Bucking the Tiger/Chapter 8

HEN Ritchie Macdonald left the club that same night, the thought came to him that he was perfectly sober, and that this was the first night since the signing of the suicide compact on which he had sought his couch without at least one sheet trailing in the alcoholic wind.

The consciousness of this fact disturbed him, and for a while he tried to play hide-and-seek with himself. But finally he decided that, since in a little over ten months he would be confronting Eternity in the making, or in the unmaking—he wasn't sure which—he might as well enjoy the luxury of being honest with himself.

"Cold feet?" Pat Kenny had sneered when he had dropped out of the game of California Jack in the middle of a phenomenal run of luck.

"Signed the pledge?" Marshall Houghton had asked when he had steadfastly refused to take another drink.

He had not replied. But he knew why he could not concentrate his thoughts on the game and the crowd he was with. There was no doubt in his mind that all evening he had been thinking of the little manicure girl in Benson's barber shop. There was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to see her again. Very soon, he decided; for, after all, he didn't have so very many months more to live. Then an idea came to him.

"By Ginger," he apostrophized himself with a loud voice to the great surprise of the white-robed Mexican who was selling tamales on the street corner, "you are a bibulous ass of a Don Quixote, but you are man enough to do it, and to do it right."

And he winked at the moon and imagined that the moon was winking back at him with an air of benign sympathy.

He walked back to his hotel in a round-about way. He enjoyed the exercise. For it was a peaceful night of late spring, with the low hum of a sleeping world. The sky was clear, and a froth of yellow stars was flung over the crest of the night.

The next morning, punctually at eight o'clock, he entered the box-like little room of the manicure.

Without a word he stretched out his hands.

She smiled and shook her head.

"You don't need it. I fixed your nails yesterday."

He laughed. It was such a frank, boyish, good-natured laugh that she joined in it.

"Sure you fixed them," he said. "I forgot." He fumbled for the right words; then he continued brazenly: "What's your name?"

A sharp reply trembled on her lips. But she controlled herself. She looked at him, and decided that the man's face was neither vicious nor mean.

"My name's Emily Steeves," she replied.

"Nice name; real nice, home-made, green-apple-and-raisin-pie name," he commented with another laugh, and again she joined in it, hardly knowing why.

There was a short silence. Then he continued:

"My name's Macdonald; Ritchie Macdonald."

Again there was silence. Then he asked suddenly:

"Stuck on your line of work, Miss Steeves?"

The question caught her unprepared, and she answered without thinking, but with ringing conviction:

"You bet I'm not."

"Then," he said, wagging a didactic finger, "why do you do it?"

She answered with a little rebellious note in her voice.

"I told you yesterday."

"I remember," he said. "Sad necessity of earning a living; nobility of labour, and all that sort of thing. You told me. But there are other jobs in the world besides cutting and polishing the claws of the male beasts-of-prey. Now there's stenography. Ever try it?"

"Yes. But there isn't enough money in it. Twelve per, that's the highest I ever got."

"How much do you make here?"

Once more his clean, good-natured countenance disarmed her suspicions, and she answered readily enough.

"Eighteen per's my average; a little more in winter, and a little less in summer. Why?"

Macdonald lit a cigarette.

"Come and stenog for me," he remarked casually. "I'll give you forty a week."

The girl blushed scarlet. She had worked long enough as both manicure and stenographer to understand the delicate as well as the indelicate approaches of the other sex.

"Say," she flared out, "you're a fine one to knock down other men for a fresh word as you did yesterday. And now you come here, the very next day, and you—"

Suddenly she stopped. There was such a look of honest, hurt bewilderment in the man's face that she did not know how to continue.

"Perhaps you're just joshing," she concluded lamely.

"No, I am not," he declared decisively. "Now, look here, Miss Steeves. Forget for a moment that I am a man male, and you a woman female. Banish the thought! Kill it with a cleaver and bury it! I like you. Get that? I like you, and nothing more. Get the 'nothing more'? Fine and dandy!"

