The Son of his Father
"He's given you the chance of – a lifetime, sir. And that's a thing ther' ain't many in this country yearning to do."
After that the meal progressed in silence until the pie was handed round.
Gordon was thinking hard. He was wondering, in view of what he had heard, what he ought to do. Land. What did he know about land? How could he measure his wits against the wits of such land speculators as he saw about him? He studied the faces of some of the clamorous crowd in the dining-room. They were a strangely mixed lot. There were undoubtedly men of substance among them, but equally surely the majority were adventurers looking to step into the arena of the coming boom and wrest a slice of fortune by hook, or, more probably, by crook. What did he know? What could he do? And his mind went back to the sharp on the train, and the way he had fallen to the man's snare. Again he wanted to laugh. He had counted the bills which Mallinsbee had handed him, in the privacy of his bathroom. He only remembered to have lost about two hundred dollars to the gambler. The dollars handed to him amounted to well over three hundred. The miracle of it all. He had nearly killed the gambler, and, instead of losing, he had made over a hundred dollars on the deal. The miracle of it!
"Do you believe in miracles?" he laughed abruptly.
Peter glanced up from his plate suspiciously. Then he promptly joined in the other's amusement. He always remembered that this newcomer was a friend of Silas Mallinsbee.
"Meracles?" he said reflectively. "I can't say I always did. But one or two things have made some difference that way. Takin' one extra drink saved my life once. The takin' of that drink wasn't jest a meracle," he added dryly. "It was more of a habit them days. Still, it was a meracle in a way. Me an' my brother wer' on a bust. We were feeling that good we was handin' out our pasts in lumps to each other, same as if we was strangers, and wasn't raised around the same cabbige patch. Wal, he'd borrowed an automobile and left the saloon to wind it up, and get things fixed. While he was gone the boys handed me another cocktail. Then the bartender slung one at me, an' I hadn't no more sense than to buy another one myself. Then some damn fool thought rye was the best mix for drinkin' on top o' cocktails, an' so they put me to bed. Guess I never see my brother get back from that joy ride." He sighed. "I allow they had to bury a lot of that automobile with him, he was so mussed up. Sort o' meracle, you'd say? Then there was another time. Guess it was my wife. She was one o' them females who make you feel you want to associate with tame earthworms. Sort o' female who never knew what a sick headache was, an' sang hymns of a Sunday evening, and played a harmonium when she was feelin' in sperits. Sort o' female who couldn't help smellin' out when you was lyin' to her, an' gener'ly told you of it. A good woman though, an' don't yer fergit it. Wal, I got sick once an' when I got right again she guessed it was up to 'em to insure myself in her favor. Guess I'd just paid my first premium when she goes an' takes colic an' dies. I did all I knew. I give her ginger, an' hot-water bags, an' poultices. It didn't make no sort o' difference. She died. I ain't paid no premiums since. Sort o' meracle that," he added, with a satisfied smile. "Then there's this coal. I hadn't started this hotel six months when Mallinsbee gets busy an' makes his deal with the corporation. You ain't goin' to make a pile out of a bum country hotel without a – meracle."
The man's gravity was impressive, and Gordon strove for sympathy.
"Yes," he declared, with smiling emphasis. "There are such things as miracles. One has happened this day – and here. My arrival here was certainly a miracle. A peculiarly earthy miracle, but, nevertheless, a – miracle. Say, I'll have to write some in the office. See you again."
Gordon pushed back his chair and hurried away through the crowded room towards the office. But here again was a crowd. Here again was "land" – always "land." And in desperation he betook himself to his bathroom. He felt he must write to his mother. He felt that on this his arrival in Snake's Fall he could do no less than reassure her of his well-being.
Mrs. James Carbhoy sighed contentedly as she raised her eyes from the last of a number of sheets of paper in her lap. Her husband turned from his contemplation of the scorching streets, and the parched foliage of the wide expanse of trees beyond the window.
"Well?" he inquired. "Where is the boy?"
There was the faintest touch of anxiety in his inquiry, but his face was perfectly controlled, and the humor in his eyes was quite unchanged.
Mrs. Carbhoy sighed again.
