Bucking the Tiger/Chapter 9

ITCHIE MACDONALD had gone to the club earlier in the evening, on a sort of farewell visit, as he said to himself. For he knew that, to carry through his plans in regard to the little manicure girl whom he had engaged as secretary and stenographer, he would have to make his bluff good.

During the past weeks his check account and his investments had grown steadily in spite of himself. Now he would have to look after them; he would have to attend to business. Otherwise, being shrewd and proud, the girl would see through his charitable intentions, and he felt sure that she would never forgive him. And the thought of hurting her feelings struck him as peculiarly disagreeable.

But was it really charity which he intended toward her? The thought came to him, and with it a faint wonder, like a light in a dark house. He dismissed both thought and wonder. Of course it was charity. What else could it be?

Also, why the deuce shouldn't he be allowed to do some practical charity? For he owned up to the fact that during all his life, while he had never done a really mean thing, a thing to be morally ashamed of, he had never had the energy to do a decently good thing either. He had been an idler, a failure and a wastrel, he told himself fiercely, and every one knew it. His father knew it, his mother, his sister, his friends; he knew it himself.

Of late he had made a little money. That was true. But he had made it gambling, and not working; and its very initial stake—the three thousand dollars which the six down-and-outers at the Eslick had contributed—he had received thanks to a compact by which he was gambling away the most precious thing given to man—life itself.

All right, then, he said to himself; he would unselfishly make up to somebody else, since he had lost his last chance to make up to himself. He would pay the little girl her forty dollars per week, and later on he would surprise her by leaving her every cent of his money on his death. So here was an additional reason why he would have to look after his money and his few investments, why he must secure and increase them. He wanted to make the stake worth while for her.

So, since this was to be his farewell visit to the club, he had played two-handed stud poker with old Pat Kenny, with the open sky for limit. An expensive Princeton education, blended with the experiences of his Wanderjahre, had made him an expert at this homicidal variety of the great American game; and so he separated the old Irishman from a check which ran to a staggering four-figure amount.

Kenny had only given up the struggle after his wife had telephoned for the third time.

"Ye'll give me my revenge to-morrow, sonny," he had said on parting.

But Macdonald had shaken his head.

"Nothing doing, Pat," he had replied. "After to-night I am going to eschew this den of poker and punch, of bridge and brandy, of whist and wickedness. I am going to occupy myself solely with ducats and devoirs. I am going to foreclose on whatever business ability I possess and watch the gold-dust drop into my poke. No more cards—until April of next year!"

"Near-sport!" Kenny had growled savagely. "You've so darned tight that the good Lord had to use a shoehorn to squeeze your heart into your body. Bad luck to you, and lots of it!"

But, in his own heart, Kenny was glad that Macdonald was going to attend to business. It was a sign that he was ready to put the finishing touches on the Western Crown deal, which, according to Houghton, had brought him to Spokane.

And so, since he still owned a minority interest of the company's shares, he said to himself that in the final settlement he would get back from Macdonald every dollar he had lost to him at poker, with a handsome bonus added to it.

Now Macdonald was alone in the card-room. It was between the afternoon and the evening session, between the bridge and poker hour. The members had gone home to eat dinner and growl at their wives, and would not be back before an hour or so.

Macdonald walked up and down the length of the room. He looked approvingly at the little tables covered with green cloth. Cards had been good to him. Cards had given him the groundwork for that neat little fortune which he proposed to leave to Emily Steeves.

Again his thoughts concentrated on the girl; and then, very suddenly, he knew that he loved her. Ridiculous, he said to himself. A man doesn't fall in love at first sight, within twenty-four hours. But why not? whispered another cell in his brain. Man is born in an hour, and dies in a second; why can't he love in a day?

He did love her. He was certain of it. The thought came to him like a shock. He loved her—yes—and his love was like a fine rain, the kind which one neither sees nor hears, which is unceasing, chilling, penetrating.

What of it? His love would never do Him any good—nor her any harm, God bless her, he completed the thought. One must live to love, and he—he would be in his grave in a little over ten months' time.

He supposed he might be able to strike some sort of a bargain with those fellows at the Eslick, so that they would let him off his contract. What of that? He would have to pay over his money to them; he would be as broke as he had been before; he would not be able to make life easy for her, which was the main thing.

Also, he would have to make full confession to her. Why, damn it, this very morning he had told her that he was very sick, that he had only a year to live. He had worked on her sympathies to get her to accept the position as stenographer with him. And now, if he confessed, there would come her contempt; perhaps, which was still worse, her pity!

No! Couldn't be done! He'd stick to his bargain; suicide as per arrangement with those six vultures at the Eslick, and little Emily Steeves to get his money. The one decent thing in his life!

Then he thought of the Houghtons, father and son, and he was amused. Why, those two efficient and whole-hearted Grand Sachems of the Ancient and Benevolent Order of Grafters and Kidnappers were figuring on doing him up brown over a bunch of stock in the Western Crown. That much he had read between the lines. All right, he decided, he would have some sport with them before he died. These last ten months wouldn't be devoid altogether of laughter and merriment.

