Rope Part 24

Henry deliberated. "It's so near the finish.... I don't much care one way or the other. Who's the party?"

"Bird named McClellan."

"I don't know him; do I?"

"I don't know why you should; never met him before, myself. Well, do you want to trade?"

"I don't much care what I do."

Standish surveyed him closely. "You're very peppy this morning, seems to me."

"I've got an excuse to be."

"For publication?"

"Not yet. You'll see it soon enough."

Standish's eyes dropped back to his desk. "Well, let's get this lease question off our chests. If you'll let me handle it for you, I'll guarantee you'll be satisfied."

"Would you do it if you were in my shoes?"

"Absolutely--provided you were in mine."

Henry laughed. "Well, Mr. Bones, what _is_ the answer?"

"Why--this _may_ do you some good. That is, if you let me manage it for you. But suppose it's immaterial. Suppose you run out your string, and win or lose, you know what's on the docket for you, don't you? If you want it?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead. I've had one or two things put up to me."

"Forget 'em." Standish pointed at the wall. "Nice new mahogany flat-topped desk right there."

Henry's mouth relaxed. "Why--_Bob_."

As Standish gazed at him, no observer would have said that this immature-looking boy was rated in the highest group of local businessmen. To a stranger, the offer might have seemed insignificant, even humorously insignificant; but to Henry it was stupendous, and for two widely varying reasons.

"Just to think over," said Standish. "In case."

Henry's fists were doubled. "It isn't so much the ... the commercial side of it, Bob, but when I know you've always had me down for such an _incompetent_ sort of--"

"That was before the war. To tell the truth, old rubbish, last August I couldn't have seen it with the Lick telescope. Thought you were a great scout, of course--good pal--all that--but _business_; that's different. A friend's one thing; but a partner's a lot of 'em."

Henry was staring fixedly at him. "I wouldn't have any money to speak of--"

"Then don't speak of it. _I_'ll name the price. The price is your year's profit on the Orpheum."

There was a little silence. "When did you get this hunch, Bob?"

"Oh, about last February."

"But it was about then that I came in here one day, and--and you said you--you said one pal _couldn't_ boss another. You said--"

"Oh!... But as I recall it, you were talking about a job."

"Yes, and you said you wouldn't give me one! And ever since then I've been--"

"Idiot!" said Standish. "Is that what's been gnawing at his tender heart! Why, you astigmatic fool--why.... Stop right there! Certainly I wouldn't have you for an employe, but as a partner--that's different.

If you apologize, I'll slay you. Shake hands and wipe it off your brain.... Now let's get back to business. We've got to have quick action."

CHAPTER XV

As the train slowed for the station, and a score of other pa.s.sengers began to a.s.semble wraps and luggage, Mr. Theodore Mix sat calm and undisturbed, although inwardly he was still raging at Mirabelle for making a spectacle of him. It was fully half an hour ago that she had prodded him into activity, ignored his plea of greater experience in ways of travel, and compelled him to get the suitcases out to the platform (she didn't trust the porter), to help her on with her cape, and to be in instant readiness for departure. For half an hour she had sat bolt upright on the edge of her seat, an umbrella in one hand and an antique satchel in the other, and her air was a public proclamation that no railroad, soulless corporation though it might be, was going to carry her one inch beyond her destination.

By a superhuman effort, Mr. Mix removed his eyes from Mirabelle's convention badge. It was a chaste decoration of three metal bars, two sets of supporting chains, and a half foot of blue silk ribbon, with white lettering, and Mirabelle continued to wear it for two reasons: she was proud of it, and Mr. Mix had made his initial attempt to be masterful, and told her twenty-four hours ago that it looked as though she belonged to the Third Ward Chowder Club. Since then, she had reproached him afresh whenever she caught him looking at it. And inasmuch as it could hardly be avoided by anyone who cast the briefest glance in her general direction, he had been in hot water from Chicago to the present moment. He couldn't even escape to the smoking room.

When a man is telling himself that a woman has made a fool of him in public, and that every one in the neighborhood is amused to watch him, he finds it peculiarly difficult to carry on a conversation with the woman. But Mr. Mix saw that Mirabelle was about to converse, and glowering at a drummer across the aisle, he beat her to it.

"Seems to me the League had an almighty gall to wire you for that three thousand dollars, Mirabelle. If it had been _my_ money, I'd have hung on to it until I knew what they wanted it for."

She straightened her lips. "Well, it wasn't, was it?--So I didn't, did I?... If I can't have faith in my own a.s.sociates, who _can_ I have it in? And it isn't a gift; it's a loan. Treasurer said he needed it right off, and there wasn't anybody else to get it from in a hurry."

She caught his eyes wandering towards her gorgeous insignia, and her own eyes snapped back at him. "And I hope at least I'm to have the privilege of doing what I choose with my own money. Don't forget that women are _people_, now, just as much as men are. After the first of August, maybe I'll--"

"Mirabelle. Sh-h!"

"No, I won't either," she retorted. "I don't _care_ to shush. After the first of August, maybe you'll have your share, and I won't presume to interfere with _you_. So don't you interfere with _me_. If the League had to have money, it was for some proper purpose. And it wasn't a gift; it was a loan. And if I couldn't trust--"

"Oh, give it a drink!" said Mr. Mix, under his breath; and while he maintained an att.i.tude of courteous attention, he barricaded his ears as best he could, and shut Mirabelle out of his consciousness.

Even in Chicago, he had received bulletins from the seat of war; they had merely confirmed his previous knowledge that Henry was beaten, thoroughly and irretrievably. A few more weeks, and Mirabelle would be rich. Half a million? That was the minimum. Three quarters? That was more likely. A million dollars? It wasn't in the least improbable. And Mirabelle had told him more than once, and in plain English, that she planned to divide with him--not equally, but equitably. She had said that she would give him a third of her own inheritance. Hm ... a hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand, say. And what couldn't he do with such a benefice? Of course, he would have to profess some slight interest in the League for awhile, but gradually he could slide out of it--and he hoped that he could engineer Mirabelle out of it.

Mirabelle made herself too conspicuous. But even if Mirabelle stuck to her colours, Mr. Mix needn't hesitate to drift away--that is, after he had received his settlement. Late in August, he would make a trip to New York on business--reform business--and in the glare of the flaming-arcs, he would compensate himself for his years of penance.

Mirabelle was sharp, but (he smiled reminiscently) in Chicago he had once managed to hoodwink her; and what man has done, man can do.

"It's nothing to laugh at, Theodore!"

He came to himself with a start. "I wasn't laughing."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, dear. Certainly."

"Very well. We'll go out, then."

"Out where?"

"Out to the vestibule, just as I said."