"I don't know. He doesn't say. Nor does he give the slightest clew." She examined the envelope of the letter. "It was mailed here in New York. It's a rambling sort of letter. I hope he is all right. This hot weather is – Do you think he – "
Her husband laughed.
"I guess he's all right. You see I don't fancy he wants us to know where he is. That's come through some friend, I'd say. Just read it out."
Gordon's mother leaned back in her chair again. She was more than ready to read her beloved boy's letter again, in spite of her misgivings. Besides, there was a hope in her thoughts that she had missed some clew as to his whereabouts which her clear-sighted husband might detect.
"DEAREST MUM:
"Destinations are mighty curious things which have a way of making up their minds as to whom they are terminals for, regardless of the individual. Most of us think the matter of destination is in our own hands. We make up our minds to go to the North Pole; well, if we get there it's because no other terminal on the way has made up its mind to claim us. I've surely arrived at my destination, a place I wasn't going to, nor had heard of, nor dreamed of – even when I had nightmare. I guess this place must have said to itself, 'Hello, here's Gordon Carbhoy on the train; he's every sort of fool, he don't know if it's Palm Sunday or Candlemas, he hasn't got more sense than an old hen with kittens, let's divert him where we think he ought to go.' So I arrived here quite suddenly this afternoon and, in consequence, have wasted some fifty odd dollars of passage money. It's a good beginning, and one the old Dad 'll surely appreciate.
"Talking of the old Dad, I'd like you to tell him from me that I don't think graft is confined to – big finance. This is a discovery he's likely to be interested in. Also, since he's largely interested in railroads, though not from a traveling point of view, I would point out that much might be done to improve accommodation. The aisles are too narrow and the corners of the seats are too sharp. Furthermore, the best money-making scheme I can think of at the moment is a billet as a conductor of a transcontinental express.
"However, these things are just first impressions.
"There are other impressions I won't discuss here. They relate to arrival platforms of depots. When a fellow gets out on his own in the world, there are many things with which he comes into contact liable to strike him forcibly. Those are the things in life calculated to teach him much that may be useful to him afterwards. I have already come into contact with such things, and though they are liable to leave an impression of soreness generally, their lessons are quite sound.
"On the whole, in spite of having lost fifty odd dollars on my railroad ticket, my first two or three days' adventures have left me with a margin of profit such as I could not reasonably have expected. I mention this to show you, presuming that the Dad has told you the object of my going, that my eye is definitely focused on the primary purpose of my ramblings.
"I am keeping my eyes well open and one or two of my observations might be of interest to you.
"I have discovered that the luxurious bath is not actually necessary to life, and, from a hygienic point of view, there's no real drawback to the kind of soap vulgarly known as 'hoss.' Furthermore, the filtration of water for ablutionary purposes is quite unnecessary. All it needs is to be of a consistency that'll percolate through a fish net. Moreover, judging from observations only, I have discovered that a comb and brush, if securely chained up, can be used on any number of heads without damaging results.
"Observation cannot be considered complete without its being turned upon one's fellow-creatures. I have already come into contact with some very interesting specimens of my kind. Without worrying you with details I have found some of them really worth while. Generalizing, I'd like to say right here that man seems to be a creature of curious habits – many of which are bad. I don't say this with malice. On the contrary, I say it with appreciation. And, too, I never realized what a general hobby amongst men the collecting of dollars was. It must be all the more interesting that, as a collection, it never seems completed. I'd like to remark that view points change quickly under given circumstances, and I am now bitten with the desire to become a collector.
"Furthermore, my focus had readjusted itself already. For instance, I feel no repulsion at the manners displayed in the dining-room of a small country 'hotel.' I feel sure that the man who eats with his mouth open and snores at the same time is quite justified, if he happens to be bigger and stronger than the man who hears and sees him. I also feel that a man is only within his rights in having two or even three helpings of every dish in a hotel run on the American plan, unless the limit to a man's capacity is definitely estimated on the printed tariff. Another observation came my way. Honesty seems to be a matter of variable quality. A nice ethical problem is suggested by the following incident. A man robs his victim; a righteously indignant onlooker sees the transaction, and his honesty-loving nature rebels. He forthwith robs the robber and hands the proceeds of his robbery to the original victim. This seems to me to open up a road to discussion which I'm sure the Dad and I would enjoy – though not at this distance.