He walked over to the window and looked out. The day was closing in, and the sun had moved down the horizon into a deep, inky-black bank of clouds, transfusing them with pink and orange edges. The foaming, turbulent water of the Spokane Falls was green one moment and gold the next, and where the evening wind blew there came a great blotch of silver, and the little crinkled waves looked like the ruffled feathers of a wild bird.

He opened the windows and filled his lungs with the fresh, chill air. It was a beautiful, beautiful world after all, he thought—and he—in one more year—

"Ah beg yoh pahdon," drawled a soft African voice from the door. "Ah beg yoh pahdon, Mistah Macdonald."

Macdonald turned. One of the stewards had entered the room.

"What is it, George?"

The steward bowed.

"Mistah Macdonald, suh, they's tramps out yondeh, waitin' fo' you, suh. They-all says they's gwine see you, suh. They's very insistin', suh."

"Did you say 'tramp,' George, or 'tramps'?" Macdonald asked. "Do you mean tramps in the plural, or is said plural only a slip of your Nubian tongue?"

"No, suh," the steward replied, "them's several—six—I counted them, suh."

Macdonald smiled.

"By ginger," he said to himself, "that must be the Eslick bunch, the Hungry Six." He turned to the steward. "What do they look like, George?"

"I dunno, suh. I cain't exac'ly describe them, suh."

Macdonald sat down.

"Is one of them a tall streak of misery, with a shape like a drink of water; haughty, British, you-go-and-bloomin-well-be-damned manner?"

"Yes, suh; yes, suh," the steward broke into a high-pitched guffaw.

"And is there one," Macdonald continued, "who looks like the villain in a moving-picture drama? French, you know; spiked moustache; pointed boots; runs away with the pretty dame who has all the money; brave cowboy to the rescue; revolver shots, Stars and Stripes, and all the rest of the properties?"

The Ethiopian Ganymede broke into another reverberating fit of jungle-like cachinnations.

"Yes, suh. That's them, suh," he replied with choking voice.

Macdonald lit a cigar.

"The Eslick bunch, or I'm a Dutchman. I bet they've come to collect a dividend on my prospective corpse."

The steward looked bewildered.

"Ah beg yoh pahdon, Mistah Macdonald," he stammered.

Macdonald laughed.

"That's all right, George. I was just talking to myself. Show the gentlemen in."

The steward left, and returned a minute later, together with the six down-and-outers.

"Mistah Macdonald," he said, "here am the—the gentlemen." And he left the room.

Graham, Traube, Hayes, and Hillyer advanced with an air which was a peculiar mixture of arrogance and embarrassment, while the cow-puncher and the count lagged behind exchanging whispered remarks.

Graham dropped into a chair.

"That's right," Macdonald commented with a laugh. "Make yourself at home."

Graham did not reply. He looked about him. He saw the solid luxury of the room, the splendid brown wainscoting, the bronze chandeliers which depended from the high, slightly vaulted ceiling, the fresco paintings which ran round the walls, the warm, red carpet on the floor. He saw Macdonald's well-cut tweed suit, his expensive silk shirt, and the fat, black cigar between his lips. He turned white with hatred and envy, and a deep rage rose in his heart.

Finally Macdonald himself broke the silence.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "to what pleasant chain of circumstances am I indebted for this charming visit en masse?"

"Say, Mac," Walsh shouted from the door, "I swear to Heaven it wasn't me—nor the count, either—who's responsible for this here deputation. It was that no-account, cradle-snatchin', yellow-livered eyesore of a Graham."

At the sound of his name Graham forgot his rage. Of course he hated Macdonald. There was the memory of the blow; the luxury which surrounded him; still, business was business.

So he spoke suavely and concisely.

"Exactly, Macdonald. I myself suggested this little visit. We heard of your tremendous good fortune, don't you know—"

"Right-oh!" chimed in Hillyer. "Jolly, rippin' good fortune, I call it. Bunches and bales of the ready, eh, what? Shell out!"

Graham stared stonily at his jovial compatriot.

"Shut up, you bungling blighter!" he whispered savagely; then he turned again to Macdonald. "Yes, old chap, we've heard that you made quite a lot of money since you left the Eslick; and so, being, so to speak, your silent partners, we came to—"

"Being my what?" inquired Macdonald softly.

"Your silent partners," the other repeated icily.

Macdonald laughed.

"All right, if you want to put it that way. Go on."

"Being, as I said, your silent partners, we came to—"

"To congratulate me, I suppose," Macdonald interrupted.

Again a great rage rose in Graham's throat; but again he controlled himself. He bowed slightly.

"Of course, of course," he said. "We came to congratulate you; but we also came to—"

"To get money," Macdonald interrupted once more.

Hillyer burst into a guffaw.

"My word, old chap, how the deuce did you guess it?"

"Second sight, old man," Macdonald replied with a smile; then he addressed Graham direct. "If I may put it in my own crude way, you have come here to collect an interim dividend on my prospective corpse."

