Tom Slater came puffing up the hill to the Appleton bungalow, plumped himself into a chair, and sighed deeply.
"What's the matter? Are you played out?" asked Eliza.
"No. I'm feeling like a colt."
"Any news from Omar Khayyam?"
"Not a word."
Eliza's brows drew together in a worried frown, for none of Murray's "boys" had awaited tidings from him with greater anxiety than she.
It had been a trying month for them all. Dr. Gray, upon whom the heaviest responsibility rested, had aged visibly under the strain; Parker and Mellen and McKay had likewise become worn and grave as the days passed and they saw disaster approaching. Even Dan was blue; and Sheldon, the light-hearted, had begun to lose interest in his commissary duties.
After the storm at Kyak there had been a period of fierce rejoicing, which had ended abruptly with the receipt of O'Neil's curt cablegram announcing the attitude of the Trust. Gloom had succeeded the first surprise, deepening to hopeless despondency through the days that followed. Oddly enough, Slater had been the only one to bear up; under adversity he blossomed into a peculiar and almost offensive cheerfulness. It was characteristic of his crooked temperament that misfortune awoke in him a lofty and unshakable optimism.
"You're great on nicknames, ain't you?" he said to Eliza, regarding her with his never-failing curiosity. "Who's this Homer Keim you're always talking about?"
"He isn't any more: he WAS. He was a cheerful old Persian poet."
"I thought he was Dutch, from the name. Well! Murray's cheerful too. Him and me are alike in that. I'll bet he isn't worrying half so much as Doc and the others."
"You think he'll make good?"
"He never fails."
"But—we can't hold on much longer. Dan says that some of the men are getting uneasy and want their money."
Tom nodded. "The men are all right—Doc has kept them paid up; it's the shift bosses. I say let 'em quit."
"Has it gone as far as that?"
"Somebody keeps spreading the story that we're busted and that Murray has skipped out. More of Gordon's work, I s'pose. Some of the sore-heads are coming in this evening to demand their wages."
"Can we pay them?"
"Doc says he dassent; so I s'pose they'll quit. He should have fired 'em a week ago. Never let a man quit—always beat him to it. We could hold the rough-necks for another two weeks if it wasn't for these fellows, but they'll go back and start a stampede."
"How many are there?"
"About a dozen."
"I was afraid it was worse. There can't be much owing to them."
"Oh, it's bad enough! They've been letting their wages ride, that's why they got scared. We owe them about four thousand dollars."
"They must be paid," said Eliza. "It will give Mr. O'Neil another two weeks—a month, perhaps."
"Doc's got his back up, and he's told the cashier to make 'em wait."
Eliza hesitated, and flushed a little. "I suppose it's none of my business," she said, "but—couldn't you boys pay them out of your own salaries?"
Mr. Slater grinned—an unprecedented proceeding which lent his face an altogether strange and unnatural expression.
"Salary! We ain't had any salary," he said, cheerfully—"not for months."
"Dan has drawn his regularly."
"Oh, sure! But he ain't one of us. He's an outsider."
"I see!" Eliza's eyes were bright with a wistful admiration. "That's very nice of you men. You have a family, haven't you, Uncle Tom?"
"I have! Seven head, and they eat like a herd of stock. It looks like a lean winter for 'em if Murray don't make a sale—but he will. That isn't what I came to see you about; I've got my asking clothes on, and I want a favor."
"You shall have it, of course."
"I want a certificate."
"Of what?"
"Ill health. Nobody believes I had the smallpox."
"You didn't."
"Wh-what?" Tom's eyes opened wide. He stared at the girl in hurt surprise.
"It was nothing but pimples, Tom."
"Pimples!" He spat the word out indignantly, and his round cheeks grew purple. "I—I s'pose pimples gave me cramps and chills and backache and palpitation and swellings! Hunh! I had a narrow escape—narrow's the word. It was narrower than a knife-edge! Anything I get out of life from now on is 'velvet,' for I was knocking at death's door. The grave yawned, but I jumped it. It's the first sick spell I ever had, and I won't be cheated out of it. Understand?"
"What do you want me to do?" smiled the girl.