"Well—but—"

He waved her interruption aside.

"Wait. I am coming to that. I am a man of affairs. I have—oh—investments to look after, letters to write. And I—" he tried to assume the pathetic air of a chronic invalid, failed, and finally compromised by faking a hollow cough. "I beg your pardon," he added in a thin, weak voice. "I get these attacks every now and then. I look very healthy, I know. But it's deceptive. My days are numbered."

"Wha—what?" Tears came into her eyes.

Macdonald tapped his chest and had another coughing fit.

"One more year," he said laconically.

"What do you mean?"

That's what the doctors give me, Miss Steeves. One more year."

The girl felt horribly distressed. She gave a little cry of pity and sympathy.

"Oh, Mr. Macdonald, I am so very, very sorry!"

"Thanks. That's kind of you. I am glad you feel sorry for me. You see, I need help, to straighten out my affairs, to keep books, and write my letters. Now don't you think that a man whose days are numbered has the right to have a girl about him whom he likes? Also I know it's hard to work for a man who is dying before your eyes—by inches, so to speak—" he gave another cough. "That's why I'm willing to give you forty per."

The girl stretched out her hand impulsively and shook his.

"I'll come."

"When? Remember, time presses; just a year; every day counts.

"I'll come to-morrow."

"Thanks." He rose. "To-morrow then."

He walked toward the door. The girl called after him.

"Where's your office, Mr. Macdonald?"

"In the Peyton Building," he replied, giving the first address that came to his mind.

Walking down the street, it occurred to him that it was a lucky thing that Houghton and Son owned the Peyton Building, and that he would therefore have no trouble about renting an office. For he knew instinctively that the girl was both shrewd and proud, and that his story would have to dovetail in every particular so as to prevent her from seeing through his charitable intentions. He was well aware of the ideas and some of the intentions of the two Houghtons regarding himself, and he decided to utilise them.

Marshall Houghton was eager to give him all the office space he wanted.

"What about the corner office on the tenth floor, Mac?" he asked. "Belden and Wayland have it now. But they're going to vacate it on the first."

Macdonald shook his head.

"See here, Marshall," he replied. "I want only a small office. But, for reasons of my own, I want it right away, and I want it in this building. And I want some furniture that's been used, and that looks as if it had been used. Lend me some of yours if you will. You see I have a special reason for my demand," he added impressively.

Marshall Houghton smiled. He knew, he said to himself. He also knew why Macdonald had quit the club so early the night before. Some of the people who were backing him, perhaps his father himself, were evidently coming out to Spokane to look over the situation; and so Macdonald wanted to give the correct, businesslike appearance.

"Don't worry, Mac," he said. "I understand. Mum's the word. There's an office right next to our main office. How'll that do?"

"Fine and dandy."

"All right. I'll fix it up with some of my own stuff right away this afternoon." He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "Are you going to start your—ah—active campaign for the syndicate you spoke about?"

Macdonald thought of the syndicate of the six down-and-outers at the Eslick. He smiled.

"You bet," he replied. "But keep it under your hat. It's confidential dope, but I'm going to step into the arena. I shall bedeck myself in the loathsome apparel of the American businessman; I shall wear rubbers and an umbrella and an unlit cigar. I shall spread about me a general atmosphere of financial finesse and the culpability that goes with it. I shall play the part of a gifted and single-minded conniver at legalised graft. I shall hardboil my conscience and fan it with a gold-brick. I shall—"

"Take an interest in the Western Crown?" Marshall interrupted craftily.

Macdonald winked at him.

"Early next year," he replied. "Around the first of April. But not before."

When Marshall Houghton told his father that evening about his conversation with Macdonald the elderly financier smiled delightedly.

"Marshall," he said, "it's a shame. It's like taking pumpernickel out of an armless Dutchman's mouth. It's like converting a Turk to Mormonism. It's too easy. It ain't worthy of my financial abilities, but I got to do it."

Marshall looked slightly bewildered.

"I don't exactly get you, dad," he said. "Of course I know that you intend to unload your Western Crown stock on Mac. But—"

His father looked at him pityingly.

