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BREWSTER’S MILLIONS (Part 2)

CHAPTER XVII

THE NEW TENDERFOOT

Brewster was comparatively well and strong when he returned to New York in March. His illness had interfered extensively with his plan of campaign and it was imperative that he redouble his efforts, notwithstanding the manifest dismay of his friends. His first act was to call upon Grant & Ripley, from whom he hoped to learn what Swearengen Jones thought of his methods. The lawyers had heard no complaint from Montana, and advised him to continue as he had begun, assuring him, as far as they could, that Jones would not prove unreasonable.

An exchange of telegrams just before his operation had renewed Monty’s dread of his eccentric mentor.

NEW YORK, Jan. 6, 19—

SWEARENGEN JONES,

Butte, Mont.

How about having my life insured? Would it violate conditions?

MONTGOMERY BREWSTER.

*

To MONTGOMERY BREWSTER,

New York.

Seems to me your life would become an asset in that case. Can you dispose of it before September 23d?

JONES.

*

TO SWEARENGEN JONES,

Butte, Mont.

On the contrary, I think life will be a debt by that time.

MONTGOMERY BREWSTER.

*

To MONTGOMERY BREWSTER,

New York.

If you feel that way about it, I advise you to take out a $500 policy.

JONES.

*

TO SWEARENGEN JONES,

Butte, Mont.

Do you think that amount would cover funeral expenses?

MONTGOMERY BREWSTER.

*

To MONTGOMERY BREWSTER,

New York.

You won’t be caring about expenses if it comes to that.

JONES.

*

The invitations for the second ball had been out for some time and the preparations were nearly complete when Brewster arrived upon the scene of festivity. It did not surprise him that several old-time friends should hunt him up and protest vigorously against the course he was pursuing. Nor did it surprise him when he found that his presence was not as essential to the success of some other affair as it had once been. He was not greeted as cordially as before, and he grimly wondered how many of his friends would stand true to the end. The uncertainty made him turn more and more often to the unquestioned loyalty of Peggy Gray, and her little library saw him more frequently than for months.

Much as he had dreaded the pretentious and resplendent ball, it was useful to him in one way at least. The “profit” side of his ledger account was enlarged and in that there was room for secret satisfaction. The Viennese orchestra straggled into New York, headed by Elon Gardner, a physical wreck, in time to make a harmonious farewell appearance behind Brewster’s palms, which caused his guests to wonder why the American public could not appreciate the real thing. A careful summing up of the expenses and receipts proved that the tour had been a bonanza for Brewster. The net loss was a trifle more than $56,000. When this story became known about town, everybody laughed pityingly, and poor Gardner was almost in tears when he tried to explain the disaster to the man who lost the money. But Monty’s sense of humor, singularly enough, did not desert him on this trying occasion.

Aesthetically the ball proved to be the talk of more than one season. Pettingill had justified his desire for authority and made a name which would last. He had taken matters into his own hands while Brewster was in Florida, and changed the period from the Spain of Velasquez to France and Louis Quinze. After the cards were out he remembered, to his consternation, that the favors purchased for the Spanish ball would be entirely inappropriate for the French one. He wired Brewster at once of this misfortune, and was astonished at the nonchalance of his reply. “But then Monty always was a good sort,” he thought, with a glow of affection. The new plan was more costly than the old, for it was no simple matter to build a Versailles suite at Sherry’s. Pettingill was no imitator, but he created an effect which was superbly in keeping with the period he had chosen. Against it the rich costumes, with their accompaniment of wigs and powdered hair, shone out resplendent. With great difficulty the artist had secured for Monty a costume in white satin and gold brocade, which might once have adorned the person of Louis himself. It made him feel like a popinjay, and it was with infinite relief that he took it off an hour or so after dawn. He knew that things had gone well, that even Mrs. Dan was satisfied; but the whole affair made him heartsick. Behind the compliments lavished upon him he detected a note of irony, which revealed the laughter that went on behind his back. He had not realized how much it would hurt. “For two cents,” he thought, “I’d give up the game and be satisfied with what’s left.” But he reflected that such a course would offer no chance to redeem himself. Once again he took up the challenge and determined to win out. “Then,” he thought exultantly, “I’ll make them feel this a bit.”

He longed for the time when he could take his few friends with him and sail away to the Mediterranean to escape the eyes and tongues of New York. Impatiently he urged Harrison to complete the arrangements, so that they could start at once. But Harrison’s face was not untroubled when he made his report. All the preliminary details had been perfected. He had taken the “Flitter” for four months, and it was being overhauled and put into condition for the voyage. It had been Brown’s special pride, but at his death it went to heirs who were ready and eager to rent it to the highest bidder. It would not have been easy to find a handsomer yacht in New York waters. A picked crew of fifty men were under command of Captain Abner Perry. The steward was a famous manager and could be relied upon to stock the larder in princely fashion. The boat would be in readiness to sail by the tenth of April.

“I think you are going in too heavily, Monty,” protested Harrison, twisting his fingers nervously. “I can’t for my life figure how you can get out for less than a fortune, if we do everything you have in mind. Wouldn’t it be better to pull up a bit? This looks like sheer madness. You won’t have a dollar, Monty—honestly you won’t.”

“It’s not in me to save money, Nopper, but if you can pull out a few dollars for yourself I shall not object.”

“You told me that once before, Monty,” said Harrison, as he walked to the window. When he resolutely turned back again to Brewster his face was white, but there was a look of determination around the mouth.

“Monty, I’ve got to give up this job,” he said, huskily. Brewster looked up quickly.

“What do you mean, Nopper?”

“I’ve got to leave, that’s all,” said Harrison, standing stiff and straight and looking over Brewster’s head.

“Good Lord, Nopper, I can’t have that. You must not desert the ship. What’s the matter, old chap? You’re as white as a ghost. What is it?” Monty was standing now and his hands were on Harrison’s shoulders, but before the intensity of his look, his friend’s eyes fell helplessly.

“The truth is, Monty, I’ve taken some of your money and I’ve lost it. That’s the reason I—I can’t stay on. I have betrayed your confidence.”

“Tell me about it,” and Monty was perhaps more uncomfortable than his friend. “I don’t understand.”

“You believed too much in me, Monty. You see, I thought I was doing you a favor. You were spending so much and getting nothing in return, and I thought I saw a chance to help you out. It went wrong, that’s all, and before I could let go of the stock sixty thousand dollars of your money had gone. I can’t replace it yet. But God knows I didn’t mean to steal.”

“It’s all right, Nopper. I see that you thought you were helping me. The money’s gone and that ends it. Don’t take it so hard, old boy.”

“I knew you’d act this way, but it doesn’t help matters. Some day I may be able to pay back the money I took, and I’m going to work until I do.”

Brewster protested that he had no use for the money and begged him to retain the position of trust he had held. But Harrison had too much self-respect to care to be confronted daily with the man he had wronged. Gradually Monty realized that “Nopper” was pursuing the most manly course open to him, and gave up the effort to dissuade him. He insisted upon leaving New York, as there was no opportunity to redeem himself in the metropolis.

“I’ve made up my mind, Monty, to go out west, up in the mountains perhaps. There’s no telling, I may stumble on a gold mine up there—and—well, that seems to be the only chance I have to restore what I have taken from you.”

“By Jove, Nopper, I have it!” cried Monty. “If you must go, I’ll stake you in the hunt for gold.”

In the end “Nopper” consented to follow Brewster’s advice, and it was agreed that they should share equally all that resulted from his prospecting tour. Brewster “grub-staked” him for a year, and before the end of the week a new tenderfoot was on his way to the Rocky Mountains.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE PRODIGAL AT SEA

Harrison’s departure left Brewster in sore straits. It forced him to settle down to the actual management of his own affairs. He was not indolent, but this was not the kind of work he cared to encourage. The private accounts he had kept revealed some appalling facts when he went over them carefully one morning at four o’clock, after an all-night session with the ledger. With infinite pains he had managed to rise to something over $450,000 in six months. But to his original million it had been necessary to add $58,550 which he had realized from Lumber and Fuel and some of his other “unfortunate” operations. At least $40,000 would come to him ultimately through the sale of furniture and other belongings, and then there would be something like $20,000 interest to consider. But luck had aided him in getting rid of his money. The bank failure had cost him $113,468.25, and “Nopper” Harrison had helped him to the extent of $60,000. The reckless but determined effort to give a ball had cost $30,000. What he had lost during his illness had been pretty well offset by the unlucky concert tour. The Florida trip, including medical attention, the cottage and living expenses, had entailed the expenditure of $18,500, and his princely dinners and theater parties had footed up $31,000. Taking all the facts into consideration, he felt that he had done rather well as far as he had gone, but the hardest part of the undertaking was yet to come. He was still in possession of an enormous sum, which must disappear before September 23d. About $40,000 had already been expended in the yachting project.

He determined to begin at once a systematic campaign of extinction. It had been his intention before sailing to dispose of many household articles, either by sale or gift. As he did not expect to return to New York before the latter part of August, this would minimize the struggles of the last month. But the prospective “profit” to be acquired from keeping his apartment open was not to be overlooked. He could easily count upon a generous sum for salaries and running expenses. Once on the other side of the Atlantic, he hoped that new opportunities for extravagance would present themselves, and he fancied he could leave the final settlement of his affairs for the last month. As the day for sailing approached, the world again seemed bright to this most mercenary of spendthrifts.

A farewell consultation with his attorneys proved encouraging, for to them his chances to win the extraordinary contest seemed of the best. He was in high spirits as he left them, exhilarated by the sensation that the world lay before him. In the elevator he encountered Colonel Prentiss Drew. On both sides the meeting was not without its difficulties. The Colonel had been dazed by the inexplicable situation between Monty and his daughter, whose involutions he found hard to understand. Her summary of the effort she had made to effect a reconciliation, after hearing the story of the bank, was rather vague. She had done her utmost, she said, to be nice to him and make him feel that she appreciated his generosity, but he took it in the most disagreeable fashion. Colonel Drew knew that things were somehow wrong; but he was too strongly an American father to interfere in a matter of the affections. It distressed him, for he had a liking for Monty, and Barbara’s “society judgments,” as he called them, had no weight with him. When he found himself confronted with Brewster in the elevator, the old warmth revived and the old hope that the quarrel might have an end. His greeting was cheery.

“You have not forgotten, Brewster,” he said, as they shook hands, “that you have a dollar or two with us?”

“No,” said Monty, “not exactly. And I shall be calling upon you for some of it very soon. I’m off on Thursday for a cruise in the Mediterranean.”

“I’ve heard something of it.” They had reached the main floor and Colonel Drew had drawn his companion out of the crowd into the rotunda. “The money is at your disposal at any moment. But aren’t you setting a pretty lively pace, my boy? You know I’ve always liked you, and I knew your grandfather rather well. He was a good old chap, Monty, and he would hate to see you make ducks and drakes of his fortune.”

There was something in the Colonel’s manner that softened Brewster, much as he hated to take a reproof from Barbara’s father. Once again he was tempted to tell the truth, but he pulled himself up in time. “It’s a funny old world, Colonel,” he said; “and sometimes one’s nearest friend is a stranger. I know I seem a fool; but, after all, why isn’t it good philosophy to make the most of a holiday and then settle back to work?”

“That is all very well, Monty,” and Colonel Drew was entirely serious; “but the work is a hundred times harder after you have played to the limit You’ll find that you are way beyond it. It’s no joke getting back into the harness.”

“Perhaps you are right, Colonel, but at least I shall have something to look back upon—even if the worst comes.” And Monty instinctively straightened his shoulders.

They turned to leave the building, and the Colonel had a moment of weakness.

“Do you know, Monty,” he said, “my daughter is awfully cut up about this business. She is plucky and tries not to show it, but after all a girl doesn’t get over that sort of thing all in a moment. I am not saying”—it seemed necessary to recede a step “that it would be an easy matter to patch up. But I like you, Monty, and if any man could do it, you can.”

“Colonel, I wish I might,” and Brewster found that he did not hesitate. “For your sake I very much wish the situation were as simple as it seems. But there are some things a man can’t forget, and—well—Barbara has shown in a dozen ways that she has no faith in me.”

“Well, I’ve got faith in you, and a lot of it. Take care of yourself, and when you get back you can count on me. Good-bye.”

On Thursday morning the “Flitter” steamed off down the bay, and the flight of the prodigal grand-son was on. No swifter, cleaner, handsomer boat ever sailed out of the harbor of New York, and it was a merry crowd that she carried out to sea. Brewster’s guests numbered twenty-five, and they brought with them a liberal supply of maids, valets, and luggage. It was not until many weeks later that he read the vivid descriptions of the weighing of the anchor which were printed in the New York papers, but by that time he was impervious to their ridicule.

On deck, watching the rugged silhouette of the city disappear into the mists, were Dan DeMille and Mrs. Dan, Peggy Gray, “Rip” Van Winkle, Reginald Vanderpool, Joe Bragdon, Dr. Lotless and his sister Isabel, Mr. and Mrs. Valentine—the official chaperon—and their daughter Mary, “Subway” Smith, Paul Pettingill, and some others hardly less distinguished. As Monty looked over the eager crowd, he recognized with a peculiar glow that here were represented his best and truest friendships. The loyalty of these companions had been tested, and he knew that they would stand by him through everything.

There was no little surprise when it was learned that Dan DeMille was ready to sail. Many of the idle voyagers ventured the opinion that he would try to desert the boat in mid-ocean if he saw a chance to get back to his club on a west-bound steamer. But DeMille, big, indolent, and indifferent, smiled carelessly, and hoped he wouldn’t bother anybody if he “stuck to the ship” until the end.

For a time the sea and the sky and the talk of the crowd were enough for the joy of living. But after a few peaceful days there was a lull, and it was then that Monty gained the nickname of Aladdin, which clung to him. From somewhere, from the hold or the rigging or from under the sea, he brought forth four darkies from the south who strummed guitars and sang ragtime melodies. More than once during the voyage they were useful.

“Peggy,” said Brewster one day, when the sky was particularly clear and things were quiet on deck, “on the whole I prefer this to crossing the North River on a ferry. I rather like it, don’t you?”

“It seems like a dream,” she cried, her eyes, bright, her hair blowing in the wind.

“And, Peggy, do you know what I tucked away in a chest down in my cabin? A lot of books that you like—some from the old garret. I’ve saved them to read on rainy days.”

Peggy did not speak, but the blood began to creep into her face and she looked wistfully across the water. Then she smiled.

“I didn’t know you could save anything,” she said, weakly.

“Come now, Peggy, that is too much.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. But you must not forget, Monty, that there are other years to follow this one. Do you know what I mean?”

“Peggy, dear, please don’t lecture me,” he begged, so piteously that she could not be serious.

“The class is dismissed for today, Monty,” she said, airily. “But the professor knows his duty and won’t let you off so easily next time.”

CHAPTER XIX

ONE HERO AND ANOTHER

At Gibraltar, Monty was handed an ominous-looking cablegram which he opened tremblingly.

To MONTGOMERY BREWSTER,

Private Yacht Flitter, Gibraltar.

There is an agitation to declare for free silver. You may have twice as much to spend. Hooray.

JONES.

To which Monty responded:

Defeat the measure at any cost. The more the merrier, and charge it to me. BREWSTER. P.S. Please send many cables and mark them collect.

The Riviera season was fast closing, and the possibilities suggested by Monte Carlo were too alluring to the host to admit of a long stop at Gibraltar. But the DeMilles had letters to one of the officers of the garrison, and Brewster could not overlook the opportunity to give an elaborate dinner. The success of the affair may best be judged by the fact that the “Flitter’s” larder required an entirely new stock the next day. The officers and ladies of the garrison were asked, and Monty would have entertained the entire regiment with beer and sandwiches if his friends had not interfered.

“It might cement the Anglo-American alliance,” argued Gardner, “but your pocketbook needs cementing a bit more.”

Yet the pocketbook was very wide open, and Gardner’s only consolation lay in a tall English girl whom he took out to dinner. For the others there were many compensations, as the affair was brilliant and the new element a pleasant relief from the inevitable monotony.

It was after the guests had gone ashore that Monty discovered Mr. and Mrs. Dan holding a tete-a-tete in the stern of the boat.

“I am sorry to break this up,” he interrupted, “but as the only conscientious chaperon in the party, I must warn you that your behavior is already being talked about. The idea of a sedate old married couple sitting out here alone watching the moon! It’s shocking.”

“I yield to the host,” said Dan, mockingly. “But I shall be consumed with jealousy until you restore her to me.”

Monty noticed the look in Mrs. Dan’s eyes as she watched her husband go, and marked a new note in her voice as she said, “How this trip is bringing him out.”

“He has just discovered,” Monty observed, “that the club is not the only place in the world.”

“It’s a funny thing,” she answered, “that Dan should have been so misunderstood. Do you know that he relentlessly conceals his best side? Down underneath he is the kind of man who could do a fine thing very simply.”

“My dear Mrs. Dan, you surprise me. It looks to me almost as though you had fallen in love with Dan yourself.”

“Monty,” she said, sharply, “you are as blind as the rest. Have you never seen that before? I have played many games, but I have always come back to Dan. Through them all I have known that he was the only thing possible to me—the only thing in the least desirable. It’s a queer muddle that one should be tempted to play with fire even when one is monotonously happy. I’ve been singed once or twice. But Dan is a dear and he has always helped me out of a tight place. He knows. No one understands better than Dan. And perhaps if I were less wickedly human, he would not care for me so much.”

Monty listened at first in a sort of a daze, for he had unthinkingly accepted the general opinion of the DeMille situation. But there were tears in her eyes for a moment, and the tone of her voice was convincing. It came to him with unpleasant distinctness that he had been all kinds of a fool. Looking back over his intercourse with her, he realized that the situation had been clear enough all the time.

“How little we know our friends!” he exclaimed, with some bitterness. And a moment later, “I’ve liked you a great deal, Mrs. Dan, for a long time, but tonight—well, tonight I am jealous of Dan.”

The “Flitter” saw some rough weather in making the trip across the Bay of Lyons. She was heading for Nice when an incident occurred that created the first real excitement experienced on the voyage. A group of passengers in the main saloon was discussing, more or less stealthily, Monty’s “misdemeanors,” when Reggy Vanderpool sauntered lazily in, his face displaying the only sign of interest it had shown in days.

“Funny predicament I was just in,” he drawled. “I want to ask what a fellow should have done under the circumstances.”

“I’d have refused the girl,” observed “Rip” Van Winkle, laconically.

“Girl had nothing to do with it, old chap,” went on Reggy, dropping into a chair. “Fellow fell overboard a little while ago,” he went on, calmly. There was a chorus of cries and Brewster was forgotten for a time. “One of the sailors, you know. He was doing something in the rigging near where I was standing. Puff! off he went into the sea, and there he was puttering around in the water.”

“Oh, the poor fellow,” cried Miss Valentine.

