Part 13

“However, remember this, gentlemen--there is need of haste. Within forty-eight hours I should be in Memphis, where I am to confer with certain of my associates--Eastern men like myself, but who, unlike me, are keeping under cover--to confer with them concerning our rights-of-way through the cotton-raising country. I repeat, then, that there is pressing need for immediate action. May I offer you gentlemen fresh cigars?” and he reached for a well-stuffed, silver-mounted case of dull leather.

But they were already going--going in a body to see Mr. Henry Betts, late of somewhere up North. Mr. J. Hayden Witherbee's haste, great though it might be, could be no greater than theirs. On their way down Market Street to the gashouse it was decided that, unless the exigencies of the situation demanded a chorus of argument, Major Covington should do the talking. Indeed it was Major Covington who suggested this. Talking, with financial subjects at the back of the talk, was one of the things at which the major fancied himself a success.

Mr. Betts sat in the clutter of his small, untidy office like an elderly and reserved gray rat in a paper nest behind a wainscoting. His feet, in square-toed congress gaiters, rested on the fender of a stove that was almost small enough to be an inkstand, and his shoulders were jammed back against a window-ledge. By merely turning his head he commanded a view of his entire property, with the engine house in the near distance and the round tunlike belly of the gas tank rising just beyond it. He was alone.

As it happened, he knew all of his callers, having met them in the way of business--which was the only way he ever met anybody. To each man entering he vouchsafed the same greeting--namely, “How-do?”--spoken without emotion and mechanically.

Major Covington had intended to shake hands with Mr. Betts, but something about Mr. Betts' manner made him change his mind. He cleared his throat impressively; the major did nearly everything impressively.

“A fine day, sir,” said the major.

Mr. Betts turned his head slightly to the left and peered out through a smudged pane as if seeking visual confirmation of the statement before committing himself. A look seemed to satisfy him.

“It is,” he agreed, and waited, boring his company with his geologic gaze.

“Ahem!” sparred Major Covington--“think I will take a chair.”

As Mr. Betts said nothing to this, either one way or the other, the major took a chair, it being the only chair in sight, with the exception of the chair in which Mr. Betts was slumped down and from which Mr. Betts had not stirred. Doctor Lake perched himself upon a bookkeeper's tall stool that wabbled precariously. Three other anxious local capitalists stood where they could find room, which was on the far side of the stove.

“Very seasonable weather indeed,” ventured the old major, still fencing for his start.

“So you remarked before, I believe,” said Mr. Betts dryly. “Did you wish to see me on business?”

Inwardly 'the major was remarking to himself how astonishing it was that one section of the country--to wit, the North--could produce men of such widely differing types as this man and the man whose delightful presence they had just quitted; could produce a gentleman like J. Hayden Witherbee, with whom it was a positive pleasure to discuss affairs of moment, and a dour, sour, flinty person like this Betts, who was lacking absolutely in the smaller refinements that should govern intercourse between gentlemen--and wasn't willing to learn them either. Outwardly the major, visibly flustered, was saying: “Yes--in a measure. Yes, we came on a matter of business.” He pulled up somewhat lamely. Really the man's attitude was almost forbidding. It verged on the sinister.

“What was the business?” pressed Mr. Betts in a colorless and entirely disinterested tone of voice.

“Well, sir,” said Major Covington stiffly, and his rising temper and his sense of discretion were now wrestling together inside of him--“well, sir, to be brief and to put it in as few words as possible, which from your manner and conversation I take to be your desire, I--we--my associates here and myself--have called in to say that we are interested naturally in the development of our little city and its resources and its industries; and with these objects in view we have felt, and, in fact, we have agreed among ourselves, that we would like to enter into negotiations with you, if possible, touching, so to speak, on the transfer to us of the property which you control here. Or, in other words, we--”

“Do you mean you want to buy these gasworks?”

“Yes,” confessed the major; “that--that is it. We would like to buy these gasworks.”

“Immediately!” blurted out Doctor Lake, teetering on his high perch. The major shot a chiding glance at his compatriot. Mr. Betts looked over the top of the stove at the major, and then beyond him at the doctor, and then beyond the doctor at the others. Then he looked out of the window again.

