Bucking the Tiger/Chapter 15

BOUT noon of the same day Houghton senior entered Macdonald's office in the Peyton Building. Miss Steeves and Walsh were alone in the office, and they greeted him pleasantly. For they liked the old finance pirate, in spite of his many iniquities.

"Mac coming in?" he asked; and there was so much suppressed wo in his voice that Emily Steeves, who was about to go out to lunch, stopped in her tracks and looked at him anxiously.

"Mr. Macdonald will be back in half an hour," she said. "Is—is there anything wrong?"

Houghton pulled himself together. He walked up to her, and, pretending to help her on with her coat, he whispered into her ear:

"There's nothing wrong with Mac. You go ahead and order your trousseau. Go as far a you like. I'll back the bill."

The girl blushed furiously. She looked round at Walsh; but the cow-puncher was looking out of the window, and was not paying any attention to her and to Houghton.

"You—you know—" she stammered.

Houghton smiled.

"I'm wise," he said. "I know the whole little romantic tale. You're a brick, and you'll be the making of that young Mac. I'll be best man, or give you away, or something equally important, when the wedding comes off."

"But—"

"But nothing, my child. Don't you worry. I know all about it. I know all about your conditions, about the little nut you asked Mac to crack. And he's going to crack it, believe me."

"I am so glad, so very, very glad," she smiled, and left the room.

As the door closed and Houghton was alone with Walsh, the cheerful expression faded from his face and once more gave way to one of unutterable wo and despair.

"Walsh," he said to the other, "do me a favour and call me names, bad ones! Call me an unexpurgated rustic with hay behind his ears. Call me a lockjawed, cross-eyed coyote with the mumps." He pointed at his bald head. "Come over here and smite me two or three times on my bump of iniquity and initiative."

Walsh laughed.

"Sure. I'd like to oblige you. But why all the big row?"

"Because I have as much foresight as a soda cracker. Because I know as much about business as a village smartie who knows where the little, cute pea is, and who is willing to back his opinion both with real money and with a mortgage on grandfather's farm. Because I am an idiot."

The cow-puncher looked genuinely worried.

"Let her rip, pard," he said. "Give us a line on the whole story. Perhaps I can help you."

"It isn't me who needs help," Houghton sighed. "It's Mac. I'll tell you everything. You see, Mac told me all about that famous suicide syndicate of yours."

Walsh blushed.

"Say, Mr. Houghton, that warn't my fault," he stammered. "I never did—"

"I know, Andy; I know. Don't worry. It's Graham, first, last, and all the time. The thing could be easily arranged with a little judicious welshing. But then there's Mac's mulish sense of honour, and there's also the girl."

"Go slow, pard; go slow. What girl are you talking about?"

"I'm coming to that."

Houghton unfolded the tale which Macdonald had told him a few days before, and with most of which Walsh was, of course, already familiar.

"I had a hunch thataway," commented the cow-puncher, when the other came to the love affair between Macdonald and Emily Steeves. "I sure had a hunch them two kids were stuck on each other. And you mean to tell me them two young fools is goin about whistling 'No Wedding Bells for Us' just because that here silk-socked, cradle-snatching sap-sucker of a Graham—"

"No, no. Not exactly that," Houghton interrupted. "But it seems the young lady is cursed with very high-minded principles, and so she has simply asked Mac to break away from the suicide compact without letting himself be blackmailed and without welshing."

Walsh was packing his ancient brier with cut plug. He sniffed contemptuously.

"Skirts are the limit," he remarked sagaciously. "They expect a fellow to make noises with his ears. Believe me, I'm going to ride single for the rest of my life."

"Well," Houghton resumed his tale, "it didn't seem so very impossible at first. Mac and I stuck our heads together, and finally we hit on an excellent scheme. We figured out that there was enough cash in the bank, and enough money coming in so that the Western Crown would be able to settle that hundred thousand dollars' insurance of Mac's without going to the wall. We also figured that the company would be able to take care of all her other life insurances, given a fair to medium death-rate between now and the 1st of April of next year.