“I’d never set eyes on him before—perfect stranger. I wouldn’t have hesitated a minute, but the deck was crowded with a lot of his friends. One chap was his bunkie. So, really, now, it wasn’t my place to jump in after him. He could swim a bit, and I yelled to him to hold up and I’d tell the captain. Confounded captain wasn’t to be found though. Somebody said he was asleep. In the end I told the mate. By this time we were a mile away from the place where he went overboard, and I told the mate I didn’t think we could find him if we went back. But he lowered some boats and they put back fast. Afterwards I got to thinking about the matter. Of course if I had known him—if he had been one of you—it would have been different.”

“And you were the best swimmer in college, you miserable rat,” exploded Dr. Lotless.

There was a wild rush for the upper deck, and Vanderpool was not the hero of the hour. The “Flitter” had turned and was steaming back over her course. Two small boats were racing to the place where Reggy’s unknown had gone over.

“Where is Brewster?” shouted Joe Bragdon.

“I can’t find him, sir,” answered the first mate.

“He ought to know of this,” cried Mr. Valentine.

“There! By the eternal, they are picking somebody up over yonder,” exclaimed the mate. “See! that first boat has laid to and they are dragging—yes, sir, he’s saved!”

A cheer went up on board and the men in the small boats waved their caps in response. Everybody rushed to the rail as the “Flitter” drew up to the boats, and there was intense excitement on board. A gasp of amazement went up from every one.

Monty Brewster, drenched but smiling, sat in one of the boats, and leaning limply against him, his head on his chest, was the sailor who had fallen overboard. Brewster had seen the man in the water and, instead of wondering what his antecedents were, leaped to his assistance. When the boat reached him his unconscious burden was a dead weight and his own strength was almost gone. Another minute or two and both would have gone to the bottom.

As they hauled Monty over the side he shivered for an instant, grasped the first little hand that sought his so frantically, and then turned to look upon the half-dead sailor.

“Find out the boy’s name, Mr. Abertz, and see that he has the best of care. Just before he fainted out there he murmured something about his mother. He wasn’t thinking of himself even then, you see. And Bragdon”—this in a lower voice—”will you see that his wages are properly increased? Hello, Peggy! Look out, you’ll get wet to the skin if you do that.”

CHAPTER XX

LE ROI S’AMUSE

If Montgomery Brewster had had any misgivings about his ability to dispose of the balance of his fortune they were dispelled very soon after his party landed in the Riviera. On the pretext that the yacht required a thorough “house cleaning” Brewster transferred his guests to the hotel of a fascinating village which was near the sea and yet quite out of the world. The place was nearly empty at the time, and the proprietor wept tears of joy when Monty engaged for his party the entire first floor of the house with balconies overlooking the blue Mediterranean and a separate dining-room and salon. Extra servants were summoned, and the Brewster livery was soon a familiar sight about the village. The protests of Peggy and the others were only silenced when Monty threatened to rent a villa and go to housekeeping.

The town quickly took on the appearance of entertaining a royal visitor, and a number of shops were kept open longer than usual in the hope that their owners might catch some of the American’s money. One morning Philippe, the hotel proprietor, was trying to impress Brewster with a gesticulatory description of the glories of the Bataille de Fleurs. It seemed quite impossible to express the extent of his regret that the party had not arrived in time to see it.

“This is quite another place at that time,” he said ecstatically. “C’est magnifique! c’est superbe! If monsieur had only seen it!”

“Why not have another all to ourselves?” asked Monty. But the suggestion was not taken seriously.

Nevertheless the young American and his host were in secret session for the rest of the morning, and when the result was announced at luncheon there was general consternation. It appeared that ten days later occurred the fete day of some minor saint who had not for years been accorded the honor of a celebration. Monty proposed to revive the custom by arranging a second carnival.

“You might just as well not come to the Riviera at all,” he explained, “if you can’t see a carnival. It’s a simple matter, really. I offer one price for the best decorated carriage and another to the handsomest lady. Then every one puts on a domino and a mask, throws confetti at every one else, and there you are.”

“I suppose you will have the confetti made of thousand franc notes, and offer a house and lot as a prize.” And Bragdon feared that his sarcasm was almost insulting.

“Really, Monty, the scheme is ridiculous,” said DeMille, “the police won’t allow it.”

“Won’t they though!” said Monty, exultantly. “The chief happens to be Philippe’s brother-in-law, and we had him on the telephone. He wouldn’t listen to the scheme until we agreed to make him grand marshal of the parade. Then he promised the cooperation of the entire force and hoped to interest his colleague, the chief of the fire department.”

“The parade will consist of two gendarmes and the Brewster party in carriages,” laughed Mrs. Dan. “Do you expect us to go before or after the bakery carts?”

“We review the procession from the hotel,” said Monty. “You needn’t worry about the fete. It’s going to be great. Why, an Irishman isn’t fonder of marching than these people are of having a carnival.”

The men in the party went into executive session as soon as Monty had gone to interview the local authorities, and seriously considered taking measures to subdue their host’s eccentricities. But the humor of the scheme appealed to them too forcibly, and almost before they knew it they were making plans for the carnival.

“Of course we can’t let him do it, but it would be sport,” said “Subway” Smith. “Think of a cake-walk between gendarmes and blanchiseuses.”

“I always feel devilish the moment I get a mask on,” said Vanderpool, “and you know, by Jove, I haven’t felt that way for years.”

“That settles it, then,” said DeMille. “Monty would call it off himself if he knew how it would affect Reggie.”

Monty returned with the announcement that the mayor of the town would declare a holiday if the American could see his way to pay for the repairs on the mairie roof. A circus, which was traveling in the neighborhood, was guaranteed expenses if it would stop over and occupy the square in front of the Hotel de Ville. Brewster’s enthusiasm was such that no one could resist helping him, and for nearly a week his friends were occupied in superintending the erection of triumphal arches and encouraging the shopkeepers to do their best. Although the scheme had been conceived in the spirit of a lark it was not so received by the townspeople. They were quite serious in the matter. The railroad officials sent advertisements broadcast, and the local cure called to thank Brewster for resurrecting, as it were, the obscure saint. The expression of his gratitude was so mingled with flattery and appeal that Monty could not overlook the hint that a new altar piece had long been needed.

The great day finally arrived, and no carnival could have been more bizarre or more successful. The morning was devoted to athletics and the side shows. The pompiers won the tug of war, and the people marveled when Monty duplicated the feats of the strong man in the circus. DeMille was called upon for a speech, but knowing only ten words of French, he graciously retired in favor of the mayor, and that pompous little man made the most of a rare opportunity. References to Franklin and Lafayette were so frequent that “Subway” Smith intimated that a rubber stamp must have been used in writing the address.

The parade took place in the afternoon, and proved quite the feature of the day. The question of precedence nearly overturned Monty’s plans, but the chief of police was finally made to see that if he were to be chief marshal it was only fair that the pompiers should march ahead of the gendarmes. The crew of the “Flitter” made a wonderful showing. It was led by the yacht’s band, which fairly outdid Sousa in noise, though it was less unanimous in the matter of time. All the fiacres came at the end, but there were so many of them and the line of march was so short that at times they were really leading the processional despite the gallant efforts of the grand marshal.

From the balcony of the hotel Monty and his party pelted those below with flowers and confetti. More allusions to Franklin and Lafayette were made when the cure and the mayor halted the procession and presented Monty with an address richly engrossed on imitation parchment. Then the school children sang and the crowd dispersed to meet again in the evening.

At eight o’clock Brewster presided over a large banquet, and numbered among his guests every one of distinction in the town. The wives were also invited and Franklin and Lafayette were again alluded to. Each of the men made at least one speech, but “Subway” Smith’s third address was the hit of the evening. Knowing nothing but English, he had previously clung consistently to that language, but the third and final address seemed to demand something more friendly and genial. With a sweeping bow and with all the dignity of a statesman he began:

“Mesdames et Messieurs: J’ai, tu as, il a, nous avons,”—with a magnificent gesture, “vous avez.” The French members of the company were not equal to his pronunciation and were under the impression that he was still talking English. They were profoundly impressed with his deference and grace, and accorded his preamble a round of applause. The Americans did their utmost to persuade him to be seated, but their uproar was mistaken by the others for enthusiasm, and the applause grew louder than ever. “Subway” held up his hand for silence, and his manner suggested that he was about to utter some peculiarly important thought. He waited until a pin fall could have been heard before he went on.

“Maitre corbeau sur un arbre perche—” he finished the speech as he was being carried bodily from the room by DeMille and Bragdon. The Frenchmen then imagined that Smith’s remarks had been insulting, and his friends had silenced him on that account. A riot seemed imminent when Monty succeeded in restoring silence, and with a few tactful remarks about Franklin and Lafayette quieted the excited guests.

The evening ended with fireworks and a dance in the open air,—a dance that grew gay under the masks. The wheels had been well oiled and there was no visible failure of the carnival spirit. To Brewster it seemed a mad game, and he found it less easy to play a part behind the foolish mask than he expected. His own friends seemed to elude him, and the coquetries of the village damsels had merely a fleeting charm. He was standing apart to watch the glimmering crowd when he was startled by a smothered cry. Turning to investigate, he discovered a little red domino, unmistakably frightened, and trying to release herself from a too ardent Punchinello. Monty’s arrival prevented him from tearing off the girl’s mask and gave him an entirely new conception of the strenuous life. He arose fuming and sputtering, but he was taken in hand by the crowd and whirled from one to another in whimsical mockery. Meanwhile Monty, unconscious that his mask had dropped during the encounter, was astonished to feel the little hand of the red domino on his arm and to hear a voice not at all unfamiliar in his ear:

“Monty, you are a dear. I love you for that. You looked like a Greek athlete. Do you know—it was foolish—but I really was frightened.”

“Child, how could it have happened?” he whispered, leading her away. “Fancy my little Peggy with no one to look after her. What a beast I was to trust you to Pettingill. I might have known the chump would have been knocked out by all this color.” He stopped to look down at her and a light came into his eyes. “Little Peggy in the great world,” he smiled; “you are not fit. You need—well, you need—just me.”

But Mrs. Valentine had seen him as he stood revealed, and came up in search of Peggy. It was almost morning, she told her, and quite time to go back to the hotel and sleep. So in Bragdon’s charge they wandered off, a bit reluctantly, a bit lingeringly.

It was not until Monty was summoned to rescue “Reggie” Vanderpool from the stern arm of the law that he discovered the identity of Punchinello. Manifestly he had not been in a condition to recognize his assailant, and a subsequent disagreement had driven the first out of his head. The poor boy was sadly bruised about the face and his arrest had probably saved him from worse punishment.

“I told you I couldn’t wear a mask,” he explained ruefully as Monty led him home. “But how could I know that he could hear me all the time?”

The day after the carnival Brewster drove his guests over to Monte Carlo. He meant to stay only long enough to try his luck at the tables and lose enough to make up for the days at sea when his purse was necessarily idle. Swearengen Jones was forgotten, and soon after his arrival he began to plunge. At first he lost heavily, and it was with difficulty that he concealed his joy. Peggy Gray was watching him, and in whispers implored him to stop, but Mrs. Dan excitedly urged him to continue until the luck changed. To the girl’s chagrin it was the more reckless advice that he followed. In so desperate a situation he felt that he could not stop. But his luck turned too soon.

“I can’t afford to give up,” he said, miserably, to himself, after a time. “I’m already a winner by five thousand dollars, and I must at least get rid of that.”

Brewster became the center of interest to those who were not playing and people marveled at his luck. They quite misunderstood his eagerness and the flushed, anxious look with which he followed each spin of the wheel. He had chosen a seat beside an English duchess whose practice it was to appropriate the winnings of the more inexperienced players, and he was aware that many of his gold pieces were being deliberately stolen. Here he thought was at least a helping hand, and he was on the point of moving his stack toward her side when DeMille interfered. He had watched the duchess, and had called the croupier’s attention to her neat little method. But that austere individual silenced him by saying in surprise, “Mais c’est madame la duchesse, que voulez-vous?”

Not to be downed so easily, DeMille watched the play from behind Monty’s chair and cautioned his friend at the first opportunity.

“Better cash in and change your seat, Monty. They’re robbing you,” he whispered.

“Cash in when I’m away ahead of the game? Never!” and Monty did his best to assume a joyful tone.

At first he played with no effort at system, piling his money flat on the numbers which seemed to have least chance of winning. But he simply could not lose. Then he tried to reverse different systems he had heard of, but they turned out to be winners. Finally in desperation he began doubling on one color in the hope that he would surely lose in the end, but his particular fate was against him. With his entire stake on the red the ball continued to fall into the red holes until the croupier announced that the bank was broken.

Dan DeMille gathered in the money and counted forty thousand dollars before he handed it to Monty. His friends were overjoyed when he left the table, and wondered why he looked so downhearted. Inwardly he berated himself for not taking Peggy’s advice.

“I’m so glad for your sake that you did not stop when I asked you, Monty, but your luck does not change my belief that gambling is next to stealing,” Peggy was constrained to say as they went to supper.

“I wish I had taken your advice,” he said gloomily.

“And missed the fortune you have won? How foolish of you, Monty! You were a loser by several thousand dollars then,” she objected with whimsical inconsistency.

“But, Peggy,” he said quietly, looking deep into her eyes, “it would have won me your respect.”

CHAPTER XXI

FAIRYLAND

Monty’s situation was desperate. Only a little more than six thousand dollars had been spent on the carnival and no opportunity of annihilating the roulette winnings seemed to offer itself. His experience at Monte Carlo did not encourage him to try again, and Peggy’s attitude toward the place was distinctly antagonistic. The Riviera presenting no new opportunities for extravagance, it became necessary to seek other worlds.

“I never before understood the real meaning of the phrase ‘tight money,’” thought Monty. “Lord, if it would only loosen a bit and stay loosened.” Something must be done, he realized, to earn his living. Perhaps the role of the princely profligate would be easier in Italy than anywhere else. He studied the outlook from every point of view, but there were moments when it seemed hopeless. Baedeker was provokingly barren of suggestions for extravagance and Monty grew impatient of the book’s small economies. Noticing some chapters on the Italian lakes, in an inspired moment he remembered that Pettingill had once lost his heart to a villa on the Lake of Como. Instantly a new act of comedy presented itself to him. He sought out Pettingill and demanded a description of his castle in the air.

“Oh, it’s a wonder,” exclaimed the artist, and his eyes grew dreamy. “It shines out at you with its white terraces and turrets like those fascinating castles that Maxfield Parrish draws for children. It is fairyland. You expect to wake and find it gone.”

“Oh, drop that, Petty,” said Brewster, “or it will make you poetical. What I want to know is who owns it and is it likely to be occupied at this season?”

“It belongs to a certain marquise, who is a widow with no children. They say she has a horror of the place for some reason and has never been near it. It is kept as though she was to turn up the next day, but except for the servants it is always deserted.”

“The very thing,” declared Brewster; “Petty, we’ll have a house-party.”

“You’d better not count on that, Monty. A man I know ran across the place once and tried for a year to buy it. But the lady has ideas of her own.”

“Well, if you wish to give him a hint or two about how to do things, watch me. If you don’t spend two weeks in your dream-castle, I will cut the crowd and sail for home.” He secured the name of the owner, and found that Pettingill had even a remote idea of the address of her agent. Armed with these facts he set out in search of a courier, and through Philippe he secured a Frenchman named Bertier, who was guaranteed to be surprisingly ingenious in providing methods of spending money. To him Brewster confided his scheme, and Bertier realized with rising enthusiasm that at last he had secured a client after his own heart. He was able to complete the address of the agent of the mysterious marquise, and an inquiry was immediately telegraphed to him.

The agent’s reply would have been discouraging to any one but Brewster. It stated that the owner had no intention of leasing her forsaken castle for any period whatever. The profligate learned that a fair price for an estate of that kind for a month was ten thousand francs, and he wired an offer of five times that sum for two weeks. The agent replied that some delay would be necessary while he communicated with his principal. Delay was the one word that Brewster did not understand, so he wired him an address in Genoa, and the “Flitter” was made ready for sea. Steam had been kept up, and her coal account would compare favorably with that of an ocean liner. Philippe was breathless with joy when he was paid in advance for another month at the hotel, on the assumption that the party might be moved to return at any moment. The little town was gay at parting and Brewster and his guests were given a royal farewell.

At Genoa the mail had accumulated and held the attention of the yacht to the exclusion of everything else. Brewster was somewhat crestfallen to learn that the lady of the villa haughtily refused his princely offer. He won the life-long devotion of his courier by promptly increasing it to one hundred thousand francs. When this too met with rejection, there was a pause and a serious consultation between the two.

“Bertier,” exclaimed Brewster, “I must have the thing now. What’s to be done? You’ve got to help me out.”

But the courier, prodigal as he was of gestures, had no words which seemed pertinent.

“There must be some way of getting at this marquise,” Monty continued reflectively. “What are her tastes? Do you know anything about her?”

Suddenly the face of the courier grew bright. “I have it,” he said, and then he faltered. “But the expense, monsieur—it would be heavy.”

“Perhaps we can meet it,” suggested Monty, quietly. “What’s the idea?”

It was explained, with plenty of action to make it clear. The courier had heard in Florence that madame la marquise had a passion for automobiles. But with her inadequate fortune and the many demands upon it, it was a weakness not readily gratified. The machine she had used during the winter was by no means up-to-date. Possibly if Monsieur—yet it was too much—no villa—

But Brewster’s decision was made. “Wire the fellow,” he said, “that I will add to my last offer a French machine of the latest model and the best make. Say, too, that I would like immediate possession.”

He secured it, and the crowd was transferred at once to fairyland. There were protests, of course, but these Brewster had grown to expect and he was learning to carry things with a high hand. The travelers had been preceded by Bertier, and the greeting they received from the steward of the estate and his innumerable assistants was very Italian and full of color. A break in their monotony was welcome.

The loveliness of the villa and its grounds, which sloped down to the gentle lake, silenced criticism. For a time it was supremely satisfying to do nothing. Pettingill wandered about as though he could not believe it was real. He was lost in a kind of atmosphere of ecstasy. To the others, who took it more calmly, it was still a sort of paradise. Those who were happy found in it an intensification of happiness, and to those who were sad it offered the tenderest opportunities for melancholy. Mrs. Dan told Brewster that only a poet could have had this inspiration. And Peggy added, “Anything after this would be an anti-climax. Really, Monty, you would better take us home.”

“I feel like the boy who was shut in a closet for punishment and found it the place where they kept the jam,” said “Subway.” “It is almost as good as owning Central Park.”

