Читать книгу The Short Line War - Samuel Merwin - Страница 6

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Harvey West was a young man. Perhaps had he been older, had his wisdom been salted with experience, he would not have put two and two together without realizing that the sum was four; but then, it is the difference between twenty-six and fifty that makes railroads a possibility. He walked slowly to the elevator and descended to the street. At the corner he paused and looked about, turning over in his mind the singular disappearance of Mr. McNally. “He can't do anything with Tillman's stock,” thought Harvey. “They're solid for us.” But Harvey in his brief business life had not fathomed the devious ways of the chronic capitalist. He knew that commercial honor was honeycombed with corrupt financiering, but to him the corrupt side was more or less vague, and never having soiled his fingers he failed to realize the nearness of the mud. Harvey had yet to learn that in dealing with a municipality or with a legislature, the law of success has but two prime factors, money and speed.

He walked slowly over Madison Street and turned into State. Weeks was not in the office, and anyway he wished to clear his mind, if possible, before he talked with him; meanwhile sauntering up the east side of State Street with an eye for the shopping throng. People interested Harvey. He was fond of noting types, and of watching the sandwich-men, beggars, and shoe-string venders. Often at noon he would walk from Randolph Street to Harrison, observing the shifting character of Chicago's great thoroughfare. To Harvey it seemed like a river, starting clear but gradually roiled by the smaller streams that poured in, each a little muddier than the one next north, until it was clogged and stagnant with the scum of the city. But to-day he was going north. The sidewalk was crowded with eager girls and jaded women, keen on the scent of bargains. These amused Harvey, and he smiled as he crossed Washington Street. A moment later the smile brightened. Miss Porter stood on the corner.

“Surprised to see me?” she laughed. “Father came up unexpectedly on business, and I tagged along to do some shopping. Are you in a hurry? I suppose so. You men never lose a chance to awe us with the value of your time.”

“No,” Harvey replied, “I'm not at all in a hurry.”

“Good, then you can help me. I am buying a gown.”

They went into Field's, and for nearly an hour Harvey “helped.” It did not take him long to realize that nowhere is a strong man more helpless than in a department store. He went through yards of samples, fingered dozens of fabrics; he discussed and suggested, all with a critical air that amused Miss Porter. She tried at first to take him seriously, but finally gave up, leaned against the counter and laughed.

“Suppose we go up to the waiting room,” she said. “You can talk, anyway.”

With a smile Harvey assented, and they seated themselves near the railing, where they could look down on the human kaleidoscope below.

“By the way,” said Harvey, after they had chatted for some time, “this morning's Tribune has a good joke on one of your Truesdale neighbors. Did you see it?”

“No. Tell me about it.”

“Why, it seems that he—it was Judge Black—is up at Waupaca. He went there in a hurry from Lake Geneva to get away from some cases that were following him and spoiling the vacation he's been trying to get since July. He moved so quickly that his trunk left him and went up to Minnesota or somewhere. Well, the Judge was asked to speak at an entertainment the first night at the hotel. An hour or so before the time set for the speech he fell into the lake and ruined his only suit of clothes. There wasn't a man there anywhere near his size, so he appeared before the guests of the Grand View Hotel in the 'bus man's overalls.”

Katherine laughed heartily.

“Father will enjoy that,” she said. “He loves to laugh at Judge Black.” And she added, “I wonder where father is.”

“Do you return to Truesdale to-day?” Harvey asked.

“No. Not until day after to-morrow. We go to the South Side to dinner, father and I. Father told me to meet him here at half-past three.”

Harvey drew out his watch.

“It is after four now.”

“Yes, I'm a little worried. Father is usually very prompt. He had to see some men about the railroad, but he said it wouldn't take him long. I'm afraid something has happened.”

So was Harvey. The mention of Mr. Porter brought back to him certain peculiar facts, and for a moment he thought fast. Evidently something was happening. In case there was a chance of Tillman City wavering, Jim Weeks should know of Porter's activity and at once. Harvey rose abruptly.

“Excuse me. I find I have forgotten some work at the office.”

“Must you go? I am sorry.” She rose and extended her hand. “I shan't be at home either night or I'd ask you to come and see me. But you are coming down to Truesdale soon, remember.”

“Yes,” said Harvey. “Good-by.”

He walked rapidly to the Washington Building. Jim had left no word, and Harvey called up the Ashland Avenue residence, but could learn nothing. The Northern Station master returned a similar report: Mr. Weeks had not been seen. Harvey sat down and rested his elbows on the desk. Already it might be too late. He called to mind Jim's business arrangements, in the hope of striking a clew by chance. He was interrupted by a few callers, whom he disposed of with a rush; and he was closing his desk with a vague idea of hunting Jim in person when he was called to the 'phone. It was the station master.

