The Carleton Case Part 4

Surely, the gold medal lay all but in his grasp, and Henderson, indeed, had the grace to acknowledge it. "You're all right, Jack," he said, as they parted, "see you to-morrow afternoon, but I guess you've got things cinched; this is your lucky day;" and Carleton, though perforce he shrugged his shoulders and said that no one could ever tell, felt in his heart that the prize was as good as won.

At the club-house he dressed, and then, finding that he had plenty of time, walked leisurely down to the train, and started back for town. For a while, just comfortably tired with the afternoon's round, he was content to sit back in his seat with pa.s.sive enjoyment, with eyes half closed, playing over again each stroke of the round in pleasant retrospect, again smas.h.i.+ng straight low b.a.l.l.s from the tee, again laying up his approach shots, again successfully holing long, difficult puts.

It made pleasant enough dreaming, and he sat thus until Hillside was reached.

Then suddenly, two men, entering hurriedly, took the vacant seat behind him, evidently resuming their conversation where it had been broken off as they had boarded the train. Their first words drove golf a million miles from his brain. "So it busted clean to h.e.l.l, did it?" asked the stout man, panting with haste and excitement.

"Did it?" echoed his companion, with a certain dismal pride, the sense of proprietors.h.i.+p that one gains in the communication of bad news, "well, I should say it did. Didn't begin till two o'clock, and then, say, you never saw such a time in your life. Smash--Bang--Smas.h.!.+

Everything thrown over, right and left; why, down at Wellman's--"

The train roared into the long tunnel, and the rest of the sentence was lost. It was enough, and Carleton, sitting motionless, felt a sudden sickening reaction creep over him. A game of golf--a gold medal--and the market again in the grip of a panic beside which the first break of three days ago must have been as nothing. And then, insistently, he began to wonder--how bad--how bad? His margin had been slender enough before--hardly sufficient, really, to pa.s.s muster unless tinctured with the dangerous kindness of friends.h.i.+p--he clenched his hands; his mouth had gone suddenly dry--

Inside the smoky station the train came to a halt. Alighting, he paused to buy the evening papers from a clamorous newsboy; then without stopping even to glance at them, hastened straight to his office. It was long after the hour of closing. The office boy was gone, the door made fast. Unlocking it, he entered, sat down at his desk, and began hastily to examine the letters and memoranda reposing there. "Ring up Mr.

Turner," was penciled half a dozen times in the office boy's round, sprawling hand, with various additions, "Important," "Urgent," "At once," "Ring 698, Lincoln;" that was Harris and Wheeler's; "Ring Main, 422;" that was Claxton Brothers. He turned to the papers. Lord above, what headlines! Panic--market crash--houses suspended--banks in danger--half dazed, he gazed for a moment around him, as if doubting that it could all be real; then, with a grim feeling that nothing could much matter now, he read steadily the long rows of stock quotations; and ever, as he read down a column, values dropped downward with him, and never, as he turned to the top of the next, did they rise again. Once more he had to stop, unable to grasp the truth; Akme Mining, nine and a half; Suburban Electric, forty-seven; Fuel, sixty-three; it was all impossible.

Through the slide in the office door a letter fluttered gently to the floor. He rose and picked it up. It had Turner's name in the corner.

Inside was a hasty scrawl, "Things very bad; must have ten thousand additional margin at opening to-morrow, sure." As he laid it down, the telephone rang; "Yes," he answered, "Mr. Harris; oh, yes, I know; five thousand; yes; thanks; you've got to have it at the opening; all right; good-by." He hung up the receiver, and turned to confront a telegraph boy at his elbow. He hastily signed, and ripped open the envelope. This time the laconic message was from Claxton Brothers. "Good," he muttered, "only five thousand more. This is fine," and he threw himself back in his office chair, and for a moment or two thought hard. Then he smiled ironically. "Oh, yes," he muttered, "Henderson got it right, as usual; this is certainly my lucky day;" then after a moment, he added, "Well, I suppose it's a case of must now. It's all I _can_ do." He rose, shrugging his shoulders, and thrusting the papers into his pocket, he hurriedly left the office.

CHAPTER V

A QUESTION OF HONOR

"What is left when honour is lost?"