The stables were well equipped and the days wore on in a wonderful peace. It was on a radiant afternoon, when twelve of the crowd had started out, after tea, for a long ride toward Lugano, that Monty determined to call Peggy Gray to account. He was certain that she had deliberately avoided him for days and weeks, and he could find no reason for it. Hour after hour he had lain awake wondering where he had failed her, but the conclusion of one moment was rejected the next. The Monte Carlo episode seemed the most plausible cause, yet even before that he had noticed that whenever he approached her she managed to be talking with some one else. Two or three times he was sure she had seen his intention before she took refuge with Mrs. Dan or Mary Valentine or Pettingill. The thought of the last name gave Monty a sudden thrill. What if it were he who had come between them? It troubled him, but there were moments when the idea seemed impossible. As they mounted and started off, the exhilaration of the ride made him hopeful. They were to have dinner in the open air in the shadow of an abbey ruin some miles away, and the servants had been sent ahead to prepare it. It went well, and with Mrs. Dan’s help the dinner was made gay. On the return Monty who was off last spurred up his horse to join Peggy. She seemed eager to be with the rest and he lost no time with a preamble.

“Do you know, Peggy,” he began, “something seems to be wrong, and I am wondering what it is.”

“Why, what do you mean, Monty?” as he paused.

“Every time I come near you, child, you seem to have something else to do. If I join the group you are in, it is the signal for you to break away.”

“Nonsense, Monty, why should I avoid you? We have known one another much too long for that.” But he thought he detected some contradiction in her eyes, and he was right. The girl was afraid of him, afraid of the sensations he awoke, afraid desperately of betrayal.

“Pettingill may appeal to you,” he said, and his voice was serious, “but you might at least be courteous to me.”

“How absurd you are, Monty Brewster.” The girl grew hot. “You needn’t think that your million gives you the privilege of dictating to all of your guests.”

“Peggy, how can you,” he interjected.

She went on ruthlessly. “If my conduct interferes with your highness’s pleasure I can easily join the Prestons in Paris.”

Suddenly Brewster remembered that Pettingill had spoken of the Prestons and expressed a fleeting wish that he might be with them in the Latin Quarter. “With Pettingill to follow, I suppose,” he said, icily. “It would certainly give you more privacy.”

“And Mrs. Dan more opportunities,” she retorted as he dropped back toward the others.

The artist instantly took his place. The next moment he had challenged her to a race and they were flying down the road in the moonlight. Brewster, not to be outdone, was after them, but it was only a moment before his horse shied violently at something black in the road. Then he saw Peggy’s horse galloping riderless. Instantly, with fear at his throat, he had dismounted and was at the girl’s side. She was not hurt, they found, only bruised and dazed and somewhat lamed. A girth had broken and her saddle turned. The crowd waited, silent and somewhat awed, until the carriage with the servants came up and she was put into it. Mrs. Dan’s maid was there and Peggy insisted that she would have no one else. But as Monty helped her in, he had whispered, “You won’t go, child, will you? How could things go on here?”

CHAPTER XXII

PRINCE AND PEASANTS

The peacefulness of fairyland was something which Brewster could not afford to continue, and with Bertier he was soon planning to invade it, The automobile which he was obliged to order for the mysterious marquise put other ideas into his head. It seemed at once absolutely necessary to give a coaching party in Italy, and as coaches of the right kind were hard to find there, and changes of horses most uncertain, nothing could be more simple and natural than to import automobiles from Paris. Looking into the matter, he found that they would have to be purchased outright, as the renting of five machines would put his credit to too severe a test. Accordingly Bertier telegraphed a wholesale order, which taxed the resources of the manufacturers and caused much complaint from some customers whose work was unaccountably delayed. The arrangement made by the courier was that they were to be taken back at a greatly reduced price at the end of six weeks. The machines were shipped at once, five to Milan, and one to the address of the mysterious marquise in Florence.

It was with a sharp regret that Monty broke into the idyl of the villa, for the witchery of the place had got into his blood. But a stern sense of duty, combined with the fact that the Paris chauffeurs and machines were due in Milan on Monday, made him ruthless. He was astonished that his orders to decamp were so meekly obeyed, forgetting that his solicitous guests did not know that worse extravagance lay beyond. He took them to Milan by train and lodged them with some splendor at the Hotel Cavour. Here he found that the fame of the princely profligate had preceded him, and his portly host was all deference and attention. All regret, too, for monsieur was just too late to hear the wonderful company of artists who had been singing at La Scala. The season was but just ended. Here was an opportunity missed indeed, and Brewster’s vexation brought out an ironical comment to Bertier. It rankled, but it had its effect. The courier proved equal to the emergency. Discovering that the manager of the company and the principal artists were still in Milan, he suggested to Brewster that a special performance would be very difficult to secure, but might still be possible. His chief caught at the idea and authorized him to make every arrangement, reserving the entire house for his own party.

“But the place will look bare,” protested the courier, aghast.

“Fill it with flowers, cover it with tapestries,” commanded Brewster. “I put the affair in your hands, and I trust you to carry it through in the right way. Show them how it ought to be done.”

Bertier’s heart swelled within him at the thought of so glorious an opportunity. His fame, he felt, was already established in Italy. It became a matter of pride to do the thing handsomely, and the necessary business arrangements called out all his unused resources of delicacy and diplomacy. When it came to the decoration of the opera house, he called upon Pettingill for assistance, and together they superintended an arrangement which curtained off a large part of the place and reduced it to livable proportions. With the flowers and the lights, the tapestries and the great faded flags, it became something quite different from the usual empty theater.

To the consternation of the Italians, the work had been rushed, and it was on the evening after their arrival in Milan that Brewster conducted his friends in state to the Scala. It was almost a triumphal progress, for he had generously if unwittingly given the town the most princely sensation in years, and curiosity was abundant. Mrs. Valentine, who was in the carriage with Monty, wondered openly why they were attracting so much attention.

“They take us for American dukes and princesses,” explained Monty. “They never saw a white man before.”

“Perhaps they expected us to ride on buffaloes,” said Mrs. Dan, “with Indian captives in our train.”

“No,” “Subway” Smith protested, “I seem to see disappointment in their faces. They are looking for crowns and scepters and a shower of gold coin. Really, Monty, you don’t play the game as you should. Why, I could give you points on the potentate act myself. A milk-white steed, a few clattering attendants in gorgeous uniforms, a lofty nod here and there, and little me distributing silver in the rear.”

“I wonder,” exclaimed Mrs. Dan, “if they don’t get tired now and then of being potentates. Can’t you fancy living in palaces and longing for a thatched cottage?”

“Easily,” answered “Subway,” with a laugh. “Haven’t we tried it ourselves? Two months of living upon nothing but fatted calves is more than I can stand. We shall be ready for a home for dyspeptics if you can’t slow down a bit, Monty.”

Whereupon Mrs. Dan evolved a plan, and promptly began to carry it out by inviting the crowd to dinner the next night. Monty protested that they would be leaving Milan in the afternoon, and that this was distinctly his affair and he was selfish.

But Mrs. Dan was very sure. “My dear boy, you can’t have things your own way every minute. In another month you will be quite spoiled. Anything to prevent that. My duty is plain. Even if I have to use heroic measures, you dine with me tomorrow.”

Monty recognized defeat when he met it, and graciously accepted her very kind invitation. The next moment they drew up at the opera house and were ushered in with a deference accorded only to wealth. The splendor of the effect was overpowering to Brewster as well as to his bewildered guests. Aladdin, it seemed, had fairly outdone himself. The wonder of it was so complete that it was some time before they could settle down to the opera, which was Aida, given with an enthusiasm that only Italians can compass.

During the last intermission Brewster and Peggy were walking in the foyer. They had rarely spoken since the day of the ride, but Monty noticed with happiness that she had on several occasions avoided Pettingill.

“I thought we had given up fairyland when we left the lakes, but I believe you carry it with you,” she said.

“The trouble with this,” Monty replied, “is that there are too many people about. My fairyland is to be just a little different.”

“Your fairyland, Monty, will be built of gold and paved with silver. You will sit all day cutting coupons in an office of alabaster.”

“Peggy, do you too think me vulgar? It’s a beastly parade, I know, but it can’t stop now. You don’t realize the momentum of the thing.”

“You do it up to the handle,” she put in. “And you are much too generous to be vulgar. But it worries me, Monty, it worries me desperately. It’s the future I’m thinking of—your future, which is being swallowed up. This kind of thing can’t go on. And what is to follow it? You are wasting your substance, and you are not making any life for yourself that opens out.”

“Peggy,” he answered very seriously, “you have got to trust me. I can’t back out, but I’ll tell you this. You shall not be disappointed in me in the end.”

There was a mist before the girl’s eyes as she looked at him. “I believe you, Monty,” she said simply; “I shall not forget.”

The curtain rose upon the next act, and something in the opera toward the end seemed to bring the two very close together. As they were leaving the theater, there was a note of regret from Peggy. “It has been perfect,” she breathed, “yet, Monty, isn’t it a waste that no one else should have seen it? Think of these poverty-stricken peasants who adore music and have never heard an opera.”

“Well, they shall hear one now.” Monty rose to it, but he felt like a hypocrite in concealing his chief motive. “We’ll repeat the performance tomorrow night and fill the house with them.”

He was as good as his word. Bertier was given a task the next day which was not to his taste. But with the assistance of the city authorities he carried it through. To them it was an evidence of insanity, but there was something princely about it and they were tolerant. The manager of the opera house was less complacent, and he had an exclamatory terror of the damage to his upholstery. But Brewster had discovered that in Italy gold is a panacea for all ills, and his prescriptions were liberal. To him the day was short, for Peggy’s interest in the penance, as it came to be called, was so keen that she insisted on having a hand in the preliminaries. There was something about the partnership that appealed to Monty.

To her regret the DeMille dinner interfered with the opening of the performance, but Monty consoled her with the promise that the opera and its democratic audience should follow. During the day Mrs. Dan had been deep in preparations for her banquet, but her plans were elaborately concealed. They culminated at eight o’clock in the Cova not far from the Scala, and the dinner was eaten in the garden to the sound of music. Yet it was an effect of simplicity with which Mrs. Dan surprised her guests. They were prepared for anything but that, and when they were served with consomme, spaghetti—a concession to the chef—and chops and peas, followed by a salad and coffee, the gratitude of the crowd was quite beyond expression. In a burst of enthusiasm “Subway” Smith suggested a testimonial.

Monty complained bitterly that he himself had never received a ghost of a testimonial. He protested that it was not deserved.

“Why should you expect it?” exclaimed Pettingill, “when you have risen from terrapin and artichokes to chops and chicory? When have you given us nectar and ambrosia like this?”

Monty was defeated by a unanimous vote and Mrs. Dan’s testimonial was assured. This matter settled, Peggy and Mrs. Valentine, with Brewster and Pettingill, walked over to the Scala and heard again the last two acts of Aida. But the audience was different, and the applause.

The next day at noon the chauffeurs from Paris reported for duty, and five gleaming French devil-wagons steamed off through the crowd in the direction of Venice. Through Brescia and Verona and Vicenza they passed, scattering largess of silver in their wake and leaving a trail of breathless wonder. Brewster found the pace too fast and by the time they reached Venice he had a wistful longing to take this radiant country more slowly. “But this is purely a business trip,” he thought, “and I can’t expect to enjoy it. Some day I’ll come back and do it differently. I could spend hours in a gondola if the blamed things were not more expensive by the trip.”

It was there that he was suddenly recalled to his duty from dreams of moonlight on the water by a cablegram which demanded $324.00 before it could be read. It contained word for word the parable of the ten talents and ended with the simple word “Jones.”

CHAPTER XXIII

AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE

The summer is scarcely a good time to visit Egypt, but Monty and his guests had a desire to see even a little of the northern coast of Africa. It was decided, therefore, that after Athens, the “Flitter” should go south. The yacht had met them at Naples after the automobile procession,—a kind of triumphal progress,—was disbanded in Florence, and they had taken a hurried survey of Rome. By the middle of July the party was leaving the heat of Egypt and finding it not half bad. New York was not more than a month away as Brewster reckoned time and distance, and there was still too much money in the treasury. As September drew nearer he got into the habit of frequently forgetting Swearengen Jones until it was too late to retrace his steps. He was coming to the “death struggle,” as he termed it, and there was something rather terrorizing in the fear that “the million might die hard.” And so these last days and nights were glorious ones, if one could have looked at them with unbiased, untroubled eyes. But every member of his party was praying for the day when the “Flitter” would be well into the broad Atlantic and the worst over. At Alexandria Brewster had letters to some Englishmen, and in the few entertainments that he gave succeeded once again in fairly outdoing Aladdin.

A sheik from the interior was a guest at one of Monty’s entertainments. He was a burly, hot-blooded fellow, with a densely-populated harem, and he had been invited more as a curiosity than as one to be honored. As he came aboard the “Flitter,” Monty believed the invitation was more than justified. Mohammed was superb, and the women of the party made so much of him that it was small wonder that his head was turned. He fell desperately in love with Peggy Gray on sight, and with all the composure of a potentate who had never been crossed he sent for Brewster the next day and told him to “send her around” and he would marry her. Monty’s blood boiled furiously for a minute or two, but he was quick to see the wisdom of treating the proposition diplomatically. He tried to make it plain to the sheik that Miss Gray could not accept the honor he wished to confer upon her, but it was not Mohammed’s custom to be denied anything he asked for—especially anything feminine. He complacently announced that he would come aboard that afternoon and talk it over with Peggy.

Brewster looked the swarthy gentleman over with unconcealed disgust in his eyes. The mere thought of this ugly brute so much as touching the hand of little Peggy Gray filled him with horror, and yet there was something laughable in the situation. He could not hide the smile that came with the mind picture of Peggy listening to the avowal of the sheik. The Arab misinterpreted this exhibition of mirth. To him the grin indicated friendship and encouragement. He wanted to give Brewster a ring as a pledge of affection, but the American declined the offering, and also refused to carry a bag of jewels to Peggy.

“I’ll let the old boy come aboard just to see Peggy look a hole through him,” he resolved. “No matter how obnoxious it may be, it isn’t every girl who can say an oriental potentate has asked her to marry him. If this camel-herder gets disagreeable we may tumble him into the sea for a change.”

With the best grace possible he invited the sheik to come aboard and consult Miss Gray in person. Mohammed was a good bit puzzled over the intimation that it would be necessary for him to plead for anything he had expressed a desire to possess. Brewster confided the news to “Rip” Van Winkle and “Subway” Smith, who had gone ashore with him, and the trio agreed that it would be good sport to let the royal proposal come as a surprise to Peggy. Van Winkle returned to the yacht at once, but his companions stayed ashore to do some shopping. When they approached the “Flitter” later on they observed an unusual commotion on deck.

Mohammed had not tarried long after their departure. He gathered his train together, selected a few costly presents that had been returned from the harem and advanced on the boat without delay. The captain of the “Flitter” stared long and hard at the gaily bedecked launches and then called to his first officer. Together they watched the ceremonious approach. A couple of brown-faced heralds came aboard first and announced the approach of the mighty chief. Captain Perry went forward to greet the sheik as he came over the side of the ship, but he was brushed aside by the advance guards. Half a hundred swarthy fellows crowded aboard and then came the sheik, the personification of pomp and pride.

“Where is she?” he asked in his native tongue. The passengers were by this time aware of the visitation, and began to straggle on deck, filled with curiosity. “What the devil do you mean by coming aboard in this manner?” demanded the now irate Captain Perry, shoving a couple of retainers out of his path and facing the beaming suitor. An interpreter took a hand at this juncture and the doughty captain finally was made to understand the object of the visit. He laughed in the sheik’s face and told the mate to call up a few jackies to drive the “dagoes” off. “Rip” Van Winkle interfered and peace was restored. The cruise had changed “Rip” into a happier and far more radiant creature, so it was only natural that he should have shared the secret with Mary Valentine. He had told the story of the sheik’s demand to her as soon as he came aboard, and she had divulged it to Peggy the instant “Rip” was out of sight.

Brewster found the sheik sitting in state on the upper deck impatiently awaiting the appearance of his charmer. He did not know her name, but he had tranquilly commanded “Rip” to produce all of the women on board so that he might select Peggy from among them. Van Winkle and Bragdon, who now was in the secret, were preparing to march the ladies past the ruler when Monty came up.

“Has he seen Peggy?” he asked of Van Winkle.

“Not yet. She is dressing for the occasion.”

“Well, wait and see what happens to him when she gets over the first shock,” laughed Monty.

Just then the sheik discovered Peggy, who, pretty as a picture, drew near the strange group. To her amazement two slaves rushed forward and obstructed her passage long enough to beat their heads on the deck a few times, after which they arose and tendered two magnificent necklaces. She was prepared for the proposal, but this action disconcerted her; she gasped and looked about in perplexity. Her friends were smiling broadly and the sheik had placed his hands over his palpitating heart.

“Lothario has a pain,” whispered “Rip” Van Winkle sympathetically, and Brewster laughed. Peggy did not hesitate an instant after hearing the laugh. She walked straight toward the sheik. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were flashing dangerously. The persistent brown slaves followed with the jewels, but she ignored them completely. Brave as she intended to be, she could not repress the shudder of repulsion that went over her as she looked full upon this eager Arab.

Graceful and slender she stood before the burly Mohammed, but his ardor was not cooled by the presence of so many witnesses. With a thud he dropped to his knees, wabbling for a moment in the successful effort to maintain a poetic equilibrium. Then he began pouring forth volumes of shattered French, English and Arabic sentiment, accompanied by facial contortions so intense that they were little less than gruesome.

“Oh, joy of the sun supreme, jewel of the only eye, hearken to the entreaty of Mohammed.” It was more as if he were commanding his troops in battle than pleading for the tender compassion of a lady love. “I am come for you, queen of the sea and earth and sky. My boats are here, my camels there, and Mohammed promises you a palace in the sun-lit hills if you will but let him bask forever in the glory of your smile.” All this was uttered in a mixture of tongues so atrocious that “Subway” Smith afterward described it as a salad. The retinue bowed impressively and two or three graceless Americans applauded as vigorously as if they were approving the actions of a well-drilled comic opera chorus. Sailors were hanging in the rigging, on the davits and over the deck house roof.

“Smile for the gentleman, Peggy,” commanded Brewster delightedly. “He wants to take a short bask.”

“You are very rude, Mr. Brewster,” said Peggy, turning upon him coldly. Then to the waiting, expectant sheik: “What is the meaning of this eloquence?”

Mohammed looked bewildered for a moment and then turned to the interpreter, who cleared up the mystery surrounding her English. For the next three or four minutes the air was filled with the “Jewels of Africa,” “Star,” “Sunlight,” “Queen,” “Heavenly Joy,” “Pearl of the Desert,” and other things in bad English, worse French, and perfect Arabic. He was making promises that could not be redeemed if he lived a thousand years. In conclusion the gallant sheik drew a long breath, screwed his face into a simpering grin and played his trump card in unmistakable English. It sounded pathetically like “You’re a peach.”

An indecorous roar went up from the white spectators and a jacky in the rigging, suddenly thinking of home, piped up with a bar or two from “The Star Spangled Banner.”