"I have already learned that there are plenty of great men in the world whose existence I had never suspected. I have a feeling that local celebrities have a greater glory than national heroes. George Washington never told a lie, it is true, and his birthday forms an adequate excuse for a certain stimulation in the enjoyments of a people. But he never discovered a paying field for speculation by the dollar chasers. Until a man does that he can have no understanding of real glory.
"I hope you and Gracie are well. I think it would be advisable to check Gracie's appetite for candy. I am already realizing that luxury can be overdone. She might turn her attention to peanuts, which I observe is a popular pastime amongst the people with whom I have come into contact. I would suggest to the old Dad that five-cent cigars have merits in spite of rumor to the contrary. I feel, too, that the dollar ninety-five he would thus save on his smoke might, in time, become a valuable asset.
"Your loving son,
"GORDON."
CHAPTER VI
GORDON PROSPECTS SNAKE'S FALL
It was a blazing day. The dust of the prairie street smothered boots and trouser-legs with a fine gray powder which even rose high enough to get into the throats of pedestrians, and drive them headlong to the nearest place where they could hope to quench a raging thirst.
There was no shelter from the sun, unless it were to be found upon the verandas with which many of the Snake's Fall houses were fronted. Gordon's face was rapidly blistering as he idly wandered through the town. Great streams of perspiration coursed from beneath his soft felt hat. His double collar felt sticky, and suggested imminent collapse. To all of which discomforts were now added a swarm of flies buzzing about his moist face with a distracting persistence which tried even his patience.
Gordon was abroad fairly early. He was abroad for several reasons. He possessed a haunting dread of the rapid passing of time. He had slept healthily, if not altogether comfortably. Nor had he yet made up his mind whether the floor of his room would not be preferable to his bed for the passing of future nights. The floor was smooth, there were no hummocks on it. Then, too, the sorely tried and thoroughly slack bed-springs would be avoided, and the horrible groans of a protesting frame would remain silent. It was a matter to be given consideration before the day ended, and, being really of a very thorough nature, he decided to consider it after supper.
He had lain awake for a long time that first night under the shelter of Peter McSwain's hospitable roof, and in the interim of dodging the flock hummocks he had closely considered his future movements.
He argued, if things were as he had been told they were in Snake's Fall, he did not see how he could do better than throw his lot in with the crowd of "ground sharks" awaiting the boom. Having convinced himself in this direction, he felt that at the very earliest opportunity he must reassure himself of Peter McSwain's veracity. He felt that no member of the get-rich-quick brigade could dare to ignore the claims of a great coal discovery about to boom. Besides, the whole thing had been pitched into his lap; or rather it was he who had been pitched. Nor did the roughness of the method of his arrival detract from the chances spreading out before his astonished eyes.
Now he was searching the place for those signs which were to tell him of the accuracy of his information. Nor was it long before he realized that such a search on his part was scarcely likely to prove productive. His knowledge of coal had never been more intimate than the payment of certain fuel bills presented to him at intervals in the past by the faithful Harding. While as for indications of a boom – well, he had heard that a boom came along, everybody robbed everybody else, and in the end a number of widows and orphans found themselves deprived of their savings, and a considerable body of attorneys had increased their year's income out of all proportion to their just deserts. He felt his weakness keenly. However, he persisted. He felt the only thing was to attack the problem with an open mind. He did so, and it quickly became filled with a humorous interest that had nothing to do with his purpose.
Surveying his surroundings, he thought that never in his life had he even imagined such a quaint collection of habitations. The long, straight street, running parallel to the railroad track suggested a row of jagged, giant teeth. Each building was set in its own section of jawbone, distinct from its nearest neighbor. Then they reared their heads and terminated in a pointed fang or a flat, clean-cut edge of high boarding. Sometimes they possessed a mere sloping roof, like a well-worn tooth, and, here and there, a half-wrecked building, with its roof fallen in, stood out like a severely decayed molar.