“I was mistaken, Mr. West,” he said. “Fourteen has just got in from Manchester, and he says he took Mr. Weeks out at noon.”

Harvey rang off and called up the M. & T. terminal station at Manchester.

“Hello. This is Chicago. Is Mr. Weeks there?”

“Well—say, hello! Hold on, central!—Will you call him to the 'phone, please?”

“Why not?”

“Where? At the shops?”

“Sorry, but I guess you'll have to interrupt him. Important business.”

“Can't help it if the whole road's blocked. Get him as quick as you can and call us up. Good-by.”

Harvey waited ten minutes, twenty, thirty, thirty-five—then the bell rang.

“Hello!”

“Yes.”

“Not there?”

“Wait a minute. You say he took the 4.30?”

“All right. Good-by.”

Harvey turned back to his desk with a scowl. He passed the next hour clearing up what was left of the day's work; then he went out to dinner, and at 6.45 met Jim Weeks at the Northern Station.

“Hello,” said the magnate, “what's up?”

“Porter is,” replied Harvey. “I cornered him and McNally with Thompson and Wing, and I think McNally's gone after the Tillman stock.”

“I guess not,” Jim smiled indulgently. “They can't touch it. Tell me what you know.”

Harvey related his experience, and as one detail followed another Jim's eyebrows came together. He took out his watch and looked at it, then his eye swept the broad row of trains in the gloomy, barnlike station. The hands on the three-sided clock pointed to seven, and the Northern Vestibule Limited began to roll out on its run to Manchester and the West. Suddenly Jim broke in:—

“I'm going to Tillman. Back to-morrow.”

He ran down the platform and swung himself, puffing, upon the rear steps of the receding train. Harvey stared a moment, then slowly walked out to the elevated. He had not yet learned to follow the rapid working of Jim Weeks's mind.

In the meantime Mr. Porter was nervous. Being unsuccessful in his search for Weeks, and seeing the possibility of failure before him, he greeted the hour of five with a frown; but he realized that there was nothing to be done. McNally was on the field and must fight it out alone. It was a quarter after five when he stepped from the elevator at Field's, and confronted a very reproachful young woman.

“Sorry, dear, but I couldn't get away any sooner.”

“What was it, dad? That old railroad?”

“You wouldn't understand it if I told you.”

Katherine frowned prettily.

“That's what you always say. Tell me about it.”

“Well, it was very important that I should see a man before he saw another one.”

“Did you see him?”

“No, I couldn't find him.”

“Does it mean a loss to you, dad?”

“I hope not, dear. But we must get started.”

“I thought you never would come. It was lucky that I had company part of the time.”

“That's good. Who was it?”

“Mr. West.”

“Mr. West?—Not Weeks's man—not—”

Katherine nodded. Her father looked at her puzzled; then his brow slightly relaxed, and he smiled. “By Jove!” he said softly. Katherine was watching him in some surprise.

“Katherine, you are a brick. You shall have the new cart. Yes, sir. I'll order it to-morrow.”

“What have I done?”

“You've saved the day, my dear.” Suddenly he frowned again. “Hold on; when did you see him?”

“I met him about three. I guess he was here an hour or more.”

“Couldn't be better! But he must be an awful fool.”

Katherine bit her lip.

“Why?” she asked quietly.

“Don't you see? If he had seen Weeks early enough they might have upset me. He must be an awful fool.”

Katherine followed him to the elevator with a peculiar expression. She wondered why her father's remark annoyed her.

Before leaving Manchester Mr. McNally wired to the Tillman City Finance Committee an invitation to dine at the Hotel Tremain at 7.45 P.m. During the journey he matured his plan of campaign.

This was not likely to be more than mildly exciting, for twenty years of political and financial juggling had fitted Mr. McNally for delicate work. In his connection with various corporations he had learned the art of subduing insubordinate legislatures without friction, if not without expense, and naturally the present task offered few difficulties. That was why, after an hour or so of thought, he straightened up in his seat, bought a paper, and read it with interest, from the foreign news to the foot-ball prospects. Mr. McNally's tastes were cosmopolitan, and now that his method was determined he dismissed M. & T. stock from his mind. He knew Tillman City, and more to the point, he knew Michael Blaney, Chairman of the Council Finance Committee. Finesse would not be needed, subtlety would be lost, with Blaney, and so Mr. McNally was prepared to talk bluntly. And on occasion Mr. McNally could be terseness itself.

On his arrival he took a cab for the hotel. The Committee were on hand to meet him, and Blaney made him acquainted with the others.