“They are not for sale,” he stated; and his voice indicated that he regarded the subject as being totally exhausted.

“Yes, quite so; I see,” said Major Covington suavely; “but if we could agree on a price now--a price that would be satisfactory to you--and to us--”

“We couldn't agree on a price,” said Mr. Betts, apparently studying something in connection with the bulging side of the gas tank without, “because there isn't any price to agree on. I bought these gasworks and I own them, and I am satisfied to go on owning them. Therefore they are not for sale. Did you have any other business with me?”

There was something almost insulting in the way this man rolled his r's when he said “therefore.” Checking an inclination to speak on the part of Doctor Lake the major controlled himself with an effort and said:

“Nevertheless, we would appreciate it very much, sir, if you could and would go so far as to put a figure--any reasonable figure--on this property.. We would like very much to get an expression from you--a suggestion--or--or--something of that general nature,” he tailed off.

“Very well,” said Mr. Betts, biting the words off short and square, “very well. I will What you want to know is my price for these gasworks?”

“Exactly so,” said the major, brightening up.

“Very well,” repeated Mr. Betts. “Sixty thousand.”

Doctor Lake gave such a violent start that he lost his hat out of his lap. Captain Woodward's jaw dropped.

“Sixty thousand!” echoed Major Covington blankly. “Sixty thousand what?”

“Sixty thousand dollars,” said Mr. Betts, “in cash.”

Major Covington fairly sputtered surprise and chagrin.

“But, Mr. Betts, sir,” he protested, “I happen to know that less than four months ago you paid only about twenty-seven thousand dollars for this entire business!”

“Twenty-six thousand five hundred, to be exact,” corrected Mr. Betts.

“And since that time you have not added a dollar's worth of improvement to it,” added the dismayed major.

“Not one cent--let alone a dollar,” assented this most remarkable man.

“But surely you don't expect us to pay such a price as that?” pleaded tie major.

“I do not,” said Mr. Betts.

“We couldn't think of paying such a price as that.”

“I don't expect you to,” said Mr. Betts. “I didn't ask you to. As I said before, these gasworks are not for sale. They suit me just as they are. They are not on the market; but you insist that I shall name a price and I name it--sixty thousand in cash. Take it or leave it.”

Having concluded this, for him, unusually long speech, Mr. Betts brought his fingertips together with great mathematical exactness, matching each finger and each thumb against its fellow as though they were all parts of a sum in addition that he was doing. With his fingers added up to his satisfaction and the total found correct, he again turned his gaze out of the smudgy window. This time it was something on the extreme top of the gas tank which seemed to engage his attention. Cassius Poindexter opened the street door and started in; but at the sight of so much company he checked himself on the threshold, combed back his side whiskers nervously, bowed dumbly and withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.

“If we could only reach some reasonable basis of figuring now,” said the major, addressing Mr. Betts' left ear and the back of Mr. Betts' head--“say, forty thousand, now?” Mr. Betts squinted his Stone Age eyes the better to see out of the dirty window.

“Or even forty-five?” supplemented Doctor Lake, unable to hold in any longer. “Why, damn it, sir, forty-five thousand is a fabulous price to pay for this junkpile.”

“Sixty thousand--in cash!” The ultimatum seemed to issue from the rear of Mr. Betts' collar.

Major Covington glanced about him, taking toll of the expressions of his associates. On their faces sorrowful capitulation was replacing chagrin. He nodded toward them and together they nodded back sadly.

“How much did you say you wanted down?” gulped the major weakly.

“All down,” announced Mr. Betts in a tone of finality; “all in cash. Those are my terms.”

“But it isn't regular!” babbled Colonel Cope.

“It isn't regular for a man to sell something he doesn't want to sell either,” gulped Mr. Betts. “I bought for cash and I sell for cash. I never do business any other way.”

“How much time will you give us?” asked the major. The surrender was complete and unconditional.

“Until this time tomorrow,” said Mr. Betts; “then the deal is off.” Doctor Lake slid off his stool, or else he fell off. At any rate, he descended from it hurriedly. His face was very red.

