” of countless bottles of Bordeaux,—to say nothing of the great piles of French bread weighing down a shelf beside the proprietor's desk, racked up like cordwood, and all of the same color, length, and thickness.
Every foot of the way through the room toward his own table—his for years, and which was placed in the far corner overlooking the doleful little garden with its half-starved vine and hanging baskets—Peter had been obliged to speak to everybody he passed (some of the younger men rose to their feet to shake his hand)—until he reached the proprietor and gave his order.
Auguste, plump and oily, his napkin over his arm, drew out his chair (it was always tipped back in reserve until he arrived), laid another plate and accessories for his guest, and then bent his head in attention until Peter indicated the particular brand of Bordeaux—the color of the wax sealing its top was the only label—with which he proposed to entertain his friend.
All this time Jack had been on the point of bursting. Once he had slipped his hand into his pocket for Breen's letter, in the belief that the best way to get the most enjoyment out of the incident of his visit and the result,—for it was still a joke to Jack,—would be to lay the half sheet on Peter's plate and watch the old fellow's face as he read it. Then he decided to lead gradually up to it, concealing the best part of the story—the prospectus and how it was to be braced—until the last.
But the boy could not wait; so, after he had told Peter about Ruth,—and that took ten minutes, try as hard as he could to shorten the telling,—during which the stuffed peppers were in evidence,—and after Peter had replied with certain messages to Ruth,—during which the spaghetti was served sizzling hot, with entrancing frazzlings of brown cheese clinging to the edges of the tin plate—the Chief Assistant squared his elbows and plunged head-foremost into the subject.
“And now, I have got a surprise for you, Uncle Peter,” cried Jack, smothering his eagerness as best he could.
The old fellow held up his hand, reached for the shabby, dust-begrimed bottle, that had been sound asleep under the sidewalk for years; filled Jack's glass, then his own; settled himself in his chair and said with a dry smile:
“If it's something startling, Jack, wait until we drink this,” and he lifted the slender rim to his lips. “If it's something delightful, you can spring it now.”
“It is both,” answered Jack. “Listen and doubt your ears. I had a letter from Uncle Arthur this morning asking me to come and see him about my Cumberland ore property, and I have just spent an hour with him.”
Peter put down his glass:
“You had a letter from Arthur Breen—about—what do you mean, Jack.”
“Just what I say.”
Peter moved close to the table, and looked at the boy in wonderment.
“Well, what did he want?” He was all attention now. Arthur Breen sending for Jack!—and after all that had happened! Well—well!
“Wants me to put the Cumberland ore property father left me into one of his companies.”
“That fox!” The explosion cleared the atmosphere for an instant.
“That fox!” answered Jack, in a confirmatory tone; and then followed an account of the interview, the boy chuckling at the end of every sentence in his delight over the situation.
“And what are YOU going to do?” asked Peter in an undecided tone. He had heard nothing so comical as this for years.
“Going to do nothing,—that is, nothing with Uncle Arthur. In the first place, the property is worthless, unless half a million of money is spent upon it.”
“Or is SAID to have been spent upon it,” rejoined Peter with a smile, remembering the Breen methods.
“Exactly so;—and in the second place, I would rather tear up the deed than have it added to Uncle Arthur's stock of balloons.”
Peter drummed on the table-cloth and looked out of the window. The boy was right in principle, but then the property might not be a balloon at all; might in fact be worth a great deal more than the boy dreamed of. That Arthur Breen had gone out of his way to send for Jack—knowing, as Peter did, how systematically both he and his wife had abused and ridiculed him whenever his name was mentioned—was positive evidence to Peter's mind not only that the property had a value of some kind but that the discovery was of recent origin.
“Would you know yourself, Jack, what the property was worth,—that is, do you feel yourself competent to pass upon its value?” asked Peter, lifting his glass to his lips. He was getting back to his normal condition now.
“Yes, to a certain extent, and if I fail, Mr. MacFarlane will help me out. He was superintendent of the Rockford Mines for five years. He received his early training there,—but there is no use talking about it, Uncle Peter. I only told you to let you see how the same old thing is going on day after day at Uncle Arthur's. If it isn't Mukton, it's Ginsing, or Black Royal, or some other gas bag.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing,—not in all the hour I talked with him. He did the talking; I did the listening.”
“I hope you were courteous to him, my boy?”