Michael Blaney was a man of the people. He was tall and angular, hands and face seamed and leathery from the work of earlier days, eyes small and keen, and a scraggy mustache, that petered out at the ends. He had risen by slow but sure stages from a struggling contractor with no pull, to be the absolute monarch of six wards; and as the other seven wards were divided between the pro- and anti-pavers, Blaney held the municipal reins. He still derived an income from city contracts, but his name did not appear on the bids.

After dinner Mr. McNally led the way to his room, and in a few words announced that he had come for the M. & T. stock. Blaney tipped back in his chair and shook his head.

“Can't do it, Mr. McNally. It ain't for sale.”

“So I heard,” said McNally, quietly, “but I want it.”

“You see it's like this. When they were building the line, we took the stock on a special act—”

“I understand all that,” McNally interrupted. “That can be fixed.”

Williams, one of the other two, leaned over the table.

“We ain't fools enough to go up against Jim Weeks,” he said.

“Don't worry about Weeks,” replied McNally, “I can take care of him.”

“Who are you buying for?” asked Blaney.

McNally looked thoughtfully at the three men, then said quietly:—

“I am buying for C. & S.C. Jim Weeks is all right, but he can't hold out against us.”

“Well, I tell you, Mr. McNally, we can't sell.”

“Why not?”

“Outside of the original terms—and they sew us up—we never could get it through the Council.”

McNally folded his hands on the table and looked at Blaney with twinkling eyes.

“That's all rot, Blaney.”

“No, it ain't. The boys are right with Weeks.”

“See here, Blaney. You just stop and ask yourself what Weeks has done for you. He's sunk a lot of your money and a lot of St. Johns's money, to say nothing of Chicago, in a road that never has paid and never will pay. Why, man, the stock would be at forty now if we hadn't pushed it up. I tell you Jim Weeks is licked. The only way for you to get your money back is to vote in men who can make it go. We've got the money, and we've got the men. It will be a good thing for Tillman City, and a good thing”—he paused, and looked meaningly at the three faces before him—“a mighty good thing for you boys.”

“We couldn't put it through in time for the election anyhow.”

“The eighth? That's two weeks.”

“I know it, but we'd have to work the opposition.”

“Talk business, Blaney. I'll make it worth your while.”

“What'll you give?”

“For the stock?”

“Well—yes, for the stock.”

“I'll give you par.”

“Um—when?”

“That depends on you. However, if you really want time, you can have it. I suppose you boys vote the stock?”

All three nodded.

“Well, you vote for our men, and I'll sign an agreement to pay cash at par after the meeting.”

“Why not now?”

“I wouldn't have any hold on you. Anyhow, I won't pay till I get the stock, and you seem to want time.”

Blaney glanced at the other two. They were watching McNally closely, and Williams was fumbling his watch chain. Blaney's eyes met McNally's.

“What'll you do for us?” he asked. “It'll take careful work.”

For answer McNally rose and went to the bed, where his bag lay open. He rummaged a moment, then returned with a pack of cards.

“Forgot my chips,” he said, seating himself. “Close up, boys.”

He dealt the cards with deft hands. Blaney started to take his up, then paused with his hand over them.

“What's the ante?” he asked.

“Oh, five hundred?” McNally replied.

Blaney pushed the cards back.

“No,” he said, “not enough.”

Williams seconded his chief with a shake of the head.

“Well, name it yourself.”

“A thousand.”

McNally pursed his lips, then drew out a wallet, and counted out three thousand dollars in large bills, which he laid in the centre of the table.

“There's four playing,” suggested Blaney.

McNally scowled.

“Don't be a hog, Blaney.” He took up his hand, then laid it down and rose, adding—

“Can't do anything with that hand.”

The three Committeemen dropped their cards and each pocketed a third of the money. Mr. McNally fished a pad from his grip and wrote the contract binding himself to pay for the stock after the election on condition that it should be voted at his dictation. He signed it, and tossed it across the table.

“All right, Mr. McNally,” said Blaney, holding out his hand. “I guess we can see you through. Good night.”

“Good night, Blaney; good night, boys.” McNally shook hands cordially with each. “We'll have a good road here yet.”

When their footfalls died away in the hall, Mr. McNally turned to the table, gathered the cards, and replaced them in his bag. The room was close with cigar smoke, and he threw open the windows. With the sensation of removing something offensive, he washed his hands. He stood for a few moments looking out the window at the quiet city, then he sauntered downstairs and into the deserted parlor, seating himself at the piano. His plump hands wandered over the keys with surprisingly delicate touch. For a short time he improvised. Then as the night quiet stole into his thoughts, he drifted into Rubinstein's Melody in F, playing it dreamily.