Part 7

Simeon stared at him a minute. Then he turned it aside with a motion of his hand. He leaned forward, speaking low and fast--“The directors--two weeks off--two weeks--I _must_ stay, I tell you!”

“Yes, sir.” It was the old tone of quiet deference and Simeon yielded to it. “Give me two weeks,” he said more quietly. “Let me meet them with a straight record--and then--”

“And then?” The watching eyes held him.

“Then I ’ll go,” he said grudgingly, “--If you make me.”

John weighed it for a minute. “Did you ask Dr. Blake about the two weeks?” he said.

Simeon fidgeted at his desk.

“Did you?”

“Yes.” It was a growl, half-defiant.

The silence in the room was unbroken. John began to arrange things for the night. The man at the desk watched him, resentful, suspicious.

When the room was in order, the young man came across. He placed his hand on Simeon’s shoulder. “All ready, sir.”

Simeon started a little. He motioned to the chair. “Sit down.”

The young man sat down, looking at him quietly.

Simeon was holding a paper, fingering it absently; he had retained it when John put away the others, covering it with his hand. He glanced down at it now once or twice, as if about to speak. But when he opened his lips, it was not about the paper.

“Blake does n’t know,” he said harshly. The young man’s face clouded. “Don’t you trust him, sir?”

Simeon spun the paper a little contemptuously on the desk. “I trust him--Yes--I trust Blake where he knows.”

“He knows about you, sir.” John, remembering the minute accounts he had given of Simeon’s condition, smiled a little as he said it.

But the eyes looking into his did not smile. They held a kind of dumb fear, and the man shook his head. “He does n’t know--”

“Why did n’t you tell him sir?”

“I could n’t!” He glanced cautiously over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “He would n’t have believed--nobody ’d believe!”

“But he might help, sir.”

The man shook his head dully. “He can’t help. Nobody ’can help.--I ’ve had my chance--” He broke off and sat staring before him, as if at some nameless thing.

The young man watched him with perplexed eyes. Something mysterious, terrible, held the man in its grip--some intangible thing. Almost, it seemed to him, he could put out his hand and touch it. Then, in a breath, it was not there.... There was only Simeon--sitting with pitifully bowed head, fingering the paper.

He looked up after a minute. “The Bard-well lease expires today,” he said, holding up the paper.

John nodded. He was not thinking of the Bardwell lease. He was trying to follow the elusive clue that had looked out at him and withdrawn....

“The road takes possession tomorrow,” said Simeon.

“Yes, sir.” John’s mind came back to the farm.

“I ’d thought--” Simeon hesitated, “I ’d thought we might put some one on, for the winter.”

“Rent it?” asked John.

“No--we can’t rent it till spring; Nobody would want it now, but we could put some one on.” He waited a minute. “There ’s your friend--Tomlinson--”

John leaned forward, his face alight--“He’d like it, sir. He used to live on a farm--in Scotland.”

“I judged as much,” said Simeon drily. “He can have it, rent free, till spring. Then the road will talk about terms--we shan’t be hard on him.” He said the last words with a little gulp. He was looking down at the paper trembling in his hands.

“He will like it,” said John heartily. “And it will be good for the little Tomlinsons--There are two children, you know?”

“I don’t know anything about them,” said Simeon wearily. “I don’t care--whether there are children--or not. He can have the farm, if he wants it, rent free.” He looked about for his hat. “I ’m going home,” he said. “I’m tired.”

The freshness of his sleep had left him. He was old and haggard once more. And John, as he handed him his hat, was struck anew by the misery in the face.

“I am going in a minute, sir. Don’t you want me to walk along with you?”

“No, no. I ’m all right. Stay and write your letter. You’d better send it tonight.”

XIX

HE went slowly toward the door--a bent old man. But at the door, he paused and looked back, his lip moving tremulously.

John sprang toward him. “What is it, sir?”

“I can’t--go away--not before the fifth-two weeks. Blake must give me that two weeks! _You_ know what it means--if I go now!” His voice was harsh and he lifted his gaunt, shaking hand to the broad shoulder that bent toward him. “It’s ruin--John--for the road! I _can’t_ do it! It’s my _life!_”

The strong hand reached up to the quivering one and drew it down, holding it fast. “You shall not go, sir. You shall stay here till the fifth--and save the road.” The low, quiet tone was full of confidence.