"But we knew that the company has a good deal of Red Cañon Copper shares, of which old Pat Kenny owns control. Well, we thought we'd buy the shares from Pat for a song. We knew he'd be glad to sell them at any price. Then we'd spread a few rumours that the engineers of the mine had struck a tremendous body of paying ore—and then we'd promptly levy a whopping assessment on all the outstanding stock. We'd arrange for a few fake sales on the Spokane mining stock exchange, boosting the Red Cañon shares sky-high."

"Well, what good would that do?" Walsh inquired.

Houghton looked disgusted.

"Walsh," he said, "you've got dyspepsia in your upper story. You've got less financial clairvoyance than a Siwash buck. Don't you see? There would be just enough money in the treasury of the Western Crown, after taking care of an average number of insurances falling due between now and the 1st of April, to pay for the assessment on the Red Cañon shares. So Graham would find himself in a nice, hefty pickle.

"He would either have to nurse the resources of the company so as to pay the hundred thousand dollars if Macdonald committed or he would have to fall down on the Red Cañon assessment. In the former case he wouldn't be able to pay the assessment, and the shares would be advertised and sold out on him. The Western Crown would lose what seemed to be a valuable asset; her shares would come tumbling down; nobody would have any faith in her, and there would consequently be no new insurances coming in.

"In the latter case, with nearly all the company's ready cash paid out for the Red Cañon assessment, Graham wouldn't be able to take care of the hundred thousand dollars' life insurance of Mac's. He would simply have to beg Mac to keep on living—otherwise the Western Crown would go to the wall."

Walsh looked up admiringly.

"Say, pard," he said, "I see now why you're one of the leading financiers of this here commonwealth. I also see a bright and wealthy future for friend Mac. You're all to the gravy, believe me! But why all your excitement? Didn't you go ahead and do it?"

"Sure I did," Houghton replied with a groan. "Old Pat Kenny went down to the Red Cañon mine to see if he couldn't save a few pieces. I sent him a wire. I offered to take the shares off his hands. And I'll be darned if the old pirate doesn't wire me back—just half an hour ago—that the shares aren't for sale."

"Why not?"

"Because they actually did strike a big body of paying ore in the mine," Houghton exclaimed; "because old Pat not only refuses to sell, but sent a wire to Graham as president of the Western Crown, and bought the Red Cañon shares back from him for fifty thousand dollars spot cash!"

Just then the door opened, and Macdonald came into the room.

"What appears to be wrong?" he asked as he saw the lugubrious expression on the faces of his two friends.

Houghton told him

"It's a shame," he added. "I did everything so carefully. I attended the stockholders' meeting of the Western Crown. I even succeeded to have you elected as vice-president."

"What was that for?" Macdonald inquired.

The financier broke into a hi£-pitched senile cackle.

"My boy," he said, "I imagined there would be a whole lot of anguish on that Graham party's face when he looked over the books of the Western Crown, and I wanted you to be there so that you could enjoy the sight."

"And now?"

"Now it's all off. Graham's got you coming and going. You simply have got to welsh. Never mind the girl. I'll talk to her myself. I'll talk to her like a Dutch uncle. I'll make her see the error of her ways. Leave it to me."

Macdonald shook his head.

"Can't be done, Mr. Houghton," he replied. "The girl's right. I've got to get out of this pickle without paying blackmail and without welshing. It's a question of principle."

Houghton senior burst into a wild howl of rage.

"Principles be damned!" he shouted. "I mistrust them and hate them. If I ever have a grandson I'm going to have him inoculated against them. Principles! Bosh! Rot! They're nothing but a preordained system of dangerous and asinine bunk! Forget it. Come back to earth!"

"There's the girl," Macdonald remonstrated. "There's her faith in me—"

"Lie to her, you big boob!" Houghton cried. "Women thrive on lies. They expect you to lie. I've lied to my wife all my life, and see how happy and contented she is. You make me sick—you—" he sputtered with rage.

Andy Walsh had been thinking quietly.

"Say, Mr. Houghton," he said suddenly, "it was that fifty thousand bones which Graham got for the Red Cañon stuff which saved the day for him, eh?"

"Yes," Houghton replied. "Why dwell on it?"