Most of the stores – and he counted a dozen or more – suggested a considerable trade. In this direction he noted a hardware store particularly. A drug store, too, with an ice-cream soda fountain, seemed to be in high favor, as also did several dry-goods stores, judging by the number of females in attendance. But the small candy stores were abandoned to the swarming flies.
The people were interesting. There certainly was a considerable number about, in spite of the heat. They, anyway the men, all looked hot like himself, but seemed to be surcharged with an energy that appeared to him somewhat artificial. They hurried unnecessarily. They paused and spoke quickly, and passed on. Here and there they fell into groups, and their boisterous laughter suggested the inevitable funny story or risque tale. There were a great number of vehicles rattling about – buggies, buckboards, democrat wagons – while several times he was passed by speeding saddle-horses which smothered him in the dust raised by their unshod hoofs.
At last he came to the end of the street, and turned to retrace his steps. It was all too interesting to be readily abandoned on this his first day beyond the conventions of life as his father's son.
Just outside a large livery barn he came to an abrupt halt, and stood stupidly staring at the entrance of the largest dry-goods store in the street. The whole thing had caught and held him in a moment. He seemed to remember having seen something of the sort in a moving picture once; perhaps it was years ago. But in real life – never.
A great chestnut saddle-horse had dashed up to the tying-post outside the store. It had reined up with a jerk, and its rider had flung out of the saddle with the careless abandon he had read about or seen in the pictures. Hooking the reins over a peg, the rider hurried towards the store. It was then Gordon obtained a full view.
In a moment the flies were forgotten and the heat of the day meant nothing to him. What a vision was revealed! The coiled masses of auburn hair, the magnificent hazel eyes and the delightful sun-tanned oval of the face, the trim figure and perfect carriage, the costume! The long habit coat and loose riding-breeches terminated in the daintiest of tan riding-boots and silver spurs. Splendid! What a picture for his admiring eyes! A picture of grace, and health, and beauty.
But the vision was gone in a moment. The girl had passed into the store, and it was only left to the enthusiastic spectator to turn to the magnificent chestnut horse she had so unconcernedly left waiting for her.
Almost immediately, however, his attention was diverted into another direction. A dark, sallow-faced man had promptly taken up his position at the entrance of the store, and stood gazing in after the vanished figure of the girl.
For some absurd reason Gordon took an intense dislike to the man. He looked unhealthy, and he hated that look in a man. Besides, the impertinence of standing there spying upon a lady who was doubtless simply bent on an ordinary shopping expedition. It was most exasperating. All unconsciously he straightened his great figure and squared his shoulders. It would not have required much to have made him go and ask the man what he meant by it.
He was rapidly working himself up into a superlative rage, when the girl in the fawn riding-costume reappeared. A delightful smile broke over his good-looking face, but only to be promptly swallowed up in a scowl. The girl had paused, and was speaking to the anæmic creature whose presence he felt to be an outrage.
He noted her smile. What a delightful smile! Yes, he could distinctly make out two dimples beyond the corners of her pretty mouth. His dislike of the favored man merged into a regret for himself.
Hello! The smile had gone from the girl's face. Her beautiful hazel eyes were sparkling with resentment. The man was looking angry, too. Gordon rubbed his hands. Then he began to grin like a revengeful and malicious schoolboy. The girl had moved on to her horse, and in doing so it almost looked as if she had deliberately pushed past the white-livered creature attempting to detain her.
She leaped into the saddle and swung the horse about almost on its haunches. The next moment she was lost in a cloud of dust as she raced down the street.
"Mighty fine horsemanship that," said a voice, as Gordon gazed open-mouthed after the girlish vision. "A smart gal, too, eh?"
Gordon turned. A small man was sitting at the open doors of the livery barn upon an upturned box. He was leaning forward lazily, with his elbows on his knees and his hands clutching his forearms. His towzled, straw-colored hair stuck out under the brim of his prairie hat, and a chew of tobacco bulged one thin, leathery cheek. His trousers were fastened about his waist with a strap, and his only upper garment was a dirty cotton shirt which disclosed an expanse of mahogany-colored chest below the neck.