But Simeon’s voice broke across it harshly. “Blake said he would n’t give me a day--not twenty-four hours!” he said hoarsely, “You should have heard him talk!” He shuddered a little.

“Never mind, sir,” said John. “You _shall_ stay--if you want to.”

The helpless eyes devoured his face. “I can’t!” He half whispered the words. “I’m afraid!”

“Listen, sir.” John’s face was close to his and a kind of power seemed to pass from the clear eyes into the wavering ones. “You shall stay if you want to.”

“If I want to?” repeated Simeon vaguely.

“Yes. Listen.” He had led him back to his chair and placed him in it. “Now I will tell you.”

Simply, as if to a child, John laid the plan before him. It was not something new--thought of on the spur of the moment. For weeks the youth had seen the approach of some such crisis as this and his slow mind had been making ready for it, working out the details with careful exactness. If the road could be tided over the semi-annual meeting, everything was saved. In spite of the attacks of the C. B. and L. and in spite of Simeon’s quixotic schemes for the country, there would be a comfortable dividend to declare. And with Simeon at the head of the table--not a wreck apparently, but the competent, keen-witted man whom the directors knew and trusted--all would be well. After that, let rumors get abroad--The directors would buy up any frightened stock that might be thrown on the market. There could be no attack on the road--with their confidence unshaken.

Simeon’s face, as he listened, lost its strained-look and his lips seemed to move to the slow words that unfolded the plan to him.

“You could do it?” questioned John.

“I could do it,” said Simeon with a deep breath. “It ’s easy--after what I have been through.”

“You are to do as I tell you--exactly?”

“There’s Blake,” said Simeon, the look of fear coming back to his face.

“I ’ll see Blake,” said John promptly. “Now, you are going home to rest, sir. I ’ll write the letter to Tomlinson and then I ’m through.”

“Yes--yes, write the letter to Tomlinson,” said Simeon. “The sooner the better.”

And John, as he sat down to write it, had no glimpse of the clue that was laughing at him, to his face, while his pen moved over the paper; he had no suspicion that the farm, offered rent free, was a last desperate attempt to lift a Scotch curse.... He saw only Tomlinson’s face--when he should read the letter--and the children playing on the Bardwell farm.

The physician gave his consent reluctantly. “You may be able to carry it through, but it’s a great risk. He ought to stop now--at once.”

“He ’s more quiet, sir,” said John, “less nervous. He wants to sleep--falls asleep at his desk sometimes.”

Dr. Blake smiled a little grimly. “The next stage he will not be so quiet,” he said. “Best not tempt nature too far.”

John’s face grew thoughtful. “It would kill him to do it.”

“To stop now--What ’s the difference-two weeks, or now?”

He listened as John laid the facts of the case before him. “But he’s rich--even if the road goes to pieces. Better lose the road than his reason--his life!”

John smiled. “I think the road is his reason--his life. He has lived in it so long that he does n’t quite know, I think, which is Road and which is Simeon Tetlow.”

The physician was looking with interest at this stupid, slow-speaking young man, who seemed to put his finger so exactly on the truth.

He nodded. “Yes, I know--organic, almost But there are other roads. He could build up another. He ’s a young man still--young in years. Let him recover and he will be as eager to fight as ever.”

“It is n’t quite that, sir.” The slow mind groped for prosaic words in which to clothe Simeon’s radiant dream. “He’s not fighting just for the love of it. He thinks the country has been injured--the road has made money out of it without paying back--and he wants to make good. If the road goes to pieces--if the C. B. and L. buys it up--he could never do it. I think it would kill him.”

The physician’s head was bent in thought. “So Sim Tetlow loves men--like that--as much as that!” He looked up candidly. “Do you know I should have said that there was nobody in the world he would turn his hand over for. And now you tell me he’s been killing himself for farmers.”

The young man’s face flushed a little. “I don’t think it’s farmers, sir--nor--nor--anybody. It’s just the _country!_”

The physician looked at him a minute--“I see--it ’s impersonal.”