"Not a bit," answered Graham. "We have come to the conclusion that there is really no necessity of your fulfilling the silly contract at all—"

"Right-oh," the irrepressible Hillyer broke in, "The whole thing was only meant in fun. Meant to rot you a bit, you know—"

Macdonald leaned back in his chair. He observed the others from beneath his lowered eyelids. He had an idea as to what was coming next, and he was not mistaken.

Suppose you pay us now instead of waiting for April of next year," Graham continued, "and then—"

"I may be allowed to live?"

"Yes. That's it exactly."

"You see, old cock," Hillyer put in, in spite of his countryman's warning glances and whispered admonitions, "we thought we'd give you what you Yanks call a square deal and all that sort of piffle."

Macdonald smiled.

"Very square, I'm sure," he admitted.

Hillyer grew enthusiastic.

"Isn't it? You see, we are deucedly hard up; rather stony-broke, in fact. And you've barrels of the filthy stuff; and we are offering you a bargain."

Macdonald was in thoughts. Life, he considered, life and a chance—and the girl!"

"How much do you want?" he asked abruptly,

Traube opened his mouth for the first time.

"It ain't der question of how much ve vant," he said coolly and briskly. "Der question is, how moch haf you got?"

"What d'you mean?" Macdonald retorted; and a little sharp note crept into his voice.

"It's easy to see vot ve mean," the German said stubbornly. "Ve ask you how moch money you haf got, no?"

Hayes pushed the German to one side.

"Dutch is right, Mac," he said. "Pass over your cash-box, your bank-book, your pawn tickets, and the key to your private vault. Come through with the dough. Say, you don't want to cut your throat because of a few measly kopeks. You ain't going to be such a tightwad, are you?"

"And of course," Graham added with a sneer, "you're not the sort to welsh. We have your word for that—and Andy's. Yes, Andy's," he repeated as he saw the questioning look in Macdonald's eyes. "Our cow-punching friend is quite a champion of yours. Never mind. Look here," he said, leaning across the table, "suppose you figure out how much you've got. Of course we'll leave you enough so you can keep on going for a month or so—"

"Right-oh!" Hillyer interrupted. "You are no end of a clever chap, Mac,—amazingly, thunderously clever. Regular blasting whirlwind of brains, what? It shan't take you long to make another pile, you know."

Macdonald did not reply for a few moments; then he spoke icily:

"I guess all you fellows agree with Graham? Want me to divvy up between you what I've made, and make me a present of my life instead?"

He glanced inquiringly around. Graham was about to answer, but Walsh got there ahead of him.

"Mac," he said solemnly, "this ain't any o' my doin'. Nor the count's, either. We two are against it—dead against it."

"But you're overruled," Graham interrupted quickly. "We four are in the majority, Mac, and we give you your choice." Traube, Hillyer, and Hayes gave a rumbling chorus of assent, and Graham continued. "Pay up. Divide whatever you've got or—you know!" and he moved his thumb in a downward direction, like a Roman emperor condemning a gladiator to death.

There was a long silence. Macdonald looked straight ahead into nothingness. Here was a chance. Should he accept it? Should he let Graham blackmail him? Should he let these useless wastrels have the money which he had decided to leave to the girl?

He looked at the men, studying their faces narrowly. They seemed eager for life, eager for money, eager for all the grossnesses of what life and money could buy. They represented to him everything he hated in his own life, everything he despised in himself. They were broke, financially and morally.

It did not take him long to decide; and when he spoke his voice was hard and cold, dismissing with its first word the possibility of any alternative.

"No," he said, and rose. "Not a cent. I stick to the original bargain. Get out!"

Hillyer walked up to him. "But I say, old chap, don't be so bloody pig-headed—"

Macdonald took him by the shoulders and whirled him toward the door.

"Back to your tents, O Israel!" he said laughingly; then very suddenly he lost his temper. "Get out, all of you, before I kick you out! Get out, damn you!" he shouted with a thundering voice.

Walsh and the count were the last to leave the room. Macdonald detained them by a gesture.

"You're broke, too, you two fellows, aren't you?" he asked.

"You bet," Walsh replied fervently, while the count raised his hands to the ceiling in a gesture which was a superlative yes.

"All right," Macdonald continued. "I'll give you two fellows a chance. I've opened up offices in the Peyton Building. Come around to-morrow morning at eight sharp—both of you—I'll give you a job. There's just one condition. You've seen to-night that I intend to stick to our suicide compact. I'm going to stick to it, whatever happens—for reasons of my own—and I don't want you fellows to ever talk to me about it. You must not try to dissuade me. Promise me that?"

The two men looked at each other, and then they looked at Macdonald. Finally they gave a half-hearted promise.

And so it came about that when Miss Emily Steeves appeared at the Peyton Building the next morning at half past eight she found an extremely busy office there, with her new boss giving rapid directions to two employees who looked suspiciously like vagrants, but who seemed to be in great favour with Macdonald and who repaid him with doglike devotion.