“I was,—particularly so.”
“He wants your property, does he?” ruminated Peter, rolling a crumb of bread between his thumb and forefinger. “I wonder what's up? He has made some bad breaks lately and there were ugly rumors about the house for a time. He has withdrawn his account from the Exeter and so I've lost sight of all of his transactions.” Here a new idea seemed to strike him: “Did he seem very anxious about getting hold of the land?”
A queer smile played about Jack's lips:
“He seemed NOT to be, but he was”
“You're sure?”
“Very sure; and so would you be if you knew him as well as I do. I have heard him talk that way to dozens of men and then brag how he'd 'covered his tracks,' as he used to call it.”
“Then, Jack,” exclaimed Peter in a decided tone, “there is something in it. What it is you will find out before many weeks, but something. I will wager you he has not only had your title searched but has had test holes driven all over your land. These fellows stop at nothing. Let him alone for a while and keep him guessing. When he writes to you again to come and see him, answer that you are too busy, and if he adds a word about the ore beds tell him you have withdrawn them from the market. In the meantime I will have a talk with one of our directors who has an interest, so he told me, in a new steel company up in the Cumberland Mountains, somewhere near your property, I believe. He may know something of what's going on, if anything is going on.”
Jack's eyes blazed. Something going on! Suppose that after all he and Ruth would not have to wait. Peter read his thoughts and laid his hand on Jack's wrist:
“Keep your toes on the earth, my boy:—no balloon ascensions and no bubbles,—none of your own blowing. They are bad things to have burst in your hands—four hands now, remember, with Ruth's. If there's any money in your Cumberland ore bank, it will come to light without your help. Keep still and say nothing, and don't you sign your name to a piece of paper as big as a postage stamp until you let me see it.”
Here Peter looked at his watch and rose from the table.
“Time's up, my boy. I never allow myself but an hour at luncheon, and I am due at the bank in ten minutes. Thank you, Auguste,—and Auguste! please tell Botti the spaghetti was delicious. Come, Jack.”
It was when he held Ruth in his arms that same afternoon—behind the door, really,—she couldn't wait until they reached the room,—that Jack whispered in her astonished and delighted ears the good news of the expected check from Garry's committee.
“And daddy won't lose anything; and he can take the new work!” she cried joyously. “And we can all go up to the mountains together! Oh, Jack!—let me run and tell daddy!”
“No, my darling,—not a word, Garry had no business to tell me what he did; and it might leak out and get him into trouble:—No, don't say a word. It is only a few days off. We shall all know next week.”
He had led her to the sofa, their favorite seat.
“And now I am going to tell you something that would be a million times better than Garry's check if it were only true,—but it isn't.”
“Tell me, Jack,—quick!” Her lips were close to his.
“Uncle Arthur wants to buy my ore lands.”
“Buy your—And we are going to be—married right away! Oh, you darling Jack!”
“Wait,—wait, my precious, until I tell you!” She did not wait, and he did not want her to. Only when he could loosen her arms from his neck did he find her ear again, then he poured into it the rest of the story.
“But, oh, Jack!—wouldn't it be lovely if it were true,—and just think of all the things we could do.”
“Yes,—but it Isn't true.”
“But just suppose it WAS, Jack! You would have a horse of your own and we'd build the dearest little home and—”
“But it never can be true, blessed,—not out of the Cumberland property—” protested Jack.
“But, Jack! Can't we SUPPOSE? Why, supposing is the best fun in the world. I used to suppose all sorts of things when I was a little girl. Some of them came true, and some of them didn't, but I had just as much fun as if they HAD all come true.”
“Did you ever suppose ME?” asked Jack. He knew she never had,—he wasn't worth it;—but what difference did it make what they talked about!
“Yes,—a thousand times. I always knew, my blessed, that there was somebody like you in the world somewhere,—and when the girls would break out and say ugly things of men,—all men,—I just knew they were not true of everybody. I knew that you would come—and that I should always look for you until I found you! And now tell me! Did you suppose about me, too, you darling Jack?”
“No,—never. There couldn't be any supposing;—there isn't any now. It's just you I love, Ruth,—you,—and I love the 'YOU' in you—That's the best part of you.”
And so they talked on, she close in his arms, their cheeks together; building castles of rose marble and ivory, laying out gardens with vistas ending in summer sunsets; dreaming dreams that lovers only dream.
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