_Publius Syrus._

Twilight was falling over The Birches, and Edward Carleton, seated alone on the piazza, gazed out over the darkening fields into a world of ever blending shadows and onward creeping dusk. Always, as long as the weather permitted, after his evening meal, he loved to sit there, puffing quietly at his big, old-fas.h.i.+oned, curved pipe, and letting his memory roam back at will through scene after scene from the long years that now lay behind him; or sometimes, more rarely, living in the present, content merely to gaze out on blossoming flower, and tree in full leaf; to watch the fiery colors of the sunset glow and die in the far-off west; to hear from the orchard across the road a robin singing his good night song; to listen to the thousand wonderful secrets which Nature at the last loves to whisper to those who have lived their lives pure in deed and word, and who have journeyed far onward into the shadow, still kindly and serene, with the wonderful dreams of childhood making beautiful their minds, and in their hearts the faith of little children.

Often Henry Carleton sat there with him, but to-night the old man was alone. An hour ago, a message had come from Henry, saying that he would not be home until the following evening--perhaps not even then--that business matters of importance had arisen, making it necessary that he should remain in town. Characteristic of Henry Carleton's unfailing thoughtfulness the message had been, and it was of his brother, and, with a half-sigh, of Jack as well, that Edward Carleton was thinking now, as the darkness pressed closer and closer around the old house that had sheltered for so many generations so many fathers and sons of the Carleton blood.

From the entrance to the gravel walk, the sound of footsteps smote briskly on his ear and he glanced up to see a tall and familiar figure coming up the path. A moment later, and Jack had hastily mounted the steps, scarce seeming to heed his father's greeting, and speaking at once, in a voice strangely unlike his own. "Father," he said, "where's Henry?"

The old man gazed at him in surprise. "He's not at home, Jack," he answered, and then, with a momentary foreboding, "What is it, my boy?

Nothing wrong?"

Jack laughed, a little grimly. "No, nothing like that," he answered, "I'm in trouble, that's all. I've stayed too long in a falling market, and got caught. If I can't get help from Henry, I guess I'm done."

In the darkness Edward Carleton reached out his hand, and laid it on his son's shoulder. "My dear boy," he said, "I'm sorry. If only Henry has the money available. But I don't know. These must be terrible times for every one. Tell him if there's any way he can use what he holds for me, that I asked him to do so. I'm so sorry, Jack--so sorry--"

With what was for him unusual feeling, Jack took his father's hand in both his own. "Thank you, father," he said, "I know you are. It's all my own fault, of course. I don't deserve any help. But it's all come so suddenly. I never thought--"

He broke off abruptly, then spoke again. "Well, I suppose I must get back in town, I haven't much time. I never dreamed of not finding Henry here. I'm sorry I can't stay. Good night, father," and he was gone.

It was nearly two hours later when he hastened down Adams Street toward the Harmon Building, where high overhead in many a window, lights ordinarily extinguished by five or six o'clock, were still burning brightly; some of them, indeed, destined to gleam and flicker throughout that long, anxious summer's night, and only to pale at last as the first faint streaks of dawn struck through the shades on the men who planned and toiled within, working feverishly, with gray, unshaven faces, and weary, bloodshot, deep-sunken eyes.

Getting out of the elevator at the fourth floor, Jack hastily made his way into Henry Carleton's offices. Once there, however, although his name was quickly sent in, he was compelled to wait for a full half hour in the outer corridor, until at length a bell rang sharply, and a tired looking clerk, with a nod of his head toward the inner office, signified that the audience was granted. With a curious sense of old-time familiarity, Jack entered the big square room which he had visited last, now upward of three years ago, and closed the door behind him.

Over by the window, Henry Carleton was seated at his desk. He was a man of about fifty, in complexion so dark as to appear almost swarthy, and with coal black hair and beard, here and there just faintly touched with gray. He was tall, much of Jack's height and build, yet constructed upon finer lines, with a sinuous grace of movement that had about it something almost feline. His face was rather long, the forehead and cheek-bones high, the eyes were black and piercing, and the lips of the strong, well-chiseled mouth noticeably full and red. Altogether, an interesting face, a fitting index to the dual personality of the man--Henry Carleton the shrewd and able leader in the business