“Well, of all the--” he began; but the major and the colonel had him by the arms and were dragging him outside. When they were gone--all of them--Mr. Betts indulged himself in the luxury of a still, small smile--a smile that curled his lips back just a trifle and died of frostbite before it reached his fossilized eyes.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Witherbee was saying in his room at the Richland House ten minutes later, “the man has you at his mercy and apparently he knows it. I wouldn't be surprised if he had not already been in communication with the Gatins crowd. His attitude is suspicious. As I view it, it is most certainly suspicious. Gentlemen, I would advise you to close with him. He is asking a figure far in excess of the real value of the works--but what can you do?”

“And will you take the gasworks at sixty thousand?” inquired Major Covington hopefully.

“Ah, gentlemen,” said Mr. Witherbee, and his smile was sympathetic and all-embracing, “that, I think, is asking too much; but, in view of the circumstances, I will do this--I will take them at”--he paused to consider--“I will take them, gentlemen, at fifty thousand. In time I think I can make them worth that much to me; but fifty thousand is as far as I can go--positively. You stand to lose ten thousand on your deal for the gasworks, but I presume you will make that back and more on your sale to me of the light and power plant. Can't I offer you fresh cigars, gentlemen?”

If for any reason a run had started on any one of the three local banks the next day there would have been the devil and all to pay, because there was mighty little ready money in any one of them. Their vaults had been scraped clean of currency; and that currency, in a compact bundle, was rapidly traveling eastward in the company of a smallish iron-gray man answering to the name of Betts. At about the same moment Mr. Witherbee, with the assistance of the darky porter of the Richland House, was packing his wardrobe into an ornate traveling kit. As he packed he explained to Doctor Lake and Major Covington:

“I am called to Memphis twenty-four hours sooner than I had expected. Tomorrow we close a deal there involving, I should say, half a million dollars. Let us see--this is Wednesday--isn't it? I will return here on Friday morning. Meanwhile you may have the papers drawn by your attorney and ready for submission to my lawyer, Mr. Sharkey, who should arrive tomorrow from Cincinnati. If he finds them all shipshape, as I have every reason to expect he will find them, then, on Friday morning, gentlemen, we will sign up and I will pay the binder, amounting to--how much?--ninety thousand, I believe, was the figure we agreed upon. Quite so. Gentlemen, you will find a box of my favorite cigars on that bureau yonder. Help yourselves.”

No lawyer named Sharkey arrived from Cincinnati on Thursday; no J. Hayden Witherbee returned from Memphis on Friday,--nor was there word from him by wire or mail. The papers, drawn in Colonel Cope's best legal style, all fringed and trimmed with whereases and wherefores, waited--and waited. Telegrams which Major Covington sent to Memphis remained unanswered; in fact, undelivered. Major Covington suddenly developed a cold and sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach. In his associates he discerned signs of the same chilling manifestation. It seemed to occur to all of them at once that nobody had asked J. Hayden Witherbee for his credentials or had inquired into his antecedents. Glamoured by the grandeur of his person, they had gone along with him--had gone along until now blindly. Saturday, hour by hour, darkling suspicion grew in each mind and reared itself like a totem pole adorned with snake-headed, hawk-clawed figments of dread. And on Saturday, for the first time in a solid week the Daily Evening News carried no front-page account of the latest doings and sayings of J. Hayden Witherbee.

Upon a distracted conference, taking place Saturday night in the directors' room of the bank, intruded the sad figure of Cassius Poindexter, combing back his side whiskers like a man eternally on the point of parting a pair of lace curtains and never coming through them.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I've got something to say that I think you gentlemen oughter hear. If you thought those two--Witherbones, or whatever his name is, and my late employer, Henry Betts--if you all thought those two were strangers to one another you were mistaken--that's all. Two weeks ago I saw a letter on Betts' desk signed by this man Witherbee--if that's his name. And Tuesday when Betts told me he was goin' to sell out, I remembered it.”

The major was the first to get his voice back; and it was shaky with rage and--other emotions.