“Yes, sir. But the country is like a person to him. I think he loves it. And I know he wants to make up for the harm he’s done it. It would kill him to give up--now.... Two weeks will do it.”

“Well--Well. You take the risk, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The clear eyes met his.

The physician’s looked into them with quiet scrutiny. “You ’re very fond of him,” he said.

“I love him, sir,” said the young man.

“I don’t know why you should,” said the physician.

The slow smile met his. “I don’t know, either. I think he needs me.”

“I think he does,” said the physician drily, “more than he knows.”

XX

THE morning of the fifth of October was keen and crisp; a hint of frost lay on the grass and the air was filled with decks of light. It was a beautiful country that the “R. and Q.” passed through--hills and valleys, long stretches of wood and wide sweeps of grain, and slopes where the orchards crept to the sky, the trees gold and green, and burdened with fruit.

To the directors of the “R. and Q.,” looking out from their comfortable parlor cars on the trees and fields as they sped toward Bayport, it seemed a land of fatness and dividends. Tetlow would attend to all those trees. He had never failed them since the first day he laid his nervous, wiry hand upon the road; he had wrested the last cent from it; and the road--trees, barns, elevators--jingled into their pockets. They beamed upon the fertile land as they journeyed through, noting the signs of plenty with philanthropic eye.... There had been rumors of trouble, complaints, shortage of cars. What wonder--with branches loaded to the ground, or propped with staves, and the grain bending with its weight. They smiled at each other. They knew their man--a giant--keen-sighted and far-reaching--feared through the country up and down. When he lifted his hand, the little animals scudded to their holes, and lesser men made way for him. If the directors did not put the figure into words, they felt it--through all their comfortable being, as they slid along. Simeon Tetlow--great man-prosperous “R. and Q.”--fortunate directors!

They felt it as they took their way to the offices of the “R. and Q.” and seated themselves in the capacious chairs about the green table. Tetlow was a little late--they looked inquiringly toward the door. He was not often late... sometimes hurried and driven, but never late.... Was Simeon Tetlow late! The door opened and he came in with a little flurry, dipping subtly to left and right, in short brusque greeting, and taking his seat. They settled back in their chairs, scarcely noting the short, square young man, a little to the left, who followed in his wake.

But when Simeon was seated, the young man remained standing and they took him in with careless glance.

Their eyes returned to Tetlow. But he motioned with a slight gesture to the young man and they looked at him again.

He stepped forward with a little smile. “President Tetlow cannot speak,” he said.

They looked with startled eyes at the president of the road. He nodded reassuringly and touched his throat with his hand. He opened his lips as if to speak, but no sound came. He shook his head.

Then they understood. He had lost his voice--a cold, probably, or unusual strain upon it. They nodded their sympathy to him, as if they, too, were suddenly struck dumb. He smiled acknowledgment and touched his throat and motioned to the boy.

He had stood with eyes lowered, waiting while the pantomime went on; it was the only part that he feared. He had drilled his patient carefully. But his breath came a little fast.... So many things might happen. ... Then he looked up and met the directors’ gaze fixed upon him expectantly. He consulted the paper in his hand and bent to the pile that lay on the table before him.

“President Tetlow wishes to present first the report as a whole.” He took up a handful of the papers. “He has had duplicate copies made for further reference.” He passed the handful of papers to the senior director at the right of the board.

It was a thrifty device--thought out in the night watches while he could not sleep... Simeon had never before allowed written reports. This was unexpected convenience.

The senior member reached out his hand with a bland smile, swinging his gold eyeglasses to his nose and surveying the figures. He nodded affably.

The young man stood watching with slow look while the papers traveled down the length of the table.... It was only a guess at human nature. ... Would it work? Would they study the figures--or Simeon Tetlow’s face? There was too much written on it for them not to see if they sat there and looked at it. His eyes deepened as he watched them, waiting respectfully on their convenience. The last paper reached the hand stretched out for it and he glanced swiftly up and down the double row of faces.... every eye buried in a paper.