"Marshall," he said, "if it wasn't for the fact that you got me for a father you'd have to rely on the ravens to feed you, like the Prophet Elijah. You'd have to swipe embroidered pen-wipers from a high-school girls' charity bazaar for a living. And then you tell me that you aspire to the profitable and opprobrious realms of high finance! Why, boy, you don't even understand the first little Euclidian problem in thimblerigging."

"But—"

"But nothing! Consider! Here's young Mac, working either for a syndicate or for his father, makes no difference which, and it's a cinch that he's got a free hand. He's taken an office, which proves that he's actually going to do business. And it also appears—for he was enough of a damned fool to let that particular cat out of the bag—that he ain't going to talk terms before April of next year. He told you that, didn't he?"

Marshall looked at his father with reverence tempered by envy.

"Yes, dad," he said.

Houghton, Senior, smiled.

"That's a sure sign, ain't it, that he's going to lay low and watch the company? We want to sell, don't we? Figuratively speaking, we want to misuse a nine-inch piece of lead pipe on Mac's coco, eh? Now, if you want to sell the stock of a Company which you control, it's darn good business to mitigate the company's assets if you can do it without incriminating yourself.

"We've done that. We've done a little trading, I and you and Ritter and Kenny. We've taken over the real estate of the Western Crown, and have given to it instead a bunch of Red Canyon Copper stock. That's all right considering that the truth of the matter is that Fat Kenny owns the rest of the Red Canyon stock, and that he also owns the assay people body and soul, and these assay people are making monthly reports on the ore ledges of that desolate bit of God-forsaken desert landscape that'll make Aladdin's cave look like a piker's dream.

"So, you see, there won't be any kick when Mac examines the investment part of the company's balance sheet. The next item on the bill of fare is to boom the company's business. Now it appears that the main business of an insurance company is to insure people; the healthy sort who keep on digging up. We got to write insurance like the devil." He thought for a moment. "Say, Marshall, who's the livest wire agent the Western Crown's got?"

"There's that fellow who wrote the hundred thousand dollars insurance for Mac, dad. Fellow called Hayes, I believe."

"Fine and dandy. You get a hold of him. He's the boy for us. I'll talk to him.'

So the two Houghtons stepped around to the office, and, looking over the books of the company, they discovered that Hayes lived at the Eslick Hotel.

Houghton, senior, looked at his watch.

"Only seven o'clock. I'll go right round to the Eslick and interview that Hayes party." He slapped his son jovially on the back. "So long, Marshall. Yoicks and away! I go a-filibustering."

And he was off.

The conversation between Houghton, senior, and Hayes was short and to the point.

"Sure," the pasty-faced native son, admitted, "I'm the gink who pulled off the hundred thousand plunk Macdonald insurance." He paused. He wondered if somebody had blabbed, and if the Powers Higher Up had received information about the suicide compact. So his voice trembled a little as he continued: "Say, mister—ain't—ain't it O.K.?"

Houghton smiled at him like a benign elderly wolf.

"You bet, my boy. It's more than O.K."

He drew Hayes into a corner. For he had noticed that the five shabby, hungry-eyed men who crowded about the stove—to wit: Walsh, Traube, Graham, Hillyer and the count—had cocked up their ears at the mentioning of Macdonald's name.

"Look here, young man," he continued, "that Macdonald insurance was a bright and noble piece of business. I honour and respect you for it. Put it here!" They shook hands. "I guess you know Mac pretty well, don't you?"

"Sure. He's a friend of mine."

"And I'm quite sure you wouldn't mind doing him a good turn if you could?" he winked at him and added hastily, "and if it would mean money to yourself?"

"You bet your sweet life!" Hayes replied fervently,

"That's good. Listen. I know for a fact that Macdonald intends to buy control of the Western Crown." Hayes nearly collapsed with surprise, but somehow succeeded to keep a straight face. "And so," Houghton continued, "if as good a friend of yours as Macdonald wants to buy something, you want that something to look good, and you'll do all in your power to make it look good, won't you? Don't reply, my boy. I can tell by the expression in your honest eyes that you agree with me. Put it here again!"