“You--you saw us all there Tuesday morning,” he shouted, “didn't you? And when Betts told you he was going to sell and you remembered about Witherbee why didn't you have sense enough to put two and two together?”

“I did have sense enough to put two and two together,” answered Cassius Poindexter in hurt tones. “That's exactly what I did.”

“Then why in the name of Heaven didn't you come to us--to me--and tell us?” demanded the major.

“Well, sirs,” said the intruder, “I was figurin' on doin' that very thing, but it sort of slipped out of my mind. You see, I've been thinkin' right stiddy lately about an invention that I'm workin' on at odd times--I'm perfectin' a non-refillble bottle,” he explained--“and somehow or other this here other matter plum' escaped me.”

The door closed upon the inventor. Stunned into silence, they sat mute for a long, ghastly half minute. Doctor Lake was the first to speak:

“If could afford it,” he said softly--“if at present I could afford it I'd put a dynamite bomb under that gashouse and blow it up! And I'd do it anyhow,” he went on, warming to his theme, “if I was only right certain of blowing up that idiot and his non-refillable bottle along with it!”

Malley, of the Sun, was doing the hotel run this night. He came up to the room clerk's wicket at the desk of the Royal.

“Say, Mac,” he hailed, “what's the prospect? So far, all I've got is one rubber magnate from South America--a haughty hidalgo with an Irish name and a New England accent, who was willing to slip me a half-column interview providing I'd run in the name of his company eight or nine times--him, and an Oklahoma Congressman, with the makings of a bun, and one of Sandusky, Ohio's well-known and popular merchant princes, with a line of talk touching on the business revival in the Middle West. If that's not slim pickings I don't want a cent! Say, help an honest working lad out--can't you?”

This appeal moved the room clerk.

“Let's see now,” he said, and ran a highly polished fingernail down a long column of names. Halfway down the finger halted.

“Here's copy for you, maybe,” he said. “The name is Priest--William Pitman Priest is the way he wrote it. He got in here this morning, an old-time Southerner; and already he's got every coon bellhop round the place fighting for a chance to wait on him. He's the real thing all right, I guess--looks it and talks it too. You ought to be able to have some fun with him.”

“Where's he registered from?” asked Malley hopefully.

“From Kentucky--that's all; just Kentucky, with no town given,” said Mac, grinning.

“There're still a few of those old Southerners left that'll register from a whole state at large. Why, there he goes now!” said the room clerk, and he pointed.

Across the lobby, making slow headway against weaving tides of darting, hurrying figures, was moving a stoutish and elderly form clad in a fashion that made it look doubly and trebly strange among those marble and onyx precincts. A soft black hat of undoubted age and much shapelessness was jammed down upon the head, and from beneath its wide brim at the rear escaped wisps of thin white hair that curled over the upturned coat collar. The face the hat shaded was round and pink, chubby almost, and ended in a white chin beard which, as Malley subsequently said in his story, flowed down its owner's chest like a point-lace jabot. There was an ancient caped overcoat of a pattern that had been fashionable perhaps twenty years ago and would be fashionable again, no doubt, twenty years hence; there were gray trousers that had never been pressed apparently; and, to finish off with, there was a pair of box-toed, high-heeled boots of a kind now seen mostly in faded full-length photographs of gentlemen taken in the late seventies--boots with wrinkled tops that showed for four inches or more and shined clear up to the trouser-line with some sort of blacking that put a dull bluish iridescent blush upon the leather, almost like the colors on a dove's breast feathers.

“Thanks for the tip, Mac,” said Malley, and he made off after the old man, who by now had turned and was maneuvering down the corridor toward where a revolving door turned unceasingly, like a wheel in a squirrel's cage. “Oh, colonel!” called out Malley on a venture, jibing through the human currents and trying to overtake the stout, broad figure ahead of him. An exceedingly young, exceedingly important person, who looked as though he might be prominent in the national guard or on some governor's staff, half rose from a leather lounge and glanced about inquiringly, but the old man in the cape and boots kept on.