He drew a quick breath and began to read in clear, even tone. There was no sense of hurry in the voice, but the words passed in swift flow. He knew to a minute how long it would take and how long Simeon Tetlow would keep the cool, inscrutable smile.

He was listening, his head a little bent, to the even flow of words. John did not dare to think ahead or see more than one minute at a time. For two weeks his one thought had been to get through this meeting.... He had planned, the day carefully.... It was after the periods of heavy sleep that Simeon was most like himself and he had wakened him from a long nap this morning, brushing his clothes and placing the papers in his hand.

“It is the fifth, sir,” he had said.

And Simeon had looked at him with a bit of the old, keen smile.

“You are to meet the directors,” said John close in his ear, “You remember?” He looked at him anxiously.

Simeon had nodded reassuringly. “I know. _I ’m_ all right--I can _look_ all right.” He had said it almost like himself.

And then John had taken him by the arm and led him to the door of the Room and pushed him in. Only at the door had he dared release his hold.

But he need not have feared. To the president of the “B. and Q.” Road, the green table--with those mighty, iron-bounded men around it--was like a challenge. He had entered the room with positive eclat; and now he sat with quiet face listening to the report, a little cynical smile edging his lips.

It was the look the directors knew well

They trusted it as they looked up from their paper.....It was the old, dividend look.

John’s eye dropped to it for a moment and his voice quickened a little. He had come to a difficult part of the report. It was delicate treading here--“Equipment for the coming year: Thirty-nine new engines will be needed--twelve of the big Pacific type, the numbers running from 3,517 to 3,528, and ten combination fast freight and passenger engines of the 2,000 series. The other seventeen....”

He felt the hoard quiver subtly. They stirred in their places. He knew, without looking up, the inquiring glances gathering on the impassive face at the head of the table.... “The other seventeen will be switching engines and the heaviest kind of freight engines...” The voice went quietly on, but his hand had dropped ever so lightly on the shoulder beside him as he turned a page of the report. The shoulder straightened beneath the touch.

The president of the road looked up and nodded to the swift, darting glances--once--twice, the old, keen, reassuring look--intrepid and cool.

The directors turned the pages with easier fingers, but a new alertness was in the air. These were details that any one could grasp--with their implications.... “Six hundred box cars--forty passenger coaches, each to cost $6,500.” The look of sleepy content was banished from the board.

But the president of the road met the glances that traveled toward him, with steady front. The figures had startled the directors, but they seemed as music in his ears. “Thirty-nine engines--twelve of the big Pacific type--” sang to him! He sat a little straighter, his quick nod assenting to each detail and vouching for items that might so easily have stirred a challenge.

The directors had no eyes for the young man taking the papers from Tetlow’s hand, reading them one by one. He was hardly more than a Voice. They did not note that the stubby hand as it reached out to take a paper from the trembling one closed upon it firmly for a minute and that the hand ceased to shake. When the next item was read, the hand lifted itself from the table with a little gesture of pride and assent. The proposed improvements and equipment would cost a round million,--But the road could stand a million dollars--and more.... The lifted hand had said this eloquently before it dropped.

The room breathed more easily, and into the voice that read the items there crept a quiet note of relief.

Twenty minutes more.

Ten minutes--now...

Five minutes....

The president of the road swayed a little toward the table. He might be consulting the paper in his hand--it was the last one--before he handed it to the sturdy young man beside him to read.

The young man leaning toward him to take it, blotted out for a moment the thin, bent figure. When his shoulders straightened themselves again, the president of the “R. and Q.” was erect in his chair, his inscrutable face turned toward the directors.

The young man read rapidly from the paper. It was a summary of items. They had the substance of it already. This only gathered it into smaller compass for them, the quiet voice seemed to assure them, as it went swiftly to the end.

“There is one point not included in the formal report that the President intended to speak to you about.” He had laid down the paper and was looking at them.

They returned the glance, finding a certain pleasure in this sturdy young man.

Simeon looked up with a little, startled glance.... The hand touched his arm carelessly and rested there while the voice went on speaking.

“It had been President Tetlow’s wish to ask for a leave of absence--to take effect at your pleasure--”

The arm beneath the hand stirred and Simeon ’s mouth opened with an inarticulate sound.