"You're a writer: write me an affidavit—"
"I can't do that."
"Then put it in your paper. Put it on the front page, where folks can see it."
"I've quit The Review. I'm doing magazine stories."
"Well, that'll do. I'm not particular where it's printed so long as—"
Eliza shook her head. "You weren't really sick, Uncle Tom."
At this Mr. Slater rose to his feet in high dudgeon.
"Don't call me 'Uncle,'" he exclaimed. "You're in with the others."
"It wouldn't be published if I wrote it."
"Then you can't be much of a writer." He glared at her, and slowly, distinctly, with all the emphasis at his command, said: "I had smallpox—and a dam' bad case, understand? I was sick. I had miseries in every joint and cartage of my body. I'm going to use a pick-handle for a cane, and anybody that laughs will get a hickory massage that'll take a crooked needle and a pair of pinchers to fix. Thank God I've got my strength back! You get me?"
"I do."
He snorted irately and turned to go, but Eliza checked him.
"What about those shift bosses?" she asked.
Slater rolled his eyes balefully. "Just let one of 'em mention smallpox," he said, "and I'll fill the hospital till it bulges."
"No, no! Are you going to pay them?"
"Certainly not."
Eliza considered for a moment. "Don't let them see Dr. Gray," she said, at length. "He has enough to worry him. Meet them at the train and bring them here."
"What for? Tea?"
"You boys have done all you can; I think it's time Dan and I did something."
Tom stared. "Are YOU going to pay 'em?" he asked, gruffly.
"Yes. Mr. O'Neil needs time. Dan and I have saved four thousand dollars. I'd offer it to Dr. Gray—"
"He wouldn't take it."
"Exactly. Send Dan up here when you see him."
"It doesn't seem exactly right." Tom was obviously embarrassed. "You see, we sort of belong to Murray, and you don't, but—" He shook his head as if to rid himself of unwelcome emotion. "Women are funny things! You're willing to do that for the chief, and yet you won't write me a little affidavit!" He grunted and went away, still shaking his head.
When Eliza explained her plan to Dan she encountered an opposition that shocked and hurt her.
"I won't do it!" he said, shortly.
"You—WHAT?"
"We can't build the S. R.
"Yes, and made you love him, too," said Dan, roughly. "I can see that."
Eliza lifted her head and met his eyes squarely.
"That's true! But why not? Can't I love him? Isn't it my privilege to help him if I want to? If I had two million dollars instead of two thousand I'd give it to him, and—and I wouldn't expect him to care for me, either. He'll never do that. He couldn't! But—oh, Danny, I've been miserable—"
Dan felt a certain dryness of the throat which made speech oddly difficult. "I don't see why he couldn't care for you," he said, lamely.
Eliza shook her head hopelessly. "I'm glad it happened," she said—"glad. In writing these articles I've tried to make him understood; I've tried to put my whole soul into them so that the people will see that he isn't, wouldn't be, a thief nor a grafter. I've described him as he is—big, honorable, gentle—"
"I didn't know you were writing fiction," said her brother, impatiently.
"I'm not. It's all true. I've cried over those articles, Dan. I've petted them, and I've kissed his name—oh, I've been silly!" She smiled at him through a sudden glimmer of tears.
Dan began to wonder if his sister, in spite of her exemplary conduct in the past, were after all going to have hysterics. Women were especially likely to, he reflected, when they demanded the impossible. At last he said, uncomfortably: "Gee, I thought I was the dippy member of the family!"
"It's our chance to help him," she urged. "Will you—?"
"No! I'm sorry, Sis, but my little bit wouldn't mean anything to him; it means everything to me. Maybe that's selfish—I don't care. I'm as mad over Natalie as you seem to be over him. A week's delay can't make any difference now—he played and lost. But I can't afford to lose. He'll make another fortune, that's sure—but do you think I'll ever find another Natalie? No! Don't argue, for I won't listen."
He left the house abruptly, and Eliza went into the white bedroom which O'Neil had fitted up for her. From the remotest corner of her lowest bureau drawer she drew a battered tin box, and, dividing the money it contained into two equal parts, placed one in the pockets of her mannish jacket.