Having accomplished what he considered to be his part of the ceremony the sheik arose and started toward his launch, coolly motioning for her to follow. So far as he was concerned the matter was closed. But Peggy, her heart thumping like a trip-hammer, her eyes full of excitement, implored him to stop for a moment.

“I appreciate this great honor, but I have a request to make,” she said clearly. Mohammed paused irresolutely and in some irritation.

“Here’s where the heathen gets it among the beads,” whispered Monty to Mrs. Dan, and he called out: “Captain Perry, detail half a dozen men to pick up the beads that are about to slip from his majesty’s neck.”

CHAPTER XXIV

THE SHEIK’S STRATEGY

Peggy gave the sheik an entrancing smile, followed by a brief glance at the beaming Miss Valentine, who nodded her head approvingly.

“Won’t you give me time to go below and pack my belongings that they may be sent ashore?” she asked naively.

“Thunder!” gasped Monty. “That’s no way to turn him down.”

“What do you mean, Monty Brewster?” she cried, turning upon him with flashing eyes.

“Why, you’re encouraging the old guy,” he protested, disappointment in every inflection.

“And what if I am? Isn’t it my affair? I think I am right in suspecting that he has asked me to be his wife. Isn’t it my privilege to accept him if I wish?”

Brewster’s face was a study. He could not believe that she was in earnest, but there was a ghastly feeling that the joke was being turned on him. The rest of the company stared hard at the flushed Peggy and breathlessly waited developments.

“It won’t do to trifle with this chap, Peggy,” said Monty, coming quite close to her. “Don’t lead him on. He might get nasty if he thinks you’re making sport of him.”

“You are quite absurd, Monty,” she cried, petulantly. “I am not making sport of him.”

“Well, then, why don’t you tell him to go about his business?”

“I don’t see any beads lying around loose,” said “Rip” tormentingly. The sheik impatiently said something to the interpreter and that worthy repeated it for Peggy’s benefit.

“The Son of the Prophet desires that you be as quick as possible, Queen of the World. He tires of waiting and commands you to come with him at once.”

Peggy winced and her eyes shot a brief look of scorn at the scowling sheik. In an instant, however, she was smiling agreeably and was turning toward the steps.

“Holy mackerel! Where are you going, Peggy?” cried Lotless, the first to turn fearful.

“To throw some things into my trunk,” she responded airily. “Will you come with me, Mary?”

“Peggy!” cried Brewster angrily. “This has gone far enough.”

“You should have spoken sooner, Monty,” she said quietly.

“What are you going to do, Margaret?” cried Mrs. Dan, her eyes wide with amazement.

“I am going to marry the Son of the Prophet,” she replied so decidedly that every one gasped. A moment later she was surrounded by a group of excited women, and Captain Perry was calling the “jackies” forward in a voice of thunder.

Brewster pushed his way to her side, his face as white as death.

“This isn’t a joke, Peggy,” he cried. “Go below and I’ll get rid of the sheik.”

Just then the burly Algerian asserted himself. He did not like the way in which his adored one was being handled by the “white dogs,” and with two spearmen he rushed up to Brewster, jabbering angrily.

“Stand back, you idiot, or I’ll punch your head off,” said Brewster, with sudden emphasis.

It was not until this moment that Peggy realized that there might be a serious side to the little farce she and Mary had decided to play for the punishment of Brewster. Terror suddenly took the place of mirth, and she clung frantically to Monty’s arm. “I was joking, Monty, only joking,” she cried. “Oh, what have I done?”

“It’s my fault,” he exclaimed, “but I’ll take care of you, never fear.”

“Stand aside!” roared the sheik threateningly.

The situation was ominous. Frightened as they were the women could not flee, but stood as if petrified. Sailors eagerly swarmed to the deck.

“Get off this boat,” said Monty, ominously calm, to the interpreter, “or we’ll pitch you and your whole mob into the sea.”

“Keep cool! Keep cool!” cried “Subway” Smith quickly. He stepped between Brewster and the angry suitor, and that action alone prevented serious trouble. While he parleyed with the sheik Mrs. DeMille hurried Peggy to a safe place below deck, and they were followed by a flock of shivering women. Poor Peggy was almost in tears and the piteous glances she threw at Brewster when he stepped between her and the impetuous sheik, who had started to follow, struck deep into his heart and made him ready to fight to the death for her.

It took nearly an hour to convince the Algerian that Peggy had misunderstood him and that American women were not to be wooed after the African fashion. He finally departed with his entire train, thoroughly dissatisfied and in high dudgeon. At first he threatened to take her by force; then he agreed to give her another day in which to make up her mind to go with him peaceably, and again he concluded that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush.

Brewster stood gloomily on the outside of the excited group glowering upon the ugly suitor. Cooler heads had relegated him to this place of security during the diplomatic contest. The sheik’s threats of vengeance were direful. He swore by somebody’s beard that he would bring ten thousand men to establish his claim by force. His intense desire to fight for her then and there was quelled by Captain Perry’s detachment of six lusty sailors, whose big bare fists were shaken vigorously under a few startled noses. It took all the fight out of the sheik and his train. Three retainers fell into the sea while trying to retreat as far as possible from danger.

Mohammed departed with the irate declaration that he would come another day and that the whole world would tremble at his approach. Disgusted with himself and afraid to meet the eyes of the other men, Brewster went below in search of Peggy. He took time to comfort the anxious women who crowded about him and then asked for Miss Gray. She was in her stateroom and would not come forth. When he knocked at the door a dismal, troubled voice from within told him to go away.

“Come out, Peggy; it’s all over,” he called.

“Please go away, Monty,” she said.

“What are you doing in there?” There was a long pause, and then came the pitiful little wail: “I am unpacking, please, sir.”

That night Brewster entertained on board the yacht, several resident French and English acquaintances being the guests of honor. The story of the day was told by Mrs. Dan DeMille, commissioned especially for the duty. She painted the scene so vividly that the guests laughed with joy over the discomfiture of the sheik. Peggy and Brewster found themselves looking sheepishly at one another now and then in the course of the recital. She purposely had avoided him during the evening, but she had gamely endured the raillery that came from the rest of the party. If she was a bit pale, it was not surprising. Now that it was over the whole affair appalled her more than she could have suspected. When several of the guests of the evening soberly announced that Mohammed was a dangerous man and even an object of worry to the government she felt a strange catch in her throat and her now mirthless eyes turned instinctively to Brewster, who, it seemed, was the sheik’s special object of aversion.

The next day she and Monty talked it over. The penitence of both was beautiful to behold. Each denied the other the privilege of assuming all the blame and both were so happy that Mohammed was little more than a preposition in their conversation so far as prominence was concerned. But all day long the harbor was full of fisher boats, and at nightfall they still were lolling about, sinister, restless, mysterious like purposeless buzzards. And the dark men on board were taking up no fish, neither were they minding the nets that lay dry and folded in the bottom of their boats.

Far into the night there was revelry on board the “Flitter,” more guests having come out from the city. The dark hours before the dawn of day had arrived before they put off for shore, but the fisher boats still were bobbing about in the black waters of the harbor. The lights gradually disappeared from the port-holes of the yacht, and the tired watch was about to be relieved. Monty Brewster and Peggy remained on deck after the guests had gone over the side of the vessel. They were leaning over the rail aft listening to the jovial voices of the visitors as they grew fainter and fainter in the distance. The lights of the town were few, but they could plainly be seen from the offing.

“Are you tired, Peggy?” asked Brewster, with a touch of tenderness. Somehow of late he had often felt a strange desire to take her in his arms, and now it was strong upon him. She was very near, and there was a drooping weariness in her attitude which seemed to demand protection.

“I have a queer feeling that something awful is going to happen tonight, Monty,” she answered, trouble in her soft voice.

“You’re nervous, that’s all,” he said, “and you should get to sleep. Good-night.” Their hands touched in the darkness, and the thrill that went over him told a truth of which he had been only vaguely conscious. The power of it made him exultant. Yet when he thought of her and her too quiet affection for him it left him despondent.

Something bumped against the side of the ship and a grating sound followed. Then came other gentle thuds combined with the soft swish of water disturbed. Peggy and Brewster were on the point of going below when their attention was caught by these strange sounds.

“What is it?” she asked as they paused irresolutely. He strode to the rail, the girl following close behind him. Three sharp little whistles came from above and behind them, but before they had time even to speculate as to their meaning the result was in evidence.

Over the sides of the ship came shadowy forms as if by magic; at their backs panther-like bodies dropped to the deck with stealthy thuds, as if coming from the inky sky above. There was an instant of dreadful calm and then the crisis. A dozen sinewy forms hurled themselves upon Brewster, who, taken completely by surprise, was thrown to the deck in an instant, his attempt to cry out for help being checked by heavy hands. Peggy’s scream was cut off quickly, and paralyzed by terror, she felt herself engulfed in strong arms and smothered into silence. It all happened so quickly that there was no chance to give the alarm, no opportunity to resist.

Brewster felt himself lifted bodily, and then there was the sensation of falling. He struck something forcibly with all his weight and fell back with a crash to the deck. Afterward he found that the effort to throw him overboard had failed only because his assailants in their haste had hurled him against an unseen stanchion. Peggy was borne forward and lowered swiftly into arms that deposited her roughly upon something hard. There was a jerky, rocking motion, the sudden splash of oars, and then she knew no more.

The invaders had planned with a craftiness and patience that deserved success. For hours they had waited, silently, watchfully, and with deadly assurance. How they crept up to the “Flitter” in such numbers and how the more daring came aboard long before the blow was struck, no one ever explained. So quickly and so accurately was the abduction performed that the boats were well clear of the yacht before alarm was given by one of the watch who had been overlooked in the careful assault.

Sleepy sailors rushed on deck with a promptness that was amazing. Very quickly they had found and unbound Brewster, carried a couple of wounded shipmates below and had Captain Perry in his pajamas on deck to take command.

“The searchlight!” cried Brewster frantically. “The devils have stolen Miss Gray.”

While swift hands were lowering the boats for the chase others were carrying firearms on deck. The searchlight threw its mighty white arm out over the water before many seconds had passed, and eager eyes were looking for the boats of the pillagers. The Arabs had reckoned without the searchlight. Their fierce exultation died suddenly when the mysterious streak of light shot into the sky and then swept down upon the sea, hunting them out of the darkness like a great relentless eye.

The “Flitter’s” boats were in the water and manned by sturdy oarsmen before the glad cry went up that the robber fleet had been discovered. They were so near the yacht that it was evident the dusky tribesmen were poor oarsmen. In the clear light from the ship’s deck they could be seen paddling wildly, their white robes fluttering as though inspired by fear. There were four boats, all of them crowded to the gunwales.

“Keep the light on them, captain,” shouted Monty from below. “Try to pick out the boat that has Miss Gray on board. Pull away, boys! This means a hundred dollars to every one of you—yes, a thousand if we have to fight for her!”

“Kill every damned one of them, Mr. Brewster,” roared the captain, who had retired behind a boat when he became aware of the presence of women on deck.

Three boats shot away from the side of the yacht, Brewster and Joe Bragdon in the first, both armed with rifles.

“Let’s take a shot at ’em,” cried a sailor who stood in the stern with his finger on a trigger.

“Don’t do that! We don’t know what boat holds Peggy,” commanded Brewster. “Keep cool, boys, and be ready to scrap if we have to.” He was half mad with fear and anxiety, and he was determined to exterminate the bands of robbers if harm came to the girl in their power.

“She’s in the second boat,” came the cry from the yacht, and the searchlight was kept on that particular object almost to the exclusion of the others. But Captain Perry saw the wisdom of keeping all of them clearly located in order to prevent trickery.

Brewster’s brawny sailor boys came up like greyhounds, cheering as they dashed among the boats of the fugitives. Three or four shots were fired into the air by the zealous American lads, and there were loud cries from the Arabs as they veered off panic-stricken. Monty’s boat was now in the path of light and not far behind the one which held Peggy. He was standing in the bow.

“Take care of the others!” he called back to his followers. “We’ll go after the leaders.”

The response from behind was a cheer, a half dozen shots and some of the most joyous profanity that ever fell from the lips of American sailors, mingled with shrieks from the boats they were to “take care of.”

“Stop!” Brewster shouted to the Arabs. “Stop, or we’ll kill every one of you!” His boat was not more than fifty feet from the other.

Suddenly a tall, white-robed figure arose in the middle of the Egyptian craft, and a moment later the pursuers saw Peggy’s form passed up to him. She was instantly clasped by one of his long arms, and the other was lifted high above her. A gleaming knife was held in the upraised hand.

“Fire on us if you dare!” came in French from the tall Arab. “Dog of an American, she shall die if you come near her!”

CHAPTER XXV

THE RESCUE OF PEGGY

Brewster’s heart almost ceased beating, and every vestige of color left his face. Clear and distinct in the light from the yacht the Arab and his burden were outlined against the black screen beyond. There was no mistaking the earnestness of the threat, nor could the witnesses doubt the ghastly intention of the long, cruel knife that gleamed on high. Peggy’s body served as a shield for that of her captor. Brewster and Bragdon recognized the man as one of Mohammed’s principal retainers, a fierce-looking fellow who had attracted more than usual attention on the day of the sheik’s visit.

“For God’s sake, don’t kill her!” cried Brewster in agonized tones. There was a diabolical grin on the face of the Arab, who was about to shout back some defiant taunt when the unexpected happened.

The sharp crack of a gun sounded in the stern of Brewster’s boat, and an unerring bullet sped straight for the big Arab’s forehead. It crashed between his eyes and death must have been instantaneous. The knife flew from his hand, his body straightened and then collapsed, toppling over, not among his oarsmen, but across the gunwale of the craft. Before a hand could be lifted to prevent, the dead Arab and the girl were plunged into the sea.

A cry of horror went up from the Americans, and something surprisingly like a shout of triumph from the abductors. Even as Brewster poised for the spring into the water a flying form shot past him and into the sea with a resounding splash. The man that fired the shot had reckoned cleverly, and he was carrying out the final details of an inspired plan. The Arab’s position as he stood in the boat was such as to warrant the sailor’s belief that he could fall no other way than forward, and that meant over the side of the boat. With all this clearly in mind he had shot straight and true and was on his way to the water almost as the two toppled overboard.

Monty Brewster was in the water an instant later, striking out for the spot where they had disappeared, a little to the left of the course in which his boat was running. There was a rattle of firearms, with curses and cheers, but he paid no heed to these sounds. He was a length or two behind the sailor, praying with all his soul that one or the other might succeed in reaching the white robes that still kept the surface of the water. His crew was “backing water” and straining every muscle to bring the boat around sharp for the rescue.

The sailor’s powerful strokes brought him to the spot first, but not in time to clutch the disappearing white robes. Just as he reached out an arm to grasp the form of the girl she went down. He did not hesitate a second but followed. Peggy had fallen from the dead Arab’s embrace, and that worthy already was at the bottom of the sea. She was half conscious when the shot came, but the plunge into the cold water revived her. Her struggles were enough to keep her up for a few moments, but not long enough for the swimmers to reach her side. She felt herself going down and down, strangling, smothering, dying. Then something vise-like clutched her arm and she had the sensation of being jerked upward violently.

The sailor fought his way to the surface with the girl, and Brewster was at his side in an instant. Together they supported her until one of the boats came up, and they were drawn over the side to safety. By this time the abductors had scattered like sheep without a leader, and as there was no further object in pursuing them the little American fleet put back for the yacht in great haste. Peggy was quite conscious when carried aboard by the triumphant Brewster. The words he whispered to her as she lay in the bottom of the boat were enough to give her life.

The excitement on board the “Flitter” was boundless. Fear gave way to joy, and where despair had for a moment reigned supreme, there was now the most insane delight. Peggy was bundled below and into her berth, Dr. Lotless attending her, assisted by all the women on board. Brewster and the sailor, drenched but happy, were carried on the shoulders of enthusiastic supporters to a place where hot toddies were to be had before blankets.

“You have returned the favor, Conroy,” said Brewster fervently, as he leaned across the heads of his bearers to shake hands with the sailor who was sharing the honors with him. Conroy was grinning from ear to ear as he sat perched on the shoulders of his shipmates. “I was luckier than I thought in saving your life that day.”

“It wasn’t anything, Mr. Brewster,” said young Conroy. “I saw a chance to drop the big nigger, and then it was up to me to get her out of the water.”

“You took a big risk, Conroy, but you made good with it. If it had not been for you, my boy, they might have got away with Miss Gray.”

“Don’t mention it, Mr. Brewster, it was nothing to do,” protested Conroy in confusion. “I’d do anything in the world for you and for her.”

“What is the adage about casting your bread upon the water and getting it back again?” asked “Rip” Van Winkle of Joe Bragdon as they jubilantly followed the procession below.

There was no more sleep on board that night. In fact the sun was not long in showing itself after the rescuers returned to the vessel. The daring attempt of Mohammed’s emissaries was discussed without restraint, and every sailor had a story to tell of the pursuit and rescue. The event furnished conversational food for days and days among both the seamen and the passengers. Dan DeMille blamed himself relentlessly for sleeping through it all and moped for hours because he had lost a magnificent chance to “do something.” The next morning he proposed to hunt for the sheik, and offered to lead an assault in person. An investigation was made and government officials tried to call Mohammed to account, but he had fled to the desert and the search was fruitless.

Brewster refused to accept a share of the glory of Peggy’s rescue, pushing Conroy forward as the real hero. But the sailor insisted that he could not have succeeded without help,—that he was completely exhausted when Monty came to the rescue. Peggy found it hard to thank him gently while her heart was so dangerously near the riot point, and her words of gratitude sounded pitifully weak and insufficient.

“It would have been the same had anybody else gone to her rescue,” he mused dejectedly. “She cares for me with the devotion of a sister and that’s all. Peggy, Peggy,” he moaned, “if you could only love me, I’d—I’d—oh, well, there’s no use thinking about it! She will love some one else, of course, and—and be happy, too. If she’d appear only one-tenth as grateful to me as to Conroy I’d be satisfied. He had the luck to be first, that’s all, but God knows I tried to do it.”

Mrs. Dan DeMille was keen enough to see how the land lay, and she at once tried to set matters straight. She was far too clever to push her campaign ruthlessly, but laid her foundations and then built cunningly and securely with the most substantial material that came to hand from day to day. Her subjects were taking themselves too deeply to heart to appreciate interference on the part of an outsider, and Mrs. Dan was wise in the whims of love.

Peggy was not herself for several days after her experience, and the whole party felt a distinct relief when the yacht finally left the harbor and steamed off to the west. A cablegram that came the day before may have had something to do with Brewster’s depression, but he was not the sort to confess it. It was from Swearengen Jones, of Butte, Montana, and there was something sinister in the laconic admonition. It read:

“BREWSTER, U.S. CONSULATE, ALEXANDRIA.

“Have a good time while good times last.

“JONES.”