“Major!” tried Malley vainly. “Major! Just a minute, please.” And then, “Judge! Oh, judge!” he called as a last resort, and at that his quarry swung about on his heels and stopped, eying him with whimsical, mild blue eyes under wrinkly lids.

“Son,” he said in a high, whiny voice which instantly appealed to Malley's sense of the picturesque, “was it me that you've been yellin' at?”

Malley answered, telling his name and his business. A moment later he was surprised to find himself shaking hands warmly with the older man.

“Malley, did you say?” the judge was inquiring almost eagerly. “Well, now, son, I'm glad to meet up with you. Malley is a fairly familiar name and a highly honored one down in our part of the country. There was a captain in Forrest's command of your name--Captain Malley--a mighty gallant soldier and a splendid gentleman! You put me right sharply in mind of him too--seem to favor him considerable round the eyes. Are you closely related to the Southern branch of the family, suh?”

Malley caught himself wishing that he could say Yes. The old judge showed almost a personal disappointment when Malley confessed that none of his kinspeople, so far as he knew, ever resided south of Scranton, Pennsylvania.

“No doubt a distant connection,” amended the judge, as though consoling both himself and Malley; “the family resemblance is there shorely.” He laid a pudgy pink hand on Malley's arm. “You'll pardon me for presumin' on such short acquaintance, but down where I come from it is customary, when two gentlemen meet up together at about this hour of the evenin'”--it was then three o'clock p.m., Eastern time, as Malley noted--“it is customary for them to take a dram. Will you join me?”

Scenting his story, Malley fell into step by the old judge's side; but at the door of the café the judge halted him.

“Son,” he said confidentially, “I like this tavern mightily--all but the grocery here. I must admit that I don't much care for the bottled goods they're carryin' in stock. I sampled 'em and I didn't enthuse over 'em. They are doubtless excellent for cookin' purposes, but as beverages they sort of fall short.

“I wish you'd go up to my chamber with me and give me the benefit of your best judgment on a small vial of liquor I brought with me in my valise. It's an eighteen-year-old sour mash, mellowed in the wood, and I feel that I can recommend it to your no doubt dis-criminatin' palate. Will you give me the pleasure of your company, suh?”

As Malley, smiling to himself, went with the judge, it struck him with emphasis that, for a newly arrived transient, this old man seemed to have an astonishingly wide acquaintance among the house staff of the Hotel Royal. A page-boy, all buttons and self-importance, sidestepped them, smiling and ducking at the old judge's nod; and the elevator attendant, a little, middle-aged Irishman, showed unalloyed pleasure when the judge, after blinking slightly and catching his breath as the car started upward with a dart like a scared swallow, inquired whether he'd had any more news yet of the little girl who was in the hospital. Plainly the old judge and the elevator man had already been exchanging domestic confidences.

Into his small room on the seventeenth floor Judge Priest ushered the reporter with the air of one dispensing the hospitalities of a private establishment to an honored guest, made him rest his hat and overcoat--“rest” was the word the judge used--and sit down in the easiest chair and make himself comfortable.

In response to a conversation which the judge had over the telephone with some young person of the feminine gender, whom he insisted on addressing as Miss Exchange, there presently came knocking at the door a grinning negro boy bearing the cracked ice, the lump sugar and the glasses the old judge had ordered. Him the judge addressed direct.

“Look here,” asked the judge, looking up from where he was rummaging out a flat quart flask from the depths of an ancient and much-seamed valise, “ain't you the same boy that I was talkin' to this momin'?”

“Yas, suh,” said the boy, snickering, “Horace.”

“Where you came from they didn't call you Horace, did they?” inquired the old man.

“Naw, suh, that they didn't,” admitted Horace, showing all his teeth except the extremely rearmost ones.

“What was it they called you--Smoke or Rabbit?”

“Ginger,” owned up Horace delightedly, and vanished, still snickering. Malley noticed that the coin which the old man had extracted from the depths of a deep pocket and tossed to the darky was a much smaller coin than guests in a big New York hotel customarily bestowed upon bellboys for such services as this; yet Horace had accepted it with every outward evidence of a deep and abiding satisfaction.