"Well," the cow-puncher continued, "suppose a big life insurance falls due between now and the 1st of April—about seventy-five thousand dollars' worth—enough to make it impossible for the Western Crown to pay Mac's insurance in spite of that money Graham got for the Red Cañon shares?"

Houghton sighed.

"We figured on that, Andy," he replied. "I told you before there's enough money in the treasury of the Western Crown to take care of all the policies that may fall due, given a fair to medium death-rate up to the 1st of April."

"Sure you told me," Walsh insisted; "and I haven't forgotten, either. But just suppose an additional seventy-five thousand bones' policy falls due? What then?"

"Well," Houghton replied, "Mac would be saved for his friends, his girl, and the commonwealth. That's a cinch. But we can't figure on it. Nobody's going to commit suicide just to save Mac. Also, most of the insurances which have been taken out with the Western Crown are in small amounts. I guess a whole lot of additional people would have to die to save Mac, considering his noble principles." he added with a sniff.

Walsh grinned.

"Look a-here, you fellows," he said. "Did I ever tell you that I carry quite a hefty little life insurance with the Western Crown, taken out a few days before Mac took out his?"

"What?" Macdonald inquired incredulously. "You're insured with the Western Crown?"

"Sure. Don't you remember that day when I paid my share of the suicide syndicate, and when I flashed all that big roll of yellowbacks? Well, I was going to buy a hunk of coal shares with them, but Hayes persuaded me to buy a life insurance instead. I did that. Just a few days before you took out yours. You see, if I should die just a few days before you're due to make your final kick-off, there would be—"

"I got you, my boy," Houghton interrupted with a shout of triumph, jumping from his chair. "You've got an elegant line of brains and loyalty. By heck! We'll bilk that Graham party yet."

Macdonald flushed angrily. "What the devil!" he roared. "Are you suggesting that Andy sacrifice himself—"

"Sacrifice nothing!" Houghton chuckled. "Keep your shirt on, you wild-eyed Piute! It's a case of bluff, that's all—but Graham won't know that, and if he suspects it he's in no position to take the risk that it ain't. Got it now?"

"You bet," laughed Macdonald, "we'll do him yet."

"And honestly, quite honestly," Houghton continued. "That's the beauty of it. The girl's yours, Mac. Come on, Walsh"—he turned to the cow-puncher—"and we'll pick out a wedding present or two."

And so it happened that late that same afternoon Macdonald and Walsh paid an impromptu call on Graham in the office of the Western Crown Life Insurance Company.

Macdonald came quickly to the point. Graham listened, furious, nonplused. But there was no way out of it. He thought of his father's letter and his father's warning. Lord Graham, of Penville, would come to Spokane, together with a chartered accountant. There was the spectre of the home for retired and impecunious retail fish-mongers hanging over his head.

"All right," he said finally. "I give in."

"I knew you would," Macdonald said with a laugh. "And you'll also sign a little paper stating that you release me voluntarily from my suicide compact, won't you?"

Graham obeyed.

Macdonald returned to the office. Emily Steeves was there, together with the count.

Macdonald put his hand on his shoulder.

"Count," he said, "would you mind very much—er—" he pointed at the door—"taking the rest of the day off?"

The count look puzzled. Then suddenly he understood. He rushed up to Macdonald, shook him warmly by the hand, and, though Macdonald struggled frantically, succeeded to imprint a smacking kiss on his right cheek.

"Congratulations!" he shouted. "Congratulations"—he turned to the blushing girl—"also to you, Miss Emily!" And he was off.

Macdonald walked over to the girl. He told her exactly what had happened. He showed her the paper which Graham had signed. Then he kissed her.

"Will you marry me—to-morrow?"

"Yes, dearest."

For a long time they sat there, thinking and talking of the future. They talked of each other; they talked of themselves, their hopes and ambitions; and then they talked of the big Northwest which would be their home.

They talked for hours and hours. Arm in arm, they walked over to the window and stood looking into the moonlit streets. The town was bathed in a mist of silver and blue; the silver of promise and the blue of hope.

There was a breeze that brought to them the warm, sweet odour of that great Northwestern world, and the blurred noises of the night were to them as the happy voices of little children.