Once more they shook hands.

"So I want that company to look its very best," Houghton went on. "I want insurances taken out, oodles of them! And you're the boy to turn the trick. Insure everybody. Insure those gentlemen over there near the stove. Insure the Chink barkeeper. Insure the Indians. Insure the lame, the blind and the crippled. Appoint your own sub-agents. Take the premiums in notes—any old notes—but insure them."

"What about my commission?" Hayes inquired. "It's all right for the company to take those notes. But I," his voice was determined, "I gotta have cash!"

Houghton patted his shoulder caressingly.

"Don't you worry, my boy. I'll pay you cash. I'll pay you personally."

They talked a little over the details, and Houghton returned to his home on Seventh Avenue well pleased with himself.

The moment he had left, the other down-and-outers surrounded Hayes with eager questions.

"Say," Walsh inquired, "who was the elderly party with the undevout smile?"

Hayes told them, and they were utterly amazed.

The count smiled.

"Palsambleu!" he exclaimed. "But he is doing well, our friend Macdonald!"

"Ain't he, though?" Walsh agreed.

Graham flushed an angry red. He hated Macdonald because the latter had knocked him down the day before, and now his hatred grew when he heard how well Macdonald had done with the money which he and the others had contributed.

"Our friend Mac evidently intends to welsh," he sneered.

"What d'ya mean 'welsh'?" the cow-puncher inquired with an ugly scowl.

Graham laughed.

"Its self-evident, isn't it? Hayes tells us that Macdonald is about to acquire control of the Western Crown. So he's made money with the three thousand we gave him, instead of spending it, as he said he would. And a man who intends to commit suicide wouldn't bother his head about making money."

"Right-oh!" Hillyer seconded.

Walsh flared up.

"Look a-here, Mister Captain Graham," he thundered. "God knows what Mac's tryin' ter make money for. But Mac's a man of his word. You know that yerself, yer sinful, insidious, ornery hog, yer! I wish to God he would welsh! I've been sorry about this here damned suicide compact ever since April. I ain't no blood-sucking vampire, I ain't. But I knows that Mac ain't a-goin' ter welsh—not he!"

Graham smiled. He saw the battle-glare in the cow-puncher's eyes, and he had no appetite for physical combat.

"All right, all right, Andy," he said, soothingly. "I'm sorry I said it. But look here, all of you. Macdonald has done jolly well with the little jack-pot which we contributed. We, on the other hand, are as hard-up as we've ever been. Why, hang it all, only this morning old man Eslick told me we'd have to clear out, every one of us, by the end of the week unless we paid him a substantial something on account. Mac's made a pile of money, and whatever he has made he owes to us in the first place. Isn't that so?"

"Right," chimed in his cherub-faced countryman. "Bloody right."

"And so I propose," Graham continued, "that we call on Macdonald and ask him to—ah—declare a dividend. That'd only be cricket, I fancy."

"It ain't!" Walsh growled. "Nor baseball neither! It's his money. We were all tickled stiff when he drew that there suicide ace instead of us. We didn't kick then. We were damned glad to give him those three thousand bones. And now he's got the right to do with them what he pleases. We ain't got no right to sponge on him. I'm agin it, fellows."

But he was overruled.

"Suppose we call on him to-night—immediately—and talk the matter over with him?" Graham continued.

"Sure!" Traube agreed. "I second der motion."

And so the motion was earned, against the vote of Walsh, half-heartedly supported by the count. Graham telephoned to Macdonald's hotel, but was informed that Macdonald had gone to the club.

"Right-oh," said Graham, "we're off to the club."

He rose, picked up his hat and walked out into the street, the others following. Walsh was the last to go.

Graham looked at him with a sneer.

"Coming alone, Andy? I fancy you've reconsidered."

"I haven't neither," the cow-puncher replied. "I'm trailing along to see fair play."