It was dark when Tom Slater arrived, at the head of a group of soiled workmen whom he ushered into the parlor of the bungalow.
"Here's the bunch!" he announced, laconically.
As the new-comers ranged themselves uncomfortably about the wall Dan Appleton entered and greeted them with his customary breeziness.
"The pay-master is busy, and Doc Gray has a surgical case," he said, "so I'll cash your time-checks. Get me the box, will you, Sis?"
He had avoided Eliza's eyes upon entering, and he avoided them now, but the girl's throat was aching as she hurried into her bedroom and hastily replaced the rolls of greenbacks she had removed from the tin box.
When he had finished paying off, Dan said, brusquely:
"Now we mustn't have any loafing around town, understand?"
"We can't get back to-night," said one of the men.
"Oh yes, you can. I ordered an engine out."
"We hear—there's talk about quitting work," another ventured. "Where's O'Neil?"
"He's in the States buying a steamship," answered Dan, unblushingly. "We can't get stuff fast enough by the regular boats."
"Good! That sounds like business. We don't want to quit."
"Now hurry! Your parlor-car is waiting."
When he and Eliza were alone he turned to her with a flush of embarrassment. "Aren't we the darnedest fools, Sis? I wouldn't mind if we had done the chief any good, but we haven't." He closed the lid of the tin box, which was nearly empty now, and pushed it away from him, laughing mirthlessly. "Hide that sarcophagus where I can't see it," he commanded. "It makes me sick."
Eliza flung her arm about his neck and laid her cheek against his. "Poor Danny! You're a brick!"
"It's the bread-line for us," he told her.
"Never mind. We're used to it now." She laughed contentedly and snuggled her face closer to his.
It was on the following morning that O'Neil's cablegram announcing the result of his interview with Illis reached Omar. Dr. Gray brought the news to the Appleton bungalow while Dan and his sister were still at breakfast. "Happy Tom" came puffing and blowing at his heels with a highly satisfied I-told-you-so expression on his round features.
"He made it! The tide has turned," cried the doctor as he burst in waving the message on high. "Yes!" he explained, in answer to their excited questions. "Murray got the money and our troubles are over. Now give me some coffee, Eliza. I'm all shaky."
"English money!" commented Slater. "The same as we used on the North Pass."
"Then he interested Illis!" cried Dan.
"Yep! He's the white-winged messenger of hope. I wasn't worried for a minute," Tom averred.
The breakfast which followed was of a somewhat hysterical and fragmentary nature, for Eliza felt her heart swelling, and the faithful Gray was all but undone by the strain he had endured. "That's the first food I've tasted for weeks," he confessed. "I've eaten, but I haven't tasted; and now—I'm not hungry." He sighed, stretched his long limbs gratefully, and eyed the Appletons with a kindly twinkle. "You were up in the air, too, weren't you? The chief will appreciate last night's affair."
Eliza colored faintly. "It was nothing. Please don't tell him." At the incredulous lift of his brows she hastened to explain: "Tom said you men 'belonged' to Mr. O'Neil and Dan was an outsider. That hurt me dreadfully."
"Well, he can't say that now; Dan is one of Murray's boys, all right, and you—you must be his girl."
At that moment Mellen and McKay burst into the bungalow, demanding the truth behind the rumor which had just come to their ears; and there followed fresh explanations and rejoicings, through which Eliza sat quietly, thrilled by the note of genuine affection and loyalty that pervaded it all. But, now that the general despondency had vanished and joy reigned in its place, Tom Slater relapsed into his habitual gloom and spoke forebodingly of the difficulties yet to be encountered.
"Murray don't say how MUCH he's raised," he remarked. "It may be only a drop in the bucket. We'll have to go through all this again, probably, and the next time he won't find it so easy to sting a millionaire."
"We'll last through the winter anyhow—"
"Winter!" Slater shook his bald head. "Winter is hard on old men like me."
"We'll have the bridge built by spring, sure!" Mellen declared.
"Maybe! I hope so. I wish I could last to see it, but the smallpox undermined me. Perhaps it's a mercy I'm so far gone; nobody knows yet whether the bridge will stand, and—I'd hate to see it go out."