"Smart gal?" retorted Gordon enthusiastically. "That don't say a thing. She might have stepped right out of the pages of a book." Then he added, as an afterthought, "And it would have to be a mighty good book, too."
"Sure," nodded the other in agreement.
"Who is she?"
The man grinned and spat.
"Why, that's Miss Hazel. Every feller in this city knows Miss Hazel. If you need eddication you want to see her astride of an unbroken colt. Ther' never was a cowpuncher a circumstance aside o' her. She's the dandiest horseman out."
"I'd say you're right, all right."
"Right? Guess ther' ain't no argument. Hosses is my trade. I was born an' raised with 'em. It don't take me guessin' twice 'bout a horseman. I got forty first-class hosses right here in this barn, an' I got a bunch runnin' on old Mallinsbee's grazin'. Y'see, a livery barn is a mighty busy place when a city starts to think o' booming. All them rigs an' buggies you see chasin' around are hired right here," he finished up proudly.
Gordon became interested. He felt the man was talking because he wanted to talk. He was talking out of the prevailing excitement which seemed to actuate everybody on the subject of the coming boom. He encouraged him.
"I'd say a livery barn should be a mighty fine speculation under these conditions," he said, while the keen gray eyes of the barn proprietor quietly sized him up. "There ought to be a pile hanging to it."
"Ye-es."
The man's demur roused the other's curiosity.
"Not?" he inquired.
"'Tain't that. Ther's dollars to it, but – they don't come in bunches. Y'see, I'm out after a wad – quick. We all are. When the railroad talks we'll know where we are. But it's best to be in before. See? Oh, I guess the barn's all right. 'Tain't that. Say, I'd hand you this barn right here, every plug an' every rig I got, if you could jest answer me one question – right."
"And the question?" Gordon smiled.
"Wher' is the bloomin' depot to be? Here, or yonder to the west at Buffalo Point? Answer that right, an' you can have this caboose a present."
The little man sighed, and Gordon began to understand the strain of waiting for these people looking for a big pile quick. He shook his head.
"I'm beginning to think I'd like to know myself. Say, I s'pose you figure this is a great place to make money? I s'pose you fancy it's a sure thing?"
The man unfolded his arms and waved one hand in a comprehensive gesture.
"Do you need to ask me that?" he inquired, almost scornfully. "What does them big coal seams tell you? Can you doubt? Hev' you got two eyes to your head which don't convey no meaning to your brain? Them coal seams could stoke hell till kingdom come, an' shares 'ud still be at a premium. That's the backbone. Wal, we ain't got shares in that corporation, but the quickest road to the pile o' dollars we're yearning for is in town plots. An'," he added regretfully, "every day brings in more sharps, an' every new sharp makes it harder. It's that blamed railroad we're waiting for, an' that railroad needs to graft its way in before it'll talk."
"Graft? Graft again," laughed Gordon.
"Why, cert'nly." The livery man opened his eyes in astonishment. "Folks don't do nothin' for nix that I ever heard. Specially railroads. That depot 'll be built where their interests lie, an' we'll have to go on guessin' till they get things fixed."
"I see."
"Which says you ain't blind."
"No, I don't think I'm blind exactly. It's just – lack of experience. I must get a peek at those seams. Mallinsbee's the man who'll know about things as soon as anybody, I s'pose. He owns all the land along the railroad, doesn't he?"
The man rubbed his hands and grinned.
"Sure. He'll know, an' through him us as he's let in on the ground floor. Say, he's a heap of a good feller – an' bright. Y'see, him an' us, some of us fellers who been here right along before the coal was found, are good friends. There's some of us got stakes down Buffalo Point way as well as up here. See? O' course, our pile lies Buffalo Point way, an' we're hopin' he'll fix the railroad corporation that way. If he does, gee! he's the feller we're gamblin' on."
Gordon's interest had become almost feverish as he listened. He was gathering the corroboration he needed with an ease he had never anticipated.
"I suppose one hundred thousand dollars would be nothing to make if – things go right?"
"If things go our way, I'd say a hundred thousand wouldn't be a circumstance," cried the man enthusiastically. "I'd make that out of a few hundred dollars without a worry – if things went right. But it ain't the way of things to go right when you figger up."