The Dominant Dollar Part 26

"To begin with, then, I came primarily to talk about Steve Armstrong. I believe he's a friend of yours."

"Yes." A halt, then the query direct returned. "Is he of yours?"

"I'll answer that question later, if you please. At least he's the one adult to date I can remember who ever called me by my first name. Did you know that he'd returned to town?"

"Yes. He was here last night."

"Responsible, was he?"

"Mr. Roberts!" Randall flushed like a woman with strangers. "Pardon me, but there are some questions I can't answer--at least until you answer my own of a moment ago."

"I understand perfectly. Also, contrary to your suspicion, I didn't avoid your question to make it difficult for you. It requires two to be friends. Enmities I, personally, have none. Life's too short and too busy. If it will a.s.sist you any, I met Armstrong in the street this evening face to face, and he declined to speak. I judge he's no friend to me. Am I any more clear?"

"Yes," simply.

"Do you wish to answer my question now, then?"

"I judge you have a good reason for asking. He was not responsible, wholly."

"Not even decently so?"

"Hardly."

"I gathered as much from his appearance to-night. It was the first time I'd seen him in nearly a year. You know the whole story between Armstrong and myself, I take it?"

"Yes," once more.

"And your sympathy is naturally with him."

"It has been."

"And now--"

The smile that made Randall's face boyish came into being.

"I'm deferring judgment now--and observing."

"I fear I can't help you much there," said Darley, shortly. "I wished to discuss the future a bit, not the past. The last time I talked with Armstrong he was impossible. I think you know what I mean. All men are that way when they lose their nerve and drown the corpse. What I wish to ask of you is whether the thing was justified. I'm not artistic. I don't brag of it--I admit it. You're different; your opinion is of value.

Commercially, he's an impossibility. He couldn't hold a place if he had it--any place. I don't need to tell you that either. As a writer--can he write, or can't he?"

Harry Randall took off his big eyegla.s.ses and polished one lens and then the other.

"In my opinion, yes--and no." He held the gla.s.ses to the light, seemed satisfied, and placed them carefully on his nose. "A great writer--he'll never be that. It takes nerve and infinite patience to be anything great, and Steve invariably loses his nerve too soon. He lacks just that much of being big. As for ability, the spark--he's got it, Roberts, as certainly as you and I are sitting here. Elementally, he's a child and will always remain a child. I think most artists are more or less so. Children can't bear criticism or delay--uncertain delay--that's Steve. On the other hand, if he were encouraged, kept free on the financial side, left at liberty to work when he felt the mood, and then only, then--I realize it's a big 'if' and a big contract for some one--he'd make good. Have I answered your question?"

"Yes. And here's another: Is it worth while?"

"To bolster him, you mean; to 'pull him out of the mud,' to use his own phrase?"

"No; that would be a waste of energy. I mean to keep him out permanently, to continue pulling indefinitely."

For a long time the two men sat in silence.

"G.o.d knows," said Randall at last. "I've asked myself the same question for years--and couldn't answer it. It's as big as the universe. Steve is simply an atom. It's unanswerable."

In the pause following Roberts lit one of the seemingly inexhaustible black cigars, after proffering its mate. Again the two sat there, the blue haze of mutual understanding gathering between them.

"I say it's unanswerable," repeated Randall. "It's the old problem of the young supporting the uselessly old, the well serving the incurably diseased. It means eternal vigilance from some one, eternal sacrifice.

It's insoluble, neither more nor less."

"Yes," said Roberts. "I've found it so--insoluble. Particularly so in this case."

Slowly Randall's glance lifted, met the other's eyes. That instant, as a flame is born, came full understanding between them.

"Yes, particularly so in this case," echoed Roberts; "for it means a woman's sacrifice, one particular woman's sacrifice. Nothing else in the world will do--nothing."

It was the beginning of personal confidence, the halting-point for conversation between these two. Both knew it and neither crossed the line. They merely waited until a digression should come naturally.

Roberts it was who at last introduced it, and in a manner so matter of fact that the other was all but deceived.

"Has Armstrong been doing anything lately in a literary way--anything, I mean, that justifies your opinion?" he asked abruptly.

"No, not that I know of; absolutely nothing."

"You're relying, then, on past impressions merely."

"Yes; specifically the last novel he wrote,--the one of a year or a year and a half or so ago."

"You haven't by any chance a copy of the ma.n.u.script, I suppose?"

"No."

"You could doubtless get it, however?"

"I think so--unless some time he became morbid and burned it."

"He hasn't done that; I know him. He might threaten; but to do it--he'd as probably go hungry. Get it some time, will you?"

"I will if you request. You don't wish it for yourself, do you?"

"No, not for myself. Perhaps not at all. I've not decided yet. Anyway get it, please, and be ready if I should ask." He flashed a look no man had ever questioned, could question. "You don't doubt my motive?"

"No. The ma.n.u.script will be ready. I'll answer for that."

No further question of interest was asked, no additional hint of purpose proffered. The subject merely dropped, as in the beginning it had merely begun. In some ways they were similar, these two men in general so dissimilar.

"I had another object in calling to-night," said Roberts, and again the announcement was made without preface. "The opportunity to buy a house presented itself to-day and I accepted. Perhaps you know the place,--J.

C. Herbert's, on top of the hill."

"Yes." Open wonder spoke in the voice, open mystification. "Yes, I know it."