The directors glanced at him with sympathetic, humorous smile.

The senior director was on his feet proposing a motion--Three other directors, all on their feet, were seconding it--It was carried with a little informal hurst of enthusiasm.

Simeon rose to his feet. It was as if he thought that he could respond.

The directors were looking at him with expectant faces.

He bowed toward them and opened his lips--and broke into a long, deep, helpless cough.

John put up his hand to the directors, smiling, and escorted him swiftly to the door....

There was a pleasant hurry of sound among the directors, a getting into light overcoats and shaking of hands, a murmur of dividends, and a rush for trains.

Up in the little office Simeon Tetlow stood by the window. He held up his hand--groping, trembling toward the light--He looked at it, and tried to hold it still--and still looked at it--the light falling faintly through it.... “They trust me, John! They trust _me!_ But how dare they trust me!” The shaking hand flickered its quivering, helpless dance against the light.

The young man drew it down, covering it with his own. “They trust you, sir, because you’ve never failed them,” he said quietly.

XXI

The assistant bookkeeper was finishing his accounts for the night. He made another entry and blotted it before he closed the book and looked up, with a little offhand nod.

The young man moved toward him. “President Tetlow asked me to tell you something, Harrington.” They were alone in the room, but he spoke in a low tone.

The bookkeeper’s shoulders squared themselves a little. He had expected this. He had known it would come--with the directors’ meeting. He jabbed his pen in a cup of shot and lifted his face sullenly. “Well?” His tone, too, was low.

“They raised you five hundred at the meeting,” said John.

The bookkeeper stared at him. Then his eyes dropped. He studied his nails for a minute. “What are you talking about?” he muttered.

“Five hundred dollars--to begin Monday,” said John.

The bookkeeper looked up under his lids, without lifting his head. “What do you mean?” he said slowly.

John waited a minute. When he spoke, a little smile edged the words. “I thought you’d like to know right off--So you could write the C. B. and L. that you won’t be able to do anything for them after today.”

“Did n’t it work?” sneered the man.

“It worked too well,” said John. “They’ve lost a good twenty thousand these two weeks--trying to fix it--and the twenty thousand is ours. But we don’t do business that way--not unless we have to,” he added with slow emphasis.

The man looked up. “How are you going to keep tab on me?” he demanded.

“Won’t the five hundred keep tab?” asked John.

The man’s smile was wintry. “The C. B. and L. did better,” he said.

“Yes--they knew what they were paying for--they thought they knew. The ‘R. and Q.’ does n’t.”

The man stirred a little. “All right. It’s a go.” He took up his pen and tried the nib on his thumb nail. His eyes were fixed on it. “Cheaper to fire me,” he said, dipping the pen into the ink.

“Do you think so?” said John. “Wait a minute, Harrington.”

The pen paused.

“The ‘R. and Q.’ will need straight men the next six months--men that will stand by!”

The man nodded. He was not looking np. “I have an idea, somehow--” The young man hesitated. Then he laughed out. “I’ve watched you, you know,” he said frankly, “I ’ve had an eye on you.”

“Two of them,” said Harrington.

“Yes, and I ’ve come to think you may be one of the best men the road’s got.”

“That’s what _I’ve_ thought,” said the man drily.

“I don’t know how you came to be in this C. B. and L. mixup,” said John quickly, “but I think you stood by them as long as you could--”

“That’s me,” said the man.

“--and did their dirty work for them,” added John.

The man’s face clouded a little.

“The ‘R. and Q.’ wants that kind of men for clean work--” He paused, seeking the right words. “I ’m not clever, you know,” said John. He raised his clear eyes to the man’s face.

The face sneered a little--then it changed subtly. “I believe you ’re speaking God’s truth,” he said soberly.

“I believe I am,” said John. “I ’m not clever--I know it. But the road needs men that are--Men that know enough to be rascals and won’t,” he added quietly.

The man looked at him a minute. Then he laughed--a long, full laugh. It had a hint of fellowship in it.--“You ’re a rum un,” he said.

John smiled. “Thank you.” He held out his hand. “It ’sa bargain?”