His brain was almost bursting with the hopes and fears and uncertainties that crowded it far beyond its ordinary capacity. It had come to the point, it seemed to him, when the brains of a dozen men at least were required to operate the affairs that were surging into his alone. The mere fact that the end of his year was less than two months off, and that there was more or less uncertainty as to the character of the end, was sufficient cause for worry, but the new trouble was infinitely harder to endure. When he sat down to think over his financial enterprises his mind treacherously wandered off to Peggy Gray, and then everything was hopeless. He recalled the courage and confidence that had carried him to Barbara Drew with a declaration of love—to the stunning, worldly Barbara—and smiled bitterly when he saw how basely the two allies were deserting him in this hour of love for Peggy Gray. For some reason he had felt sure of Barbara; for another reason he saw no chance with Peggy. She was not the same sort—she was different. She was—well, she was Peggy.

Occasionally his reflections assumed the importance of calculations. His cruise was sure to cost $200,000, a princely sum, but not enough. Swearengen Jones and his cablegram did not awe him to a great extent. The spending of the million had become a mania with him now and he had no regard for consequences. His one desire, aside from Peggy, was to increase the cost of the cruise. They were leaving Gibraltar when a new idea came into his troubled head.

He decided to change his plans and sail for the North Cape, thereby adding more than $30,000 to his credit.

CHAPTER XXVI

MUTINY

Monty was on deck when the inspiration seized him, and he lost no time in telling his guests, who were at breakfast. Although he had misgivings about their opinion of the scheme, he was not prepared for the ominous silence that followed his announcement.

“Are you in earnest, Mr. Brewster?” asked Captain Perry, who was the first of the company to recover from the surprise.

“Of course I am. I chartered this boat for four months with the privilege of another month I can see no reason to prevent us from prolonging the trip.” Monty’s manner was full of self-assurance as he continued: “You people are so in the habit of protesting against every suggestion I make that you can’t help doing it now.”

“But, Monty,” said Mrs. Dan, “what if your guests would rather go home.”

“Nonsense; you were asked for a five months’ cruise. Besides, think of getting home in the middle of August, with every one away. It would be like going to Philadelphia.”

Brave as he was in the presence of his friends, in the privacy of his stateroom Monty gave way to the depression that was bearing down upon him. It was the hardest task of his life to go on with his scheme in the face of opposition. He knew that every man and woman on board was against the proposition, for his sake at least, and it was difficult to be arbitrary under the circumstances. Purposely he avoided Peggy all forenoon. His single glance at her face in the salon was enough to disturb him immeasurably.

The spirits of the crowd were subdued. The North Cape had charms, but the proclamation concerning it had been too sudden—had reversed too quickly the general expectation and desire. Many of the guests had plans at home for August, and even those who had none were satiated with excitement. During the morning they gathered in little knots to discuss the situation. They were all generous and each one was sure that he could cruise indefinitely, if on Monty’s account the new voyage were not out of the question. They felt it their duty to take a desperate stand.

The half-hearted little gatherings resolved themselves into ominous groups and in the end there was a call for a general meeting in the main cabin. Captain Perry, the first mate, and the chief engineer were included in the call, but Montgomery Brewster was not to be admitted. Joe Bragdon loyally agreed to keep him engaged elsewhere while the meeting was in progress. The doors were locked and a cursory glance assured the chairman of the meeting, Dan DeMille, that no member of the party was missing save the devoted Bragdon. Captain Perry was plainly nervous and disturbed. The others were the victims of a suppressed energy that presaged subsequent eruptions.

“Captain Perry, we are assembled here for a purpose,” said DeMille, clearing his throat three times. “First of all, as we understand it, you are the sailing master of this ship. In other words, you are, according to maritime law, the commander of this expedition. You alone can give orders to the sailors and you alone can clear a port. Mr. Brewster has no authority except that vested in a common employer. Am I correct?”

“Mr. DeMille, if Mr. Brewster instructs me to sail for the North Cape, I shall do so,” said the captain, firmly. “This boat is his for the full term of the lease and I am engaged to sail her with my crew until the tenth of next September.”

“We understand your position, captain, and I am sure you appreciate ours. It isn’t that we want to end a very delightful cruise, but that we regard it as sheer folly for Mr. Brewster to extend the tour at such tremendous expense. He is—or was—a rich man, but it is impossible to ignore the fact that he is plunging much too heavily. In plain words, we want to keep him from spending more of his money on this cruise. Do you understand our position, Captain Perry?”

“Fully. I wish with all my soul that I could help you and him. My hands are tied by contract, however, much as I regret it at this moment.”

“How does the crew feel about this additional trip, captain?” asked DeMille.

“They shipped for five months and will receive five months’ pay. The men have been handsomely treated and they will stick to Mr. Brewster to the end,” said the captain.

“There is no chance for a mutiny, then?” asked Smith regretfully. The captain gave him a hard look, but said nothing. Everybody seemed uncomfortable.

“Apparently the only way is the one suggested by Mr. Smith this morning,” said Mrs. Dan, speaking for the women. “No one will object, I am sure, if Captain Perry and his chief officers are allowed to hear the plan.”

“It is very necessary, in fact,” said Mr. Valentine. “We cannot proceed without them. But they will agree with us, I am sure, that it is wise.”

An hour later the meeting broke up and the conspirators made their way to the deck. It was a strange fact that no one went alone. They were in groups of three and four and the mystery that hung about them was almost perceptible. Not one was willing to face the excited, buoyant Brewster without help; they found strength and security in companionship.

Peggy was the one rebel against the conspiracy, and yet she knew that the others were justified in the step they proposed to take. She reluctantly joined them in the end, but felt that she was the darkest traitor in the crowd. Forgetting her own distress over the way in which Monty was squandering his fortune, she stood out the one defender of his rights until the end and then admitted tearfully to Mrs. DeMille that she had been “quite unreasonable” in doing so.

Alone in her stateroom after signing the agreement, she wondered what he would think of her. She owed him so much that she at least should have stood by him. She felt that he would be conscious of this? How could she have turned against him? He would not understand—of course he would never understand. And he would hate her with the others—more than the others. It was all a wretched muddle and she could not see her way out of it.

Monty found his guests very difficult. They listened to his plans with but little interest, and he could not but see that they were uncomfortable. The situation was new to their experience, and they were under a strain. “They mope around like a lot of pouting boys and girls,” he growled to himself. “But it’s the North Cape now in spite of everything. I don’t care if the whole crowd deserts me, my mind is made up.”

Try as he would, he could not see Peggy alone. He had much that he wanted to say to her and he hungered for the consolation her approval would bring him, but she clung to Pettingill with a tenacity that was discouraging. The old feeling of jealousy that was connected with Como again disturbed him.

“She thinks that I am a hopeless, brainless idiot,” he said to himself. “And I don’t blame her, either.”

Just before nightfall he noticed that his friends were assembling in the bow. As he started to join the group “Subway” Smith and DeMille advanced to meet him. Some of the others were smiling a little sheepishly, but the two men were pictures of solemnity and decision.

“Monty,” said DeMille steadily, “we have been conspiring against you and have decided that we sail for New York tomorrow morning.”

Brewster stopped short and the expression on his face was one they never could forget. Bewilderment, uncertainty and pain succeeded each other like flashes of light. Not a word was spoken for several seconds. The red of humiliation slowly mounted to his cheeks, while in his eyes wavered the look of one who has been hunted down.

“You have decided?” he asked lifelessly, and more than one heart went out in pity to him.

“We hated to do it, Monty, but for your own sake there was no other way,” said “Subway” Smith quickly. “We took a vote and there wasn’t a dissenting voice.” “It is a plain case of mutiny, I take it,” said Monty, utterly alone and heart-sick.

“It isn’t necessary to tell you why we have taken this step,” said DeMille. “It is heart-breaking to oppose you at this stage of the game. You’ve been the best ever and—”

“Cut that,” cried Monty, and his confidence in himself was fast returning. “This is no time to throw bouquets.”

“We like you, Brewster.” Mr. Valentine came to the chairman’s assistance because the others had looked at him so appealingly. “We like you so well that we can’t take the responsibility for your extravagance. It would disgrace us all.”

“That side of the matter was never mentioned,” cried Peggy indignantly, and then added with a catch in her voice, “We thought only of you.”

“I appreciate your motives and I am grateful to you,” said Monty. “I am more sorry than I can tell you that the cruise must end in this way, but I too have decided. The yacht will take you to some point where you can catch a steamer to New York. I shall secure passage for the entire party and very soon you will be at home. Captain Perry, will you oblige me by making at once for any port that my guests may agree upon?” He was turning away deliberately when “Subway” Smith detained him.

“What do you mean by getting a steamer to New York? Isn’t the ‘Flitter’ good enough?” he asked.

“The ‘Flitter’ is not going to New York just now,” answered Brewster firmly, “notwithstanding your ultimatum. She is going to take me to the North Cape.”

CHAPTER XXVII

A FAIR TRAITOR

“Now will you be good?” cried Reggie Vanderpool to DeMille as Monty went down the companionway. The remark was precisely what was needed, for the pent-up feelings of the entire company were now poured forth upon the unfortunate young man. “Subway” Smith was for hanging him to the yard arm, and the denunciation of the others was so decisive that Reggie sought refuge in the chart house. But the atmosphere had been materially cleared and the leaders of the mutiny were in a position to go into executive session and consider the matter. The women waited on deck while the meeting lasted. They were unanimous in the opinion that the affair had been badly managed.

“They should have offered to stay by the ship providing Monty would let DeMille manage the cruise,” said Miss Valentine. “That would have been a concession and at the same time it would have put the cruise on an economical basis.”

“In other words, you will accept a man’s invitation to dinner if he will allow you to order it and invite the other guests,” said Peggy, who was quick to defend Monty.

“Well that would be better than helping to eat up every bit of food he possessed.” But Miss Valentine always avoided argument when she could and gave this as a parting thrust before she walked away.

“There must be something more than we know about in Monty’s extravagance,” said Mrs. Dan. “He isn’t the kind of man to squander his last penny without having something left to show for it. There must be a method in his madness.”

“He has done it for us,” said Peggy. “He has devoted himself all along to giving us a good time and now we are showing our gratitude.”

Further discussion was prevented by the appearance of the conspiring committee and the whole company was summoned to hear DeMille’s report as chairman.

“We have found a solution of our difficulties,” he began, and his manner was so jubilant that every one became hopeful. “It is desperate, but I think it will be effective. Monty has given us the privilege of leaving the yacht at any port where we can take a steamer to New York. Now, my suggestion is that we select the most convenient place for all of us, and obviously there is nothing quite so convenient as Boston.”

“Dan DeMille, you are quite foolish,” cried his wife. “Who ever conceived such a ridiculous idea?”

“Captain Perry has his instructions,” continued DeMille, turning to the captain. “Are we not acting along the lines marked out by Brewster himself?”

“I will sail for Boston if you say the word,” said the thoughtful captain. “But he is sure to countermand such an order.”

“He won’t be able to, captain,” cried “Subway” Smith, who had for some time been eager to join in the conversation. “This is a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool mutiny and we expect to carry out the original plan, which was to put Mr. Brewster in irons, until we are safe from all opposition.”

“He is my friend, Mr. Smith, and at least it is my duty to protect him from any indignity,” said the captain, stiffly.

“You make for Boston, my dear captain, and we’ll do the rest,” said DeMille. “Mr. Brewster can’t countermand your orders unless he sees you in person. We’ll see to it that he has no chance to talk to you until we are in sight of Boston Harbor.”

The captain looked doubtful and shook his head as he walked away. At heart he was with the mutineers and his mind was made up to assist them as long as it was possible to do so without violating his obligations to Brewster. He felt guilty, however, in surreptitiously giving the order to clear for Boston at daybreak. The chief officers were let into the secret, but the sailors were kept in darkness regarding the destination of the “Flitter.”

Montgomery Brewster’s guests were immensely pleased with the scheme, although they were dubious about the outcome. Mrs. Dan regretted her hasty comment on the plan and entered into the plot with eagerness. In accordance with plans decided upon by the mutineers, Monty’s stateroom door was guarded through the night by two of the men. The next morning as he emerged from his room, he was met by “Subway” Smith and Dan DeMille.

“Good morning,” was his greeting. “How’s the weather today?”

“Bully,” answered DeMille. “By the way, you are going to have breakfast in your room, old man.”

Brewster unsuspectingly led the way into his stateroom, the two following.

“What’s the mystery?” he demanded.

“We’ve been deputized to do some very nasty work,” said “Subway,” as he turned the key in the door. “We are here to tell you what port we have chosen.”

“It’s awfully good of you to tell me.”

“Yes, isn’t it? But we have studied up on the chivalrous treatment of prisoners. We have decided on Boston.”

“Is there a Boston on this side of the water?” asked Monty in mild surprise.

“No; there is only one Boston in the universe, so far as we know. It is a large body of intellect surrounded by the rest of the world.”

“What the devil are you talking about? You don’t mean Boston, Massachusetts?” cried Monty, leaping to his feet.

“Precisely. That’s the port for us and you told us to choose for ourselves,” said Smith.

“Well, I won’t have it, that’s all,” exclaimed Brewster, indignantly. “Captain Perry takes orders from me and from no one else.”

“He already has his orders,” said DeMille, smiling mysteriously.

“I’ll see about that.” Brewster sprang to the door. It was locked and the key was in “Subway” Smith’s pocket. With an impatient exclamation he turned and pressed an electric button.

“It won’t ring, Monty,” explained “Subway.” “The wire has been cut. Now, be cool for a minute or two and we’ll talk it over.”

Brewster stormed for five minutes, the “delegation” sitting calmly by, smiling with exasperating confidence. At last he calmed down and in terms of reason demanded an explanation. He was given to understand that the yacht would sail for Boston and that he would be kept a prisoner for the entire voyage unless he submitted to the will of the majority.

Brewster listened darkly to the proclamation. He saw that they had gained the upper hand by a clever ruse, and that only strategy on his part could outwit them. It was out of the question for him to submit to them now that the controversy had assumed the dignity of a struggle.

“But you will be reasonable, won’t you?” asked DeMille, anxiously.

“I intend to fight it out to the bitter end,” said Brewster, his eyes flashing. “At present I am your prisoner, but it is a long way to Boston.”

For three days and two nights the “Flitter” steamed westward into the Atlantic, with her temporary owner locked into his stateroom. The confinement was irksome, but he rather liked the sensation of being interested in something besides money. He frequently laughed to himself over the absurdity of the situation. His enemies were friends, true and devoted; his gaolers were relentless but they were considerate. The original order that he should be guarded by one man was violated on the first day. There were times when his guard numbered at least ten persons and some of them served tea and begged him to listen to reason.

“It is difficult not to listen,” he said fiercely. “It’s like holding a man down and then asking him to be quiet. But my time is coming.”

“Revenge will be his!” exclaimed Mrs. Dan, tragically.

“You might have your term shortened on account of good conduct if you would only behave,” suggested Peggy, whose reserve was beginning to soften. “Please be good and give in.”

“I haven’t been happier during the whole cruise,” said Monty. “On deck I wouldn’t be noticed, but here I am quite the whole thing. Besides I can get out whenever I feel like it.”

“I have a thousand dollars which says you can’t,” said DeMille, and Monty snapped him up so eagerly that he added, “that you can’t get out of your own accord.”

Monty acceded to the condition and offered odds on the proposition to the others, but there were no takers.

“That settles it,” he smiled grimly to himself. “I can make a thousand dollars by staying here and I can’t afford to escape.”

On the third day of Monty’s imprisonment the “Flitter” began to roll heavily. At first he gloated over the discomfort of his guards, who obviously did not like to stay below. “Subway” Smith and Bragdon were on duty and neither was famous as a good sailor. When Monty lighted his pipe there was consternation and “Subway” rushed on deck.

“You are a brave man, Joe,” Monty said to the other and blew a cloud of smoke in his direction. “I knew you would stick to your post. You wouldn’t leave it even if the ship should go down.”

Bragdon had reached the stage where he dared not speak and was busying himself trying to “breathe with the motion of the boat,” as he had called it.

“By Gad,” continued Monty, relentlessly, “this smoke is getting thick. Some of this toilet water might help if I sprinkled it about.”

One whiff of the sweet-smelling cologne was enough for Bragdon and he bolted up the companionway, leaving the stateroom door wide open and the prisoner free to go where he pleased. Monty’s first impulse was to follow, but he checked himself on the threshold.

“Damn that bet with DeMille,” he said to himself, and added aloud to the fleeting guard, “The key, Joe, I dare you to come back and get it!”

But Bragdon was beyond recall and Monty locked the door on the inside and passed the key through the ventilator.

On deck a small part of the company braved the spray in the lee of the deck house, but the others had long since gone below. The boat was pitching furiously in the ugliest sea it had encountered, and there was anxiety underneath Captain Perry’s mask of unconcern. DeMille and Dr. Lotless talked in the senseless way men have when they try to conceal their nervousness. But the women did not respond; they were in no mood for conversation.

Only one of them was quite oblivious to personal discomfort and danger. Peggy Gray was thinking of the prisoner below. In a reflection of her own terror, she pictured him crouching in the little state-room, like a doomed criminal awaiting execution, alone, neglected, forgotten, unpitied. At first she pleaded for the men for his release, but they insisted upon waiting in the hope that a scare might bring him to his senses. Peggy saw that no help was to be secured from the other women, much as they might care for Brewster’s peace of mind and safety. Her heart was bitter toward every one responsible for the situation, and there was dark rebellion in her soul. It culminated finally in a resolve to release Monty Brewster at any cost.

With difficulty she made her way to the stateroom door, clinging to supports at times and then plunging violently away from them. For some minutes she listened, frantically clutching Brewster’s door and the wall-rail. There was no guard, and the tumult of the sea drowned every sound within. Her imagination ran riot when her repeated calls were not answered.

“Monty, Monty,” she cried, pounding wildly on the door.

“Who is it? What is the trouble?” came in muffled tones from within, and Peggy breathed a prayer of thanks. Just then she discovered the key which Monty had dropped and quickly opened the door, expecting to find him cowering with fear. But the picture was different. The prisoner was seated on the divan, propped up with many pillows and reading with the aid of an electric light “The Intrusions of Peggy.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

A CATASTROPHE

“Oh!” was Peggy’s only exclamation, and there was a shadow of disappointment in her eyes.

“Come in, Peggy, and I’ll read aloud,” was Monty’s cheerful greeting as he stood before her.

“No, I must go,” said Peggy, confusedly. “I thought you might be nervous about the storm—and—”

“And you came to let me out?” Monty had never been so happy.

“Yes, and I don’t care what the others say. I thought you were suffering—” But at that moment the boat gave a lurch which threw her across the threshold into Monty’s arms. They crashed against the wall, and he held her a moment and forgot the storm. When she drew away from him she showed him the open door and freedom. She could not speak.

“Where are the others?” he asked, bracing himself in the doorway.

“Oh, Monty,” she cried, “we must not go to them. They will think me a traitor.”

“Why were you a traitor, Peggy?” he demanded, turning toward her suddenly.

“Oh—oh, because it seemed so cruel to keep you locked up through the storm,” she answered, blushing.

“And there was no other reason?” he persisted.

“Don’t, please don’t!” she cried piteously, and he misunderstood her emotion. It was clear that she was merely sorry for him.

“Never mind, Peggy, it’s all right. You stood by me and I’ll stand by you. Come on; we’ll face the mob and I’ll do the fighting.”

Together they made their way into the presence of the mutineers, who were crowded into the main cabin.

“Well, here’s a conspiracy,” cried Dan DeMille, but there was no anger in his voice. “How did you escape? I was just thinking of unlocking your door, Monty, but the key seemed to be missing.”

Peggy displayed it triumphantly.

“By Jove,” cried Dan. “This is rank treachery. Who was on guard?”

A steward rushing through the cabin at this moment in answer to frantic calls from Bragdon furnished an eloquent reply to the question.

“It was simple,” said Monty. “The guards deserted their post and left the key behind.”

“Then it is up to me to pay you a thousand dollars.”

“Not at all,” protested Monty, taken aback. “I did not escape of my own accord. I had help. The money is yours. And now that I am free,” he added quietly, “let me say that this boat does not go to Boston.”

“Just what I expected,” cried Vanderpool.

“She’s going straight to New York!” declared Monty. The words were hardly uttered when a heavy sea sent him sprawling across the cabin, and he concluded, “or to the bottom.”

“Not so bad as that,” said Captain Perry, whose entrance had been somewhat hastened by the lurch of the boat. “But until this blows over I must keep you below.” He laughed, but he saw they were not deceived. “The seas are pretty heavy and the decks are being holystoned for nothing, but I wouldn’t like to have any of you washed overboard by mistake.”

The hatches were battened down, and it was a sorry company that tried to while away the evening in the main cabin. Monty’s chafing about the advantages of the North Cape over the stormy Atlantic was not calculated to raise the drooping spirits, and it was very early when he and his shattered guests turned in. There was little sleep on board the “Flitter” that night. Even if it had been easy to forget the danger, the creaking of the ship and the incessant roar of the water were enough for wakefulness. With each lurch of the boat it seemed more incredible that it could endure. It was such a mite of a thing to meet so furious an attack. As it rose on the wave to pause in terror on its crest before sinking shivering into the trough, it made the breath come short and the heart stand still. Through the night the fragile little craft fought its lonely way, bravely ignoring its own weakness and the infinite strength of its enemy. To the captain, lashed to the bridge, there were hours of grave anxiety—hours when he feared each wave as it approached, and wondered what new damage it had done as it receded. As the wind increased toward morning he felt a sickening certainty that the brave little boat was beaten. Somehow she seemed to lose courage, to waver a bit and almost give tip the fight. He watched her miserably as the dismal dawn came up out of the sea. Yet it was not until seven o’clock that the crash came, which shook the passengers out of their berths and filled them with shivering terror. The whirring of the broken shaft seemed to consume the ship. In every cabin it spoke with terrible vividness of disaster. The clamor of voices and the rush of many feet, which followed, meant but one thing. Almost instantly the machinery was stopped—an ominous silence in the midst of the dull roar of the water and the cry of the wind.

It was a terrified crowd that quickly gathered in the main cabin, but it was a brave one. There were no cries and few tears. They expected anything and were ready for the worst, but they would not show the white feather. It was Mrs. Dan who broke the tension. “I made sure of my pearls,” she said; “I thought they would be appreciated at the bottom of the sea.”

Brewster came in upon their laughter. “I like your nerve, people,” he exclaimed, “you are all right. It won’t be so bad now. The wind has dropped.”

Long afterward when they talked the matter over, DeMille claimed that the only thing that bothered him that night was the effort to decide whether the club of which he and Monty were members would put in the main hallway two black-bordered cards, each bearing a name, or only one with both names. Mr. Valentine regretted that he had gone on for years paying life insurance premiums when now his only relatives were on the boat and would die with him.

The captain, looking pretty rocky after his twenty-four hour vigil, summoned his chief. “We’re in a bad hole, Mr. Brewster,” he said when they were alone, “and no mistake. A broken shaft and this weather make a pretty poor combination.”

“Is there no chance of making a port for repairs?”

“I don’t see it, sir. It looks like a long pull.”

“We are way off our course, I suppose?” and Monty’s coolness won Captain Perry’s admiration.

“I can’t tell just how much until I get the sun, but this wind is hell. I suspect we’ve drifted pretty far.”

“Come and get some coffee, captain. While the storm lasts the only thing to do is to cheer up the women and trust to luck.”

“You’re the nerviest mate I ever shipped with, Mr. Brewster,” and the captain’s hand gripped Monty’s in a way that meant things. It was a tribute he appreciated.

During the day Monty devoted himself to his guests, and at the first sign of pensiveness he was ready with a jest or a story. But he did it all with a tact that inspired the crowd as a whole with hope, and no one suspected that he himself was not cheerful. For Peggy Gray there was a special tenderness, and he made up his mind that if things should go wrong he would tell her that he loved her.

“It could do no harm,” he thought to himself, “and I want her to know.”

Toward night the worst was over. The sea had gone down and the hatches were opened for a while to admit air, though it was still too rough to venture out. The next morning was bright and clear. When the company gathered on deck the havoc created by the storm was apparent. Two of the boats had been completely carried away and the launch was rendered useless by a large hole in the stern.

“You don’t mean to say that we will drift about until the repairs can be made?” asked Mrs. Dan in alarm.

“We are three hundred miles off the course already,” explained Monty, “and it will be pretty slow traveling under sail.”

It was decided to make for the Canary Islands, where repairs could be made and the voyage resumed. But where the wind had raged a few days before, it had now disappeared altogether, and for a week the “Flitter” tossed about absolutely unable to make headway. The first of August had arrived and Monty himself was beginning to be nervous. With the fatal day not quite two months away, things began to look serious. Over one hundred thousand dollars would remain after he had settled the expenses of the cruise, and he was helplessly drifting in mid-ocean. Even if the necessary repairs could be made promptly, it would take the “Flitter” fourteen days to sail from the Canaries to New York. Figure as hard as he could he saw no way out of the unfortunate situation. Two days more elapsed and still no sign of a breeze. He made sure that September 23d would find him still drifting and still in possession of one hundred thousand superfluous dollars.

At the end of ten days the yacht had progressed but two hundred miles and Monty was beginning to plan the rest of his existence on a capital of $100,000. He had given up all hope of the Sedgwick legacy and was trying to be resigned to his fate, when a tramp steamer was suddenly sighted. Brewster ordered the man on watch to fly a flag of distress. Then he reported to the captain and told what he had done. With a bound the captain rushed on deck and tore the flag from the sailor’s hand.

“That was my order,” said Monty, nettled at the captain’s manner.

“You want them to get a line on us and claim salvage, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“If they get a line on us in response to that flag they will claim the entire value of the ship as salvage. You want to spend another $200,000 on this boat?”

“I didn’t understand,” said Monty, sheepishly. “But for God’s sake fix it up somehow. Can’t they tow us? I’ll pay for it.”

Communication was slow, but after an apparently endless amount of signaling, the captain finally announced that the freight steamer was bound for Southampton and would tow the “Flitter” to that point for a price.

“Back to Southampton!” groaned Monty. “That means months before we get back to New York.”

“He says he can get us to Southampton in ten days,” interrupted the captain.

“I can do it, I can do it,” he cried, to the consternation of his guests, who wondered if his mind were affected. “If he’ll land us in Southampton by the 27th, I’ll pay him up to one hundred thousand dollars.”

CHAPTER XXIX

THE PRODIGAL‘S RETURN

After what seemed an age to Monty, the “Flitter,” in tow of the freighter “Glencoe,” arrived at Southampton. The captain of the freight boat was a thrifty Scotchman whose ship was traveling with a light cargo, and he was not, therefore, averse to taking on a tow. But the thought of salvage had caused him to ask a high price for the service and Monty, after a futile attempt at bargaining, had agreed. The price was fifty thousand dollars, and the young man believed more than ever that everything was ruled by a wise Providence, which had not deserted him. His guests were heartsick when they heard the figure, but were as happy as Monty at the prospect of reaching land again.

The “Glencoe” made several stops before Southampton was finally reached on the 28th of August, but when the English coast was sighted every one was too eager to go ashore to begrudge the extra day. Dan DeMille asked the entire party to become his guests for a week’s shooting trip in Scotland, but Monty vetoed the plan in the most decided manner.

“We sail for New York on the fastest boat,” said Monty, and hurried off to learn the sailings and book his party. The first boat was to sail on the 30th and he could only secure accommodations for twelve of his guests. The rest were obliged to follow a week later. This was readily agreed to and Bragdon was left to see to the necessary repairs on the “Flitter” and arrange for her homeward voyage. Monty gave Bragdon fifteen thousand dollars for the purpose and extracted a solemn promise that the entire amount would be used.

“But it won’t cost half of this,” protested Bragdon.

“You will have to give these people a good time during the week and—well—you have promised that I shall never see another penny of it. Some day you’ll know why I do this,” and Monty felt easier when his friend agreed to abide by his wishes.

He discharged the “Flitter’s” crew, with five months’ pay and the reward promised on the night of Peggy’s rescue, which was productive of touching emotions. Captain Perry and his officers never forgot the farewell of the prodigal, nor could they hide the regret that marked their weather-beaten faces.

Plans to dispose of his household goods and the balance of his cash in the short time that would be left after he arrived in New York occupied Monty’s attention, and most men would have given up the scheme as hopeless. But he did not despair. He was still game, and he prepared for the final plunge with grim determination.

“There should have been a clause in Jones’s conditions about ‘weather permitting,’” he said to himself. “A shipwrecked mariner should not be expected to spend a million dollars.”

The division of the party for the two sailings was tactfully arranged by Mrs. Dan DeMille. The Valentines chaperoned the “second table” as “Subway” Smith called those who were to take the later boat, and she herself looked after the first lot. Peggy Gray and Monty Brewster were in the DeMille party. The three days in England were marked by unparalleled extravagance on Monty’s part. One of the local hotels was subsidized for a week, although the party only stayed for luncheon, and the Cecil in London was a gainer by several thousand dollars for the brief stop there. It was a careworn little band that took Monty’s special train for Southampton and embarked two days later. The “rest cure” that followed was welcome to all of them and Brewster was especially glad that his race was almost run.

Swiftly and steadily the liner cut down the leagues that separated her from New York. Fair weather and fair cheer marked her course, and the soft, balmy nights were like seasons of fairyland. Monty was cherishing in his heart the hope inspired by Peggy’s action on the night of the storm. Somehow it brought a small ray of light to his clouded understanding and he found joy in keeping the flame alive religiously if somewhat doubtfully. His eyes followed her constantly, searching for the encouragement that the very blindness of love had hidden from him, forever tormenting himself with fears and hopes and fears again. Her happiness and vivacity puzzled him—he was often annoyed, he was now and then seriously mystified.

Four days out from New York, then three days, then two days, and then Brewster began to feel the beginning of the final whirlwind in profligacy clouding him oppressively, ominously, unkindly. Down in his stateroom he drew new estimates, new calculations, and tried to balance the old ones so that they appeared in the light most favorable to his designs. Going over the statistics carefully, he estimated that the cruise, including the repairs and return of the yacht to New York, would cost him $210,000 in round figures. One hundred and thirty-three days marked the length of the voyage when reckoned by time and, as near as he could get at it, the expense had averaged $1,580 a day. According to the contract, he was to pay for the yacht, exclusive of the cuisine and personal service. And he had found it simple enough to spend the remaining $1,080. There were days, of course, when fully $5,000 disappeared, and there were others on which he spent much less than $1,000, but the average was secure. Taking everything into consideration, Brewster found that his fortune had dwindled to a few paltry thousands in addition to the proceeds which would come to him from the sale of his furniture. On the whole he was satisfied.

The landing in New York and the separation which followed were not entirely merry. Every discomfort was forgotten and the travelers only knew that the most wonderful cruise since that of the ark had come to an end. There was not one who would not have been glad to begin it again the next day.

Immediately after the landing Brewster and Gardner were busy with the details of settlement. After clearing up all of the obligations arising from the cruise, they felt the appropriateness of a season of reflection. It was a difficult moment—a moment when undelivered reproofs were in the air. But Gardner seemed much the more melancholy of the two.

Piles of newspapers lay scattered about the floor of the room In which they sat. Every one of them contained sensational stories of the prodigal’s trip, with pictures, incidents and predictions. Monty was pained, humiliated and resentful, but he was honest enough to admit the justification of much that was said of him. He read bits of it here and there and then threw the papers aside hopelessly. In a few weeks they would tell another story, and quite as emphatically.

“The worst of it, Monty, is that you are the next thing to being a poor man,” groaned Gardner. “I’ve done my best to economize for you here at home, as you’ll see by these figures, but nothing could possibly balance the extravagances of this voyage. They are simply appalling.”

With the condemnation of his friends ringing in his troubled brain, with the sneers of acquaintances to distress his pride, with the jibes of the comic papers to torture him remorselessly, Brewster was fast becoming the most miserable man in New York. Friends of former days gave him the cut direct, clubmen ignored him or scorned him openly, women chilled him with the iciness of unspoken reproof, and all the world was hung with shadows. The doggedness of despair kept him up, but the strain that pulled down on him was so relentless that the struggle was losing its equality. He had not expected such a home-coming.

Compared with his former self, Monty was now almost a physical wreck, haggard, thin and defiant, a shadow of the once debonair young New Yorker, an object of pity and scorn. Ashamed and despairing, he had almost lacked the courage to face Mrs. Gray. The consolation he once gained through her he now denied himself and his suffering, peculiar as it was, was very real. In absolute recklessness he gave dinner after dinner, party after party, all on a most lavish scale, many of his guests laughing at him openly while they enjoyed his hospitality. The real friends remonstrated, pleaded, did everything within their power to check his awful rush to poverty, but without success; he was not to be stopped.

At last the furniture began to go, then the plate, then ail the priceless bric-a-brac. Piece by piece it disappeared until the apartments were empty and he had squandered almost all of the $40,350 arising from the sales. The servants were paid off, the apartments relinquished, and he was beginning to know what it meant to be “on his uppers.” At the banks he ascertained that the interest on his moneys amounted to $19,140.86. A week before the 23d of September, the whole million was gone, including the amounts won in Lumber and Fuel and other luckless enterprises. He still had about $17,000 of his interest money in the banks, but he had a billion pangs in his heart—the interest on his improvidence.

He found some delight in the discovery that the servants had robbed him of not less than $3,500 worth of his belongings, including the Christmas presents that he in honor could not have sold. His only encouragement came from Grant & Ripley, the lawyers. They inspired confidence in his lagging brain by urging him on to the end, promising brightness thereafter. Swearengen Jones was as mute as the mountains in which he lived. There was no word from him, there was no assurance that he would approve of what had been done to obliterate Edwin Peter Brewster’s legacy.

Dan DeMille and his wife implored Monty to come with them to the mountains before his substance was gone completely. The former offered him money, employment, rest and security if he would abandon the course he was pursuing. Up in Fortieth Street Peggy Gray was grieving her heart out and he knew it. Two or three of those whom he had considered friends refused to recognize him in the street in this last trying week, and it did not even interest him to learn that Miss Barbara Drew was to become a duchess before the winter was gone. Yet he found some satisfaction in the report that one Hampton of Chicago had long since been dropped out of the race.

One day he implored the faithful Bragdon to steal the Boston terriers. He could not and would not sell them and he dared not give them away. Bragdon dejectedly appropriated the dogs and Brewster announced that some day he would offer a reward for their return and “no questions asked.”

He took a suite of rooms in a small hotel and was feverishly planning the overthrow of the last torturing thousands. Bragdon lived with him and the “Little Sons of the Rich” stood loyally ready to help him when he uttered the first cry of want. But even this establishment had to be abandoned at last. The old rooms in Fortieth Street were still open to him and though he quailed at the thought of making them a refuge, he faced the ordeal in the spirit of a martyr.

CHAPTER XXX

THE PROMISE OF THRIFT

“Monty, you are breaking my heart,” was the first and only appeal Mrs. Gray ever made to him. It was two days before the twenty-third and it did not come until after the “second-hand store” men had driven away from her door with the bulk of his clothing in their wagon. She and Peggy had seen little of Brewster, and his nervous restlessness alarmed them. His return was the talk of the town. Men tried to shun him, but he persistently wasted some portion of his fortune on his unwilling subjects. When he gave $5,000 in cash to a Home for Newsboys, even his friends jumped to the conclusion that he was mad. It was his only gift to charity and he excused his motive in giving at this time by recalling Sedgwick’s injunction to “give sparingly to charity.” Everything was gone from his thoughts but the overpowering eagerness to get rid of a few troublesome thousands. He felt like an outcast, a pariah, a hated object that infected every one with whom he came in contact. Sleep was almost impossible, eating was a farce; he gave elaborate suppers which he did not touch. Already his best friends were discussing the advisability of putting him in a sanitarium where his mind might be preserved. His case was looked upon as peculiar in the history of mankind; no writer could find a parallel, no one imagine a comparison.

Mrs. Gray met him in the hallway of her home as he was nervously pocketing the $60 he had received in payment for his clothes. Her face was like that of a ghost. He tried to answer her reproof, but the words would not come, and he fled to his room, locking the door after him. He was at work there on the transaction that was to record the total disappearance of Edwin Brewster’s million—his final report to Swearengen Jones, executor of James Sedgwick’s will. On the floor were bundles of packages, carefully wrapped and tied, and on the table was the long sheet of white paper on which the report was being drawn. The package contained receipts—thousands upon thousands of them—for the dollars he had spent in less than a year. They were there for the inspection of Swearengen Jones, faithfully and honorably kept—as if the old westerner would go over in detail the countless documents.

He had the accounts balanced up to the hour. On the long sheet lay the record of his ruthlessness, the epitaph of a million. In his pocket was exactly $79.08. This was to last him for less than forty-eight hours and—then it would go to join the rest. It was his plan to visit Grant & Ripley on the afternoon of the twenty-second and to read the report to them, in anticipation of the meeting with Jones on the day following.

Just before noon, after his encounter with Mrs. Gray, he came down stairs and boldly, for the first time in days, sought out Peggy. There was the old smile in his eye and the old heartiness in his voice when he came upon her in the library. She was not reading. Books, pleasures and all the joys of life had fled from her mind and she thought only of the disaster that was coming to the boy she had always loved. His heart smote him as he looked into the deep, somber, frightened eyes, running over with love and fear for him.

“Peggy, do you think I’m worth anything more from your mother? Do you think she will ask me to live here any longer?” he asked, steadily, taking her hand in his. Hers was cold, his as hot as fire. “You know what you said away off yonder somewhere, that she’d let me live here if I deserved it. I am a pauper, Peggy, and I’m afraid I’ll—I may have to get down to drudgery again. Will she turn me out? You know I must have somewhere to live. Shall it be the poorhouse? Do you remember saying one day that I’d end in the poorhouse?”

She was looking into his eyes, dreading what might be seen in them. But there was no gleam of insanity there, there was no fever; instead there was the quiet smile of the man who is satisfied with himself and the world. His voice bore traces of emotion, but it was the voice of one who has perfect control of his wits.

“Is it all—gone, Monty?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

“Here is the residue of my estate,” he said, opening his purse with steady fingers. “I’m back to where I left off a year ago. The million is gone and my wings are clipped.” Her face was white, her heart was in the clutch of ice. How could he be so calm about it, when for him she was suffering such agony? Twice she started to speak, but her voice failed her. She turned slowly and walked to the window, keeping her back to the man who smiled so sadly and yet so heartlessly.

“I didn’t want the million, Peggy,” he went on. “You think as the rest do, I know, that I was a fool to act as I did. It would be rank idiocy on my part to blame you any more than the others for thinking as you do. Appearances are against me, the proof is overwhelming. A year ago I was called a man, today they are stripping me of every claim to that distinction. The world says I am a fool, a dolt, almost a criminal—but no one believes I am a man. Peggy, will you feel better toward me if I tell you that I am going to begin life all over again? It will be a new Monty Brewster that starts out again in a few days, or, if you will, it shall be the old one—the Monty you once knew.”

“The old Monty?” she murmured softly, dreamily. “It would be good to see him—so much better than to see the Monty of the last year.”

“And, in spite of all I have done, Peggy, you will stand by me? You won’t desert me like the rest? You’ll be the same Peggy of the other days?” he cried, his calmness breaking down.

“How can you ask? Why should you doubt me?”

For a moment they stood silent, each looking into the heart of the other, each seeing the beginning of a new day.

“Child,” his voice trembled dangerously, “I—I wonder if you care enough for me to—to—” but he could only look the question.

“To start all over again with you?” she whispered.

“Yes—to trust yourself to the prodigal who has returned. Without you, child, all the rest would be as the husks. Peggy, I want you—you! You DO love me—I can see it in your eyes, I can feel it in your presence.”

“How long you have been in realizing it,” she said pensively as she stretched out her arms to him. For many minutes he held her close, finding a beautiful peace in the world again.

“How long have you really cared?” he asked in a whisper.

“Always, Monty; all my life.”

“And I, too, child, all my life. I know it now; I’ve known it for months. Oh, what a fool I was to have wasted all this love of yours and all this love of mine. But I’ll not be a profligate in love, Peggy. I’ll not squander an atom of it, dear, not as long as I live.”

“And we will build a greater love, Monty, as we build the new life together. We never can be poor while we have love as a treasure.”

“You won’t mind being poor with me?” he asked.

“I can’t be poor with you,” she said simply.

“And I might have let all this escape me,” he cried fervently. “Listen, Peggy—we will start together, you as my wife and my fortune. You shall be all that is left to me of the past. Will you marry me the day after tomorrow? Don’t say no, dearest. I want to begin on that day. At seven in the morning, dear? Don’t you see how good the start will be?”

And he pleaded so ardently and so earnestly that he won his point even though it grew out of a whim that she could not then understand. She was not to learn until afterward his object in having the marriage take place on the morning of September 23d, two hours before the time set for the turning over of the Sedgwick millions. If all went well they would be Brewster’s millions before twelve o’clock, and Peggy’s life of poverty would cover no more than three hours of time. She believed him worth a lifetime of poverty. So they would start the new life with but one possession—love.

Peggy rebelled against his desire to spend the seventy dollars that still remained, but he was firm in his determination. They would dine and drive together and see all of the old life that was left—on seventy dollars. Then on the next day they would start all over again. There was one rude moment of dismay when it occurred to him that Peggy might be considered an “asset” if she became his wife before nine o’clock. But he realized at once that it was only demanded of him that he be penniless and that he possess no object that had been acquired through the medium of Edwin Peter Brewster’s money. Surely this wife who was not to come to him until his last dollar was gone could not be the product of an old man’s legacy. But so careful was he in regard to the transaction that he decided to borrow money of Joe Bragdon to buy the license and to pay the minister’s fee. Not only would he be penniless on the day of settlement, but he would be in debt. So changed was the color of the world to him now that even the failure to win Sedgwick’s millions could not crush out the new life and the new joy that had come to him with the winning of Peggy Gray.

CHAPTER XXXI

HOW THE MILLION DISAPPEARED

Soon after noon on the 22d of September, Monty folded his report to Swearengen Jones, stuck it into his pocket and sallied forth. A parcel delivery wagon had carried off a mysterious bundle a few minutes before. Mrs. Gray could not conceal her wonder, but Brewster’s answers to her questions threw little light on the mystery. He could not tell her the big bundle contained the receipts that were to prove his sincerity when the time came to settle with Mr. Jones. Brewster had used his own form of receipt for every purchase. The little stub receipt books had been made to order for him and not only he but every person in his employ carried one everywhere. No matter how trivial the purchase, the person who received a dollar of Brewster’s money signed a receipt for the amount. Newsboys and bootblacks were the only beings who escaped the formality; tips to waiters, porters, cabbies, etc., were recorded and afterward put into a class by themselves. Receipts for the few dollars remaining in his possession were to be turned over on the morning of the 23d and the general report was not to be completed until 9 o’clock on that day.

He kissed Peggy good-bye, told her to be ready for a drive at 4 o’clock, and then went off to find Joe Bragdon and Elon Gardner. They met him by appointment and to them he confided his design to be married on the following day.

“You can’t afford it, Monty,” exploded Joe, fearlessly. “Peggy is too good a girl. By Gad, it isn’t fair to her.”

“We have agreed to begin life tomorrow. Wait and see the result. I think it will surprise you. Incidentally it is up to me to get the license today and to engage a minister’s services. It’s going to be quiet, you know. Joe, you can be my best man if you like, and, Gardie, I’ll expect you to sign your name as one of the witnesses. Tomorrow evening we’ll have supper at Mrs. Gray’s and ‘among those present’ will not comprise a very large list, I assure you. But we’ll talk about that later on. Just now I want to ask you fellows to lend me enough money to get the license and pay the preacher. I’ll return it tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well, I’m damned,” exclaimed Gardner, utterly dumfounded by the nerve of the man. But they went with him to get the license and Bragdon paid for it. Gardner promised to have the minister at the Gray house the next morning. Monty’s other request—made in deep seriousness—was that Peggy was not to be told of the little transaction in which the license and the minister figured so prominently. He then hurried off to the office of Grant & Ripley. The bundles of receipts had preceded him.

“Has Jones arrived in town?” was his first anxious question after the greetings.

“He is not registered at any of the hotels,” responded Mr. Grant, and Brewster did not see the troubled look that passed over his face.

“He’ll show up tonight, I presume,” said he, complacently. The lawyers did not tell him that all the telegrams they had sent to Swearengen Jones in the past two weeks had been returned to the New York office as unclaimed in Butte. The telegraph company reported that Mr. Jones was not to be found and that he had not been seen in Butte since the 3d of September. The lawyers were hourly expecting word from Montana men to whom they had telegraphed for information and advice. They were extremely nervous, but Montgomery Brewster was too eager and excited to notice the fact.

“A tall, bearded stranger was here this morning asking for you, Mr. Brewster,” said Ripley, his head bent over some papers on his desk.

“Ah! Jones, I’m sure. I’ve always imagined him with a long beard,” said Monty, relief in his voice.

“It was not Mr. Jones. We know Jones quite well. This man was a stranger and refused to give his name. He said he would call at Mrs. Gray’s this afternoon.”

“Did he look like a constable or a bill-collector?” asked Monty, with a laugh.

“He looked very much like a tramp.”

“Well, we’ll forget him for the time being,” said Monty, drawing the report from his pocket. “Would you mind looking over this report, gentlemen? I’d like to know if it is in proper form to present to Mr. Jones.”

Grant’s hand trembled as he took the carefully folded sheet from Brewster. A quick glance of despair passed between the two lawyers.

“Of course, you’ll understand that this report is merely a synopsis of the expenditures. They are classified, however, and the receipts over there are arranged in such a way that Mr. Jones can very easily verify all the figures set out in the report. For instance, where it says ‘cigars,’ I have put down the total amount that went up in smoke. The receipts are to serve as an itemized statement, you know.” Mr. Ripley took the paper from his partner’s hand and, pulling himself together, read the report aloud. It was as follows:

NEW YORK, Sept. 23, 19—.

To SWEARENGEN JONES, ESQ.

Executor under the will of the late James T. Sedgwick of Montana:

In pursuance of the terms of the aforesaid will and in accord with the instructions set forth by yourself as executor, I present my report of receipts and disbursements for the year in my life ending at midnight on Sept. 22. The accuracy of the figures set forth in this general statement may be established by referring to the receipts, which form a part of this report. There is not one penny of Edwin Peter Brewster’s money in my possession, and I have no asset to mark its burial place. These figures are submitted for your most careful consideration.

ORIGINAL CAPITAL: $1,000,000.00

“Lumber and Fuel” misfortune: 58,550.00

Prize-fight misjudged: 1,000.00

Monte Carlo education: 40,000.00

Race track errors: 700.00

Sale of six terrier pups: 150.00

Sale of furniture and personal effects: 40,500.00

Interest on funds once in hand: 19,140.00

Total amount to be disposed of: $1,160,040.00

DISBURSEMENTS.

Rent for apartments: $23,000.00

Furnishing apartments: 88,372.00

Three automobiles: 21,000.00

Renting six automobiles: 25,000.00

Amount lost to DeMille: 1,000.00

Salaries: 25,650.00

Amount paid to men injured in auto accident: 12,240 00

Amount lost in bank failure: 113,468.25

Amount lost on races: 4,000.00

One glass screen: 3,000.00

Christmas presents: 7,211.00

Postage: 1,105.00

Cable and telegraph: 3,253.00

Stationery: 2,400.00

Two Boston terriers: 600.00

Amount lost to “hold-up men”: 450.00

Amount lost on concert tour: 56,382.00

Amount lost through O. Harrison’s speculation (on my account): 60,000.00

One ball (in two sections): 60,000.00

Extra favors: 6,000.00

One yacht cruise: 212,309.50

One carnival: 6,824.00

Cigars: 1,720.00

Drinks, chiefly for others: 9,040.00

Clothing: 3,400.00

Rent of one villa: 20,000.00

One courier: 500.00

Dinner parties: 117,900.00

Suppers and luncheons: 38,000.00

Theater parties and suppers: 6,277.00

Hotel expenses: 61,218.59

Railway and steamship fares: 31,274.81

For Newsboys’ Home: 5,000.00

Two opera performances: 20,000.00

Repairs to “Flitter”: 6,342.60

In tow from somewhere to Southampton: 50,000.00

Special train to Florida: 1,000.00

Cottage in Florida: 5,500.00

Medical attendance: 3,100.00

Living expenses in Florida: 8,900.00

Misappropriation of personal property by servants: 3,580.00

Taxes on personal property: 112.25

Sundries: 9,105.00

Household expenses: 24,805.00

Total disbursements: $1,160,040.00

BALANCE ON HAND: $0,000,000.00

Respectfully submitted,

MONTGOMERY BREWSTER.

“It’s rather broad, you see, gentlemen, but there are receipts for every dollar, barring some trifling incidentals. He may think I dissipated the fortune, but I defy him or any one else to prove that I have not had my money’s worth. To tell you the truth, it has seemed like a hundred million. If any one should tell you that it is an easy matter to waste a million dollars, refer him to me. Last fall I weighed 180 pounds, yesterday I barely moved the beam at 140; last fall there was not a wrinkle in my face, nor did I have a white hair. You see the result of overwork, gentlemen. It will take an age to get back to where I was physically, but I think I can do it with the vacation that begins tomorrow. Incidentally, I’m going to be married tomorrow morning, just when I am poorer than I ever expect to be again. I still have a few dollars to spend and I must be about it. Tomorrow I will account for what I spend this evening. It is now covered by the ‘sundries’ item, but I’ll have the receipts to show, all right. See you tomorrow morning.”

He was gone, eager to be with Peggy, afraid to discuss his report with the lawyers. Grant and Ripley shook their heads and sat silent for a long time after his departure.

“We ought to hear something definite before night,” said Grant, but there was anxiety in his voice.

“I wonder,” mused Ripley, as if to himself, “how he will take it if the worst should happen.”

CHAPTER XXXII

THE NIGHT BEFORE

“It’s all up to Jones now,” kept running through Brewster’s brain as he drove off to keep his appointment with Peggy Gray. “The million is gone—all gone. I’m as poor as Job’s turkey. It’s up to Jones, but I don’t see how he can decide against me. He insisted on making a pauper of me and he can’t have the heart to throw me down now. But, what if he should take it into his head to be ugly! I wonder if I could break the will—I wonder if I could beat him out in court.”

Peggy was waiting for him. Her cheeks were flushed as with a fever. She had caught from him the mad excitement of the occasion.

“Come, Peggy,” he exclaimed, eagerly. “This is our last holiday—let’s be merry. We can forget it tomorrow, if you like, when we begin all over again, but maybe it will be worth remembering.” He assisted her to the seat and then leaped up beside her. “We’re off!” he cried, his voice quivering.

“It is absolute madness, dear,” she said, but her eyes were sparkling with the joy of recklessness. Away went the trap and the two light hearts. Mrs. Gray turned from a window in the house with tears in her eyes. To her troubled mind they were driving off into utter darkness.

“The queerest looking man came to the house to see you this afternoon, Monty,” said Peggy. “He wore a beard and he made me think of one of Remington’s cowboys.”

“What was his name?”

“He told the maid it did not matter. I saw him as he walked away and he looked very much a man. He said he would come tomorrow if he did not find you down town tonight. Don’t you recognize him from the description?”

“Not at all. Can’t imagine who he is.”

“Monty,” she said, after a moment’s painful reflection, “he—he couldn’t have been a—”

“I know what you mean. An officer sent up to attach my belongings or something of the sort. No, dearest; I give you my word of honor I do not owe a dollar in the world.” Then he recalled his peculiar indebtedness to Bragdon and Gardner. “Except one or two very small personal obligations,” he added, hastily. “Don’t worry about it, dear, we are out for a good time and we must make the most of it. First, we drive through the Park, then we dine at Sherry’s.”

“But we must dress for that, dear,” she cried. “And the chaperon?”

He turned very red when she spoke of dressing. “I’m ashamed to confess it, Peggy, but I have no other clothes than these I’m wearing now. Don’t look so hurt, dear—I’m going to leave an order for new evening clothes tomorrow—if I have the time. And about the chaperon. People won’t be talking before tomorrow and by that time—”

“No, Monty, Sherry’s is out of the question. We can’t go there,” she said, decisively.

“Oh, Peggy! That spoils everything,” he cried, in deep disappointment.

“It isn’t fair to me, Monty. Everybody would know us, and every tongue would wag. They would say, ‘There are Monty Brewster and Margaret Gray. Spending his last few dollars on her.’ You wouldn’t have them think that?”

He saw the justice in her protest. “A quiet little dinner in some out of the way place would be joyous,” she added, persuasively.

“You’re right, Peggy, you’re always right. You see, I’m so used to spending money by the handful that I don’t know how to do it any other way. I believe I’ll let you carry the pocketbook after tomorrow. Let me think; I knew a nice little restaurant down town. We’ll go there and then to the theater. Dan DeMille and his wife are to be in my box and we’re all going up to Pettingill’s studio afterward. I’m to give the ‘Little Sons’ a farewell supper. If my calculations don’t go wrong, that will be the end of the jaunt and we’ll go home happy.”

At eleven o’clock Pettingill’s studio opened its doors to the “Little Sons” and their guests, and the last “Dutch lunch” was soon under way. Brewster had paid for it early in the evening and when he sat down at the head of the table there was not a penny in his pockets. A year ago, at the same hour, he and the “Little Sons” were having a birthday feast. A million dollars came to him on that night. Tonight he was poorer by far than on the other occasion, but he expected a little gift on the new anniversary.

Around the board, besides the nine “Little Sons,” sat six guests, among them the DeMilles, Peggy Gray and Mary Valentine. “Nopper” Harrison was the only absent “Little Son” and his health was proposed by Brewster almost before the echoes of the toast to the bride and groom died away.

Interruption came earlier on this occasion than it did that night a year ago. Ellis did not deliver his message to Brewster until three o’clock in the morning, but the A.D.T. boy who rang the bell at Pettingill’s a year later handed him a telegram before twelve o’clock.

“Congratulations are coming in, old man,” said DeMille, as Monty looked fearfully at the little envelope the boy had given him.

“Many happy returns of the day,” suggested Bragdon. “By Jove, it’s sensible of you to get married on your birthday, Monty. It saves time and expense to your friends.”

“Read it aloud,” said “Subway” Smith.

“Two to one it’s from Nopper Harrison,” cried Pettingill.

Brewster’s fingers trembled, he knew not why, as he opened the envelope. There was the most desolate feeling in his heart, the most ghastly premonition that ill-news had come in this last hour. He drew forth the telegram and slowly, painfully unfolded it. No one could have told by his expression that he felt almost that he was reading his death warrant. It was from Grant & Ripley and evidently had been following him about town for two or three hours. The lawyers had filed it at 8:30 o’clock.

He read it at a glance, his eyes burning, his heart freezing. To the end of his days these words lived sharp and distinct in his brain.

“Come to the office immediately. Will wait all night for you if necessary. Jones has disappeared and there is absolutely no trace of him.”

“Grant & Ripley.”

Brewster sat as one paralyzed, absolutely no sign of emotion in his face. The others began to clamor for the contents of the telegram, but his tongue was stiff and motionless, his ears deaf. Every drop of blood in his body was stilled by the shock, every sense given him by the Creator was centered upon eleven words in the handwriting of a careless telegraph operator—”Jones has disappeared and there is absolutely no trace of him.”

“JONES HAS DISAPPEARED!” Those were the words, plain and terrible in their clearness, tremendous in their brutality. Slowly the rest of the message began to urge its claims upon his brain. “Come to our office immediately” and “Will wait all night” battled for recognition. He was calm because he had not the power to express an emotion. How he maintained control of himself afterward he never knew. Some powerful, kindly force asserted itself, coming to his relief with the timeliness of a genii. Gradually it began to dawn upon him that the others were waiting for him to read the message aloud. He was not sure that a sound would come forth when he opened his lips to speak, but the tones were steady, natural and as cold as steel.

“I am sorry I can’t tell you about this,” he said, so gravely that his hearers were silenced. “It is a business matter of such vital importance that I must ask you to excuse me for an hour or so. I will explain everything tomorrow. Please don’t be uneasy. If you will do me the honor to grace the board of an absent host, I’ll be most grateful. It is imperative that I go, and at once. I promise to return in an hour.” He was standing, his knees as stiff as iron.

“Is it anything serious?” asked DeMille.

“What! has anything happened?” came in halting, frightened tones from Peggy.

“It concerns me alone, and it is purely of a business nature. Seriously, I can’t delay going for another minute. It is vital. In an hour I’ll return. Peggy, don’t be worried—don’t be distressed about me. Go on and have a good time, everybody, and you’ll find me the jolliest fellow of all when I come back. It’s twelve o’clock. I’ll be here by one on the 23d of September.”

“Let me go with you,” pleaded Peggy, tremulously, as she followed him into the hallway.

“I must go alone,” he answered. “Don’t worry, little woman, it will be all right.”

His kiss sent a chill to the very bottom of Peggy’s heart.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE FLIGHT OF JONES

Everything seemed like a dream to Brewster as he rushed off through the night to the office of Grant & Ripley. He was dazed, bewildered, hardly more than half-conscious. A bitter smile crept about his lips as he drew away from the street-car track almost as his hand touched the rail of a car he had signaled. He remembered that he did not have money enough to pay his fare. It was six or seven blocks to the office of the lawyers, and he was actually running before he stopped at the entrance of the big building.

Never had an elevator traveled more slowly than the one which shot him to the seventh floor. A light shone through the transom above the attorneys’ door and he entered without so much as a rap on the panel. Grant, who was pacing the floor, came to a standstill and faced his visitor.

“Close the door, please,” came in steady tones from Ripley. Mr. Grant dropped into a chair and Brewster mechanically slammed the door.

“Is it true?” he demanded hoarsely, his hand still on the knob.

“Sit down, Brewster, and control yourself,” said Ripley.

“Good God, man, can’t you see I am calm?” cried Monty. “Go on—tell me all about it. What do you know? What have you heard?”

“He cannot be found, that’s all,” announced Ripley, with deadly intentness. “I don’t know what it means. There is no explanation. The whole thing is inconceivable. Sit down and I will tell you everything as quickly as possible.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” said Grant, mechanically.

“I can take it better standing,” declared Brewster, shutting his jaws tightly.

“Jones was last seen in Butte on the third of this month,” said Ripley. “We sent several telegrams to him after that day, asking when he expected to leave for New York. They never were claimed and the telegraph company reported that he could not be found. We thought he might have gone off to look after some of his property and were not uneasy. Finally we began to wonder why he had not wired us on leaving for the east. I telegraphed him again and got no answer. It dawned upon us that this was something unusual. We wired his secretary and received a response from the chief of police. He asked, in turn, if we could tell him anything about the whereabouts of Jones. This naturally alarmed us and yesterday we kept the wires hot. The result of our inquiries is terrible, Mr. Brewster.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Brewster.

“There can be no doubt that Jones has fled, accompanied by his secretary. The belief in Butte is that the secretary has murdered him.”

“God!” was the only sound that came from the lips of Brewster.

Ripley moistened his lips and went on:

“We have dispatches here from the police, the banks, the trust companies and from a half dozen mine managers. You may read them if you like, but I can tell you what they say. About the first of this month Jones began to turn various securities into money. It is now known that they were once the property of James T. Sedgwick, held in trust for you. The safety deposit vaults were afterward visited and inspection shows that he removed every scrap of stock, every bond, everything of value that he could lay his hands upon. His own papers and effects were not disturbed. Yours alone have disappeared. It is this fact that convinces the authorities that the secretary has made away with the old man and has fled with the property. The bank people say that Jones drew out every dollar of the Sedgwick money, and the police say that he realized tremendous sums on the convertible securities. The strange part of it is that he sold your mines and your real estate, the purchaser being a man named Golden. Brewster, it—it looks very much as if he had disappeared with everything.”

Brewster did not take his eyes from Ripley’s face throughout the terrible speech; he did not move a fraction of an inch from the rigid position assumed at the beginning.

“Is anything being done?” he asked, mechanically.

“The police are investigating. He is known to have started off into the mountains with this secretary on the third of September. Neither has been seen since that day, so far as any one knows. The earth seems to have swallowed them. The authorities are searching the mountains and are making every effort to find Jones or his body. He is known to be eccentric and at first not much importance was attached to his actions. That is all we can tell you at present. There may be developments tomorrow. It looks bad—terribly bad. We—we had the utmost confidence in Jones. My God, I wish I could help you, my boy.”

“I don’t blame you, gentlemen,” said Brewster, bravely. “It’s just my luck, that’s all. Something told me all along that—that it wouldn’t turn out right. I wasn’t looking for this kind of end, though. My only fear was that—Jones wouldn’t consider me worthy to receive the fortune. It never occurred to me that he might prove to be the—the unworthy one.”

“I will take you a little farther into our confidence, Brewster,” said Grant, slowly. “Mr. Jones notified us at the beginning that he would be governed largely in his decision by our opinion of your conduct. That is why we felt no hesitation in advising you to continue as you were going. While you were off at sea, we had many letters from him, all in that sarcastic vein of his, but in none of them did he offer a word of criticism. He seemed thoroughly satisfied with your methods. In fact, he once said he’d give a million of his own money if it would purchase your ability to spend one-fourth of it.”

“Well, he can have my experience free of charge. A beggar can’t be a chooser, you know,” said Brewster, bitterly. His color was gradually coming back. “What do they know about the secretary?” he asked, suddenly, intent and alive.

“He was a new one, I understand, who came to Jones less than a year ago. Jones is said to have had implicit faith in him,” said Ripley.

“And he disappeared at the same time?”

“They were last seen together.”

“Then he has put an end to Jones!” cried Monty, excitedly. “It is as plain as day to me. Don’t you see that he exerted some sort of influence over the old man, inducing him to get all this money together on some pretext or other, solely for the purpose of robbing him of the whole amount? Was ever anything more diabolical?” He began pacing the floor like an animal, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands. “We must catch that secretary! I don’t believe Jones was dishonest. He has been duped by a clever scoundrel.”

“The strangest circumstance of all, Mr. Brewster, is that no such person as Golden, the purchaser of your properties, can be found. He is supposed to reside in Omaha, and it is known that he paid nearly three million dollars for the property that now stands in his name. He paid it to Mr. Jones in cash, too, and he paid every cent that the property is worth.”

“But he must be in existence somewhere,” cried Brewster, in perplexity. “How the devil could he pay the money if he doesn’t exist?”

“I only know that no trace of the man can be found. They know nothing of him in Omaha,” said Grant, helplessly.

“So it has finally happened,” said Brewster, but his excitement had dropped. “Well,” he added, throwing himself into a deep chair, “it was always much too strange to be true. Even at the beginning it seemed like a dream, and now—well, now I am just awake, like the little boy after the fairy-tale. I seem like a fool to have taken it so seriously.”

“There was no other way,” protested Ripley, “you were quite right.”

“Well, after all,” continued Brewster, and the voice was as of one in a dream, “perhaps it’s as well to have been in Wonderland even if you have to come down afterward to the ordinary world. I am foolish, perhaps, but even now I would not give it up.” Then the thought of Peggy clutched him by the throat, and he stopped. After a moment he gathered himself together and rose. “Gentlemen,” he said sharply, and his voice had changed; “I have had my fun and this is the end of it. Down underneath I am desperately tired of the whole thing, and I give you my word that you will find me a different man tomorrow. I am going to buckle down to the real thing. I am going to prove that my grandfather’s blood is in me. And I shall come out on top.”

Ripley was obviously moved as he replied, “I don’t question it for a moment. You are made of the right stuff. I saw that long ago. You may count on us tomorrow for any amount you need.”

Grant endorsed the opinion. “I like your spirit, Brewster,” he said. “There are not many men who would have taken this as well. It’s pretty hard on you, too, and it’s a miserable wedding gift for your bride.”

“We may have important news from Butte in the morning,” said Ripley, hopefully; “at any rate, more of the details. The newspapers will have sensational stories no doubt, and we have asked for the latest particulars direct from the authorities. We’ll see that things are properly investigated. Go home now, my boy, and go to bed. You will begin tomorrow with good luck on your side and you may be happy all your life in spite of tonight’s depression.”

“I’m sure to be happy,” said Brewster, simply. “The ceremony takes place at seven o’clock, gentlemen. I was coming to your office at nine on a little matter of business, but I fancy it won’t after all be necessary for me to hurry. I’ll drop in before noon, however, and get that money. By the way, here are the receipts for the money I spent tonight. Will you put them away with the others? I intend to live up to my part of the contract, and it will save me the trouble of presenting them regularly in the morning. Good night, gentlemen. I am sorry you were obliged to stay up so late on my account.”

He left them bravely enough, but he had more than one moment of weakness before he could meet his friends. The world seemed unreal and himself the most unreal thing in it. But the night air acted as a stimulant and helped him to call back his courage. When he entered the studio at one o’clock, he was prepared to redeem his promise to be “the jolliest fellow of them all.”

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE LAST WORD

“I’ll tell you about it later, dear,” was all that Peggy, pleading, could draw from him.

At midnight Mrs. Dan had remonstrated with her. “You must go home, Peggy, dear,” she said. “It is disgraceful for you to stay up so late. I went to bed at eight o’clock the night before I was married.”

“And fell asleep at four in the morning,” smiled Peggy.

“You are quite mistaken, my dear. I did not fall asleep at all. But I won’t allow you to stop a minute longer. It puts rings under the eyes and sometimes they’re red the morning after.”

“Oh, you dear, sweet philosopher,” cried Peggy; “how wise you are. Do you think I need a beauty sleep?”

“I don’t want you to be a sleepy beauty, that’s all,” retorted Mrs. Dan.

Upon Monty’s return from his trying hour with the lawyers, he had been besieged with questions, but he was cleverly evasive. Peggy alone was insistent; she had curbed her curiosity until they were on the way home, and then she implored him to tell her what had happened. The misery he had endured was as nothing to his reckoning with the woman who had the right to expect fair treatment. His duty was clear, but the strain had been heavy and it was not easy to meet it.

“Peggy, something terrible has happened,” he faltered, uncertain of his course.

“Tell me everything, Monty, you can trust me to be brave.”

“When I asked you to marry me,” he continued gravely, “it was with the thought that I could give you everything tomorrow. I looked for a fortune. I never meant that you should marry a pauper.”

“I don’t understand. You tried to test my love for you?”

“No, child, not that. But I was pledged not to speak of the money I expected, and I wanted you so much before it came.”

“And it has failed you?” she answered. “I can’t see that it changes things. I expected to marry a pauper, as you call it. Do you think this could make a difference?”

“But you don’t understand, Peggy. I haven’t a penny in the world.”

“You hadn’t a penny when I accepted you,” she replied. “I am not afraid. I believe in you. And if you love me I shall not give you up.”

“Dearest!” and the carriage was at the door before another word was uttered. But Monty called to the coachman to drive just once around the block.

“Good night, my darling,” he said when they reached home. “Sleep till eight o’clock if you like. There is nothing now in the way of having the wedding at nine, instead of at seven. In fact, I have a reason for wanting my whole fortune to come to me then. You will be all that I have in the world, child, but I am the happiest man alive.”

In his room the strain was relaxed and Brewster faced the bitter reality. Without undressing he threw himself upon the lounge and wondered what the world held for him. It held Peggy at least, he thought, and she was enough. But had he been fair to her? Was he right in exacting a sacrifice? His tired brain whirled in the effort to decide. Only one thing was clear—that he could not give her up. The future grew black at the very thought of it. With her he could make things go, but alone it was another matter. He would take the plunge and he would justify it. His mind went traveling back over the graceless year, and he suddenly realized that he had forfeited the confidence of men who were worth while. His course in profligacy would not be considered the best training for business. The thought nerved him to action. He must make good. Peggy had faith in him. She came to him when everything was against him, and he would slave for her, he would starve, he would do anything to prove that she was not mistaken in him. She at least should know him for a man.

Looking toward the window he saw the black, uneasy night give way to the coming day. Haggard and faint he arose from the couch to watch the approach of the sun that is indifferent to wealth and poverty, to gayety and dejection. From far off in the gray light there came the sound of a five o’clock bell. A little later the shrieks of factory whistles were borne to his ears, muffled by distance but pregnant with the importance of a new day of toil. They were calling him, with all poor men, to the sweat-shop and the forge, to the great mill of life. The new era had begun, dawning bright and clear to disperse the gloom in his soul. Leaning against the casement and wondering where he could earn the first dollar for the Peggy Brewster that was Peggy Gray, he rose to meet it with a fine unflinching fearlessness.

Before seven o’clock he was down stairs and waiting. Joe Bragdon joined him a bit later, followed by Gardner and the minister. The DeMilles appeared without an invitation, but they were not denied. Mrs. Dan sagely shook her head when told that Peggy was still asleep and that the ceremony was off till nine o’clock.

“Monty, are you going away?” asked Dan, drawing him into a corner.

“Just a week in the hills,” answered Monty, suddenly remembering the generosity of his attorneys.

“Come in and see me as soon as you return, old man,” said DeMille, and Monty knew that a position would be open to him.

To Mrs. Dan fell the honor of helping Peggy dress. By the time she had had coffee and was ready to go down, she was pink with excitement and had quite forgotten the anxiety which had made the night an age.

She had never been prettier than on her wedding morning. Her color was rich, her eyes as clear as stars, her woman’s body the picture of grace and health. Monty’s heart leaped high with love of her.

“The prettiest girl in New York, by Jove,” gasped Dan DeMille, clutching Bragdon by the arm.

“And look at Monty! He’s become a new man in the last five minutes,” added Joe. “Look at the glow in his cheeks! By the eternal, he’s beginning to look as he did a year ago.”

A clock chimed the hour of nine.

“The man who was here yesterday is in the hall to see Mr. Brewster,” said the maid, a few minutes after the minister had uttered the words that gave Peggy a new name. There was a moment of silence, almost of dread.

“You mean the fellow with the beard?” asked Monty, uneasily.

“Yes, sir. He sent in this letter, begging you to read it at once.”

“Shall I send him away, Monty?” demanded Bragdon, defiantly. “What does he mean by coming at this time?”

“I’ll read the letter first, Joe.”

Every eye was on Brewster as he tore open the envelope. His face was expressive. There was wonder in it, then incredulity, then joy. He threw the letter to Bragdon, clasped Peggy in his arms spasmodically, and then, releasing her, dashed for the hall like one bereft of reason.

“It’s Nopper Harrison!” he cried, and a moment later the tall visitor was dragged into the circle. “Nopper” was quite overcome by the heartiness of his welcome.

“You are an angel, Nopper, God bless you!” said Monty, with convincing emphasis. “Joe, read that letter aloud and then advertise for the return of those Boston terriers!”

Bragdon’s hands trembled and his voice was not sure as he translated the scrawl, “Nopper” Harrison standing behind him for the gleeful purpose of prompting him when the writing was beyond the range of human intelligence:

HOLLAND HOUSE, Sept. 23, 19—

“MR. MONTGOMERY BREWSTER,

“My Dear Boy:

“So you thought I had given you the slip, eh? Didn’t think I’d show up here and do my part? Well, I don’t blame you; I suppose I’ve acted like a damned idiot, but so long as it turns out O.K. there’s no harm done. The wolf won’t gnaw very much of a hole in your door, I reckon. This letter introduces my secretary, Mr. Oliver Harrison. He came to me last June, out in Butte, with the prospectus of a claim he had staked out up in the mountains. What he wanted was backing and he had such a good show to win out that I went into cahoots with him. He’s got a mine up there that is dead sure to yield millions. Seems as though he has to give you half of the yield, though. Says you grub-staked him. Good fellow, this Harrison. Needed a secretary and man of affairs, so took him into my office. You can see that he did not take me up into the mountains to murder me, as the papers say this morning. Damned rot. Nobody’s business but my own if I concluded to come east without telling everybody in Butte about it.

“I am here and so is the money. Got in last night. Harrison came from Chicago a day ahead of me. I went to the office of G. & R. at eight this morning. Found them in a hell of a stew. Thought I’d skipped out or been murdered. Money all gone, everything gone to smash. That’s what they thought. Don’t blame ’em much. You see it was this way: I concluded to follow out the terms of the will and deliver the goods in person. I got together all of Jim Sedgwick’s stuff and did a lot of other fool things, I suppose, and hiked on to New York. You’ll find about seven million dollars’ worth of stuff to your credit when you endorse the certified checks down at Grant & Ripley’s, my boy. It’s all here and in the banks.

“It’s a mighty decent sort of wedding gift, I reckon.

“The lawyers told me all about you. Told me all about last night, and that you were going to be married this morning. By this time you’re comparatively happy with the bride, I guess. I looked over your report and took a few peeps at the receipts. They’re all right. I’m satisfied. The money is yours. Then I got to thinking that maybe you wouldn’t care to come down at nine o’clock, especially as you are just recovering from the joy of being married, so I settled with the lawyers and they’ll settle with you. If you have nothing in particular to do this afternoon about two o’clock, I’d suggest that you come to the hotel and we’ll dispose of a few formalities that the law requires of us. And you can give me some lessons in spending money. I’ve got a little I’d like to miss some morning. As for your ability as a business man, I have this to say: Any man who can spend a million a year and have nothing to show for it, don’t need a recommendation from anybody. He’s in a class by himself, and it’s a business that no one else can give him a pointer about. The best test of your real capacity, my boy, is the way you listed your property for taxation. It’s a true sign of business sagacity. That would have decided me in your favor if everything else had been against you.

“I’m sorry you’ve been worried about all this. You have gone through a good deal in a year and you have been roasted from Hades to breakfast by everybody. Now it’s your turn to laugh. It will surprise them to read the ‘extras’ today. I’ve done my duty to you in more ways than one. I’ve got myself interviewed by the newspapers and today they’ll print the whole truth about Montgomery Brewster and his millions. They’ve got the Sedgwick will and my story and the old town will boil with excitement. I guess you’ll be squared before the world, all right. You’d better stay indoors for awhile though, if you want to have a quiet honeymoon.

“I don’t like New York. Never did. Am going back to Butte tonight. Out there we have real skyscrapers and they are not built of brick. They are two or three miles high and they have gold in ’em. There is real grass in the lowlands and we have valleys that make Central Park look like a half inch of nothing. Probably you and Mrs. Brewster were going to take a wedding trip, so why not go west with me in my car? We start at 7:45 P.M. and I won’t bother you. Then you can take it anywhere you like.

“Sincerely yours,

“SWEARENGEN JONES.

“P.S. I forgot to say there is no such man as Golden. I bought your mines and ranches with my own money. You may buy them back at the same figures. I’d advise you to do it. They’ll be worth twice as much in a year. I hope you’ll forgive the whims of an old man who has liked you from the start.

J.”