Читать книгу The Broken Trail - Harold Bindloss - Страница 6
ОглавлениеWALTHEW'S RESPONSIBILITY
Supper was over, and Stephen Walthew, bank clerk, smoked a cigarette on the veranda of the Miscana hotel. He occupied a good room on the wooden building's first floor, but tonight he was going to use Harden's at the office across the street. He had planned to go fishing when the bank was shut, but he had telephoned his friend, rather importantly, that he was putting across a big deal for a customer and must stay with his job. Walthew reckoned he played a good billiard game, but since he got his post at Miscana he left the cue alone. The pool-room was not the spot for an aspiring bank clerk to haunt. Anyhow, after a scorching day, the evening was cool, and Walthew was satisfied to smoke on the hotel veranda, which commanded the bank office.
Although Miscana as yet was small, it was a thriving town, and pleasant shade-trees bordered the wide street. Behind the trees, on one side, were unfenced garden lots, and automatic sprinklers threw sparkling showers across the thirsty grass. On the stoops of the frame-houses friendly groups engaged in cheerful talk. Walthew heard a piano and one or two gramophones. In the background, the river throbbed, and sometimes the deep-toned hum of the turbines at the Brockenhurst power-house stole across the woods. One smelt locomotive smoke, creosoted railroad ties, and resinous pines.
Walthew reflected that Western Canada was a land of contrasts. One used up-to-date inventions in the primeval wilds. A mile from the steel road and telephone poles, civilization stopped, and the tangled woods rolled back to the Arctic barrens, as they had done since the world was young.
On the whole, Walthew liked his job. He had recently graduated at Toronto, and now he had got a post at a famous bank, he meant to make good. In fact, he thought he made some progress, and he was willing for Harden to leave him at the office. When Keith got back he must admit that the business Walthew had transacted was properly carried out. In particular, he had got the securities on which the Brockenhurst Company wanted the bank to negotiate a loan. The treasurer himself had brought the packet, and when he took a receipt commented on Walthew's accuracy and his acquaintance with the rules about negotiating the different sorts of documents. Stephen was flattered; he liked to feel he deserved Harden's confidence.
The Brockenhurst people were using their reserve fund to build the new factory, and Walthew approved the way in which the fund was invested. The bank would hold some securities against a loan; others would be sold by Montreal stockbrokers, and Walthew thought some would be offered on the exchanges in London and Paris. Part must be formally transferred and could not be stolen, except, perhaps, by a clever forger; but a sum was in foreign bearer bonds, which could be used in Europe like dollar bills.
Walthew had carefully registered the documents and the sealed packet was in the safe. He would sooner it was on its way to Montreal, but the Atlantic express did not arrive until morning and he was going to the bank for the night. The locks were good and only he and Harden knew the combination, but he admitted he would be happier when he got the express clerk's receipt.
Dusk began to fall and Walthew got up. For the most part, the hotel boarders were at a club meeting; there was nobody to whom he could talk, and he thought he would go to the station and see the local train arrive. At a small Western town one likes to know all that is doing.
On one side, dark pine forest bordered the track, but by and by a fan-shaped beam pierced the gloom and a locomotive and two cars rolled into the station. Two or three commercial travelers, and a group of young men and women, got down. Their baskets and fishing-rods indicated that they were from the lake and Walthew knew them, but when he was going to ask if they had met Harden, a customer of the bank's came up and began to talk. The bell tolled, the cars rolled away, and Walthew thought he would walk along the street before he went to bed.
He passed the bank. The small frame-house was dark, for Harden took his meals at the hotel, and a woman cleaned his rooms in the morning. A little farther on, the board sidewalk ended and the row of houses was broken by unoccupied lots where willows and small pines grew. The road was soft; thick dust covered the gravel, and in some places the branches spread across. People had begun to go to bed, for the lights in the scattered houses burned behind the upper windows and some were dark.
Walthew thought he heard steps in front, but an automobile advanced noisily. The reflections from the headlamps touched the road and trees with silver light, and Walthew looked up in surprise. A man's dark figure cut the strong illumination and he thought it was Harden. The man went fast, but if Keith had arrived by the train, he would have stopped at the bank, and the road went only to a small sawmill in the woods. Then the big lamps dazzled Walthew and he jumped aside. A wave of hot dust rolled about him and the car sped by. When the dust subsided he frowned. Although he certainly had seen a man in front, nobody was about.
Fifty yards farther on, three or four houses stood beside a short side road, but when Walthew reached the corner the windows were dark and he did not hear a door open. The occupants, moreover, were not friends of Harden's. Walthew turned, and going back uptown, stopped at a house. The fishing-party he had seen at the station was yet on the porch.
"Did you see my boss at the lake?" he asked.
"Now you talk about it, I did think I saw Harden at the depot," one replied. "The train was pulling out and he ran along by the wheels. In fact, I waved to him, but it looked as if he didn't know me and he jumped on the next car. Since I did not see him get down, maybe it was somebody else."
"Keith hates to run," said another. "When he hurries he goes with a sort of limp."
"The fellow I saw did not limp," the first rejoined.
Walthew was nearly persuaded that the man in the road was Harden, but, now he reflected, although the other went fast, his step was even.
"Oh, well, Keith reckoned to stop for another day or two," he said. "I expect you spotted somebody like him."
"Who is like Keith Harden?" a girl inquired.
After pondering for a moment, Walthew admitted he did not know, and he started for the bank. Finding nobody there, he went to the station, but the agent had not seen Harden. When the train arrived, however, he was called to the baggage-car and did not notice who got down.
Walthew returned to the bank. Opening the safe, he saw the packet of securities was on a shelf, and he went upstairs to bed. The combination that worked the lock was intricate, the house was small, and a noise carried well. If a thief tried to break the safe, he must first knock out Walthew, and Harden's automatic pistol was in the bureau. At twenty yards, Walthew could hit a fruit-can, almost every time.
He got to bed, but daybreak was about three o'clock and he resolved he would not go to sleep. Although he had not much grounds to be anxious, now all was quiet, his responsibility weighed, and he went for Harden's reading-lamp. He had brought across a book about banking and a classical poet's famous epic. His choice, perhaps, was strange. Stephen was a muscular young fellow and could handle a canoe in a rapid and throw a trout-fly, but his main ambition was not to have a bully time. In order to make progress, he must know all about his job, and when he got where he wanted he must be able to talk like a cultivated gentleman. With youthful optimism he believed that if one labored honestly one got one's reward.
Propping up the banking book, he began to study a chapter about the creation of credits. The argument, however, was intricate, and by and by he admitted that he was puzzled; besides, he was getting drowsy. He glanced at his watch and opened the other book.
Somehow the throb of the Brockenhurst turbines and the rapid's measured clamor harmonized with the famous epic; Walthew read it in the original. The old Greeks were virile, red-blooded folk, willing to fight and wise to plan. Well, vigor of brain and muscle, was the quality one needed in modern Canada. The rivers that pierced the trackless wilds must drive factories; man must carry the Rockies' snow across the dry Western plains. The job was a job for resolute men who could look ahead, but the great banks must supply the capital. In the meantime, Walthew's particular business was to keep awake until dawn, and to do so got hard.
An automobile, firing explosively, rattled up the street and stopped at a garage and livery-stable near the hotel. Somebody beat on the big door, but the noisy engine continued to run. Walthew thought it strange, for cars were not yet numerous at Miscana. The dirt roads, so to speak, went nowhere and petered out in rough bush tracks. To go thirty miles east was something of an adventure, and then Walthew imagined one must use an ax. However, to see what the fellow wanted would help him keep awake, and he went to the window.
By and by the garage man came down and it looked as if he were annoyed, because he ordered the automobilist to stop his blasted machine and state the trouble. When the other did so they disputed, and the garage man called his assistant, who supported his argument. Another automobilist joined, and advancing a fresh explanation, restarted the engine. Then one went for tools, and when they got noisily to work the landlord threw up a window at the hotel. As a rule, an angry Canadian is not polite, and the altercation nearly drowned the crash of the hammer somebody used. In fact, it began to look as if all were bent on making as much noise as possible, and by and by a disturbed citizen swore impartially at the group. Walthew, however, was philosophical. The car was not his, and the disturbance banished his drowsiness.
He imagined the men were occupied for half an hour; and then the engine rattled and the car rolled up the street. Walthew doubted if it was much quieter, but it was gone, and the rapid's hoarse uproar stole across the woods. The light wind was keen, he smelt sweet resinous scents, and noticed that the black pines behind the roofs began to get distinct. Day was breaking; his watch was over, and he went back to bed and was soon asleep.
In the morning he saw the bulky packet was where it ought to be; but when he opened the office three or four customers arrived and kept him until the eastbound train was nearly due. Then he seized the packet, locked the door, and ran for the station. The express was not on time and after he got his breath he examined the packet. The bank kept a stock of strong cloth-lined covers, one of which he had taken from a shelf, and the seal was the office seal, but when Stephen glanced at the address his mouth went tight. The hand was something like his, but that was all.
Walthew leaned against a baggage-truck. His heart beat and his fingers were not steady. To get his knife was awkward, but he cut the wrapping and pulled out two Montreal newspapers. The bonds had vanished, and it looked as if the thieves had thought him duller than he was; they had not reckoned on his reëxamining the parcel. Their plan was obvious. While one or two noisily mended the car, an accomplice stole into the office and opened the safe. He perhaps was occupied for the time the others stopped; and Walthew was at the window in the room above. Stephen frankly did not expect the Montreal directors to think it a plausible tale.
Then there was the difficulty about the combination, which he and Harden knew, and although his innocence might be admitted, he certainly could not claim an heroic part. When he was awake and watching out, somebody under the thin floor had opened the safe, abstracted the documents, and made up a fresh parcel.
Walthew's dreams of promotion vanished, but with something of an effort he pulled himself together. The thieves were yet in the woods and might try to get on board the train at a station farther along the line. Walthew heard the locomotive whistle, and he ran for the telegraph office.