"It won't go out," said the engineer, confidently.
"Maybe you're right. But that's what Trevor said about his breakwater. His work was done, and ours isn't hardly begun. By the way, Murray didn't say he HAD the money; he just said he expected to get it."
"Go out and hang your crepe on the roundhouse," Dan told him; "this is a jubilee. If you keep on rejoicing you'll have us all in tears." When the others had gone he turned to Eliza. "Why don't you want O'Neil to know about that money, Sis?" he asked, curiously. "When I'm a hero I like to be billed as one."
"Please!" She hesitated and turned her face away. "You—you are so stupid about some things."
On the afternoon of this very day Curtis Gordon found Natalie at a window staring out across the sound in the direction of Omar. He laid a warm hand upon her shoulder and said:
"My dear, confess! You are lonesome."
She nodded silently.
"Well, well! We mustn't allow that. Why don't you run over to Omar and see your friend Miss Appleton? She has a cheerful way with her." "I'm afraid things aren't very gay over there," said Natalie, doubtfully.
"Quite probably. But the fact that O'Neil is on his last legs needn't interfere with your pleasure. A change will do you good."
"You are very kind," she murmured. "You have done everything to make me happy, but—it's autumn. Winter is coming. I feel dull and lonely and gray, like the sky. Are you sure Mr. O'Neil has failed?"
"Certainly. He tried to sell his holdings to the Trust, but they refused to consider it. Poor fellow!" he continued, unctuously. "Now that he's down I pity him. One can't dislike a person who has lost the power of working harm. His men are quitting: I doubt if he'll dare show his face in this country again. But never mind all that. There's a boat leaving for Omar in the morning. Go; have a good time, return when you will, and tell us how they bear up under their adversity." He patted her shoulder affectionately and went up to his room.
It was true enough that Natalie had been unhappy since returning to Hope—not even her mother dreamed how she rebelled at remaining here. She was lonely, uninterested, vaguely homesick. She missed the intimate companionship of Eliza; she missed Dan's extravagant courting and O'Neil's grave, respectful attentions. She also felt the loss of the honest good-fellowship of all those people at Omar whom she had learned to like and to admire. Life here was colorless, and was still haunted by the shadow of that thing from which she and her mother had fled.
Gordon, indeed, had been generous to them both. Since his marriage his attitude had changed entirely. He was polite, agreeable, charmingly devoted: no ship arrived without some tangible and expensive evidence of his often-expressed desire to make his wife and stepdaughter happy; he anticipated their slightest wish. Under his assiduous attentions Natalie's distrust and dislike had slowly melted, and she came to believe that she had misjudged him. There were times when he seemed to be overdoing the matter a bit, times when she wondered if his courtesy could be altogether disinterested; but these occasions were rare, and always she scornfully accused herself of disloyalty. As for Gloria, she was deeply contented—as nearly happy, in fact, as a woman of her temperament could be, and in this the daughter took her reward.
Natalie arrived at Omar in time to see the full effect of the good news from New York, and joined sincerely in the general rejoicing. She returned after a few days, bursting with the tidings of O'Neil's victory.
Gordon listened to her with keenest attention; he drew her out artfully, and when he knew what he had sent her to learn he gave voice to his unwelcome surprise.
"Jove!" he snarled. "That beggar hoodwinked the Heidlemanns, after all. It's their money. What fools! What fools!"
Natalie looked up quickly.
"Does it affect your plans?" she asked.
"Yes—in a way. It consolidates my enemies."
"You said you no longer had any ill feeling toward Mr. O'Neil."
Gordon had resumed his usual suavity. "When I say enemies," he qualified, "of course, I mean it only in a business sense. I heard that the Trust had withdrawn, discouraged by their losses, but, now that they re-enter the field, I shall have to fight them. They would have done well to consult me—to buy me off, rather than be bled by O'Neil. They shall pay well for their mistake, but—it's incredible! That man has the luck of the devil."
That evening he and Denny sat with their heads together until a late hour, and when they retired Gordon had begun to whip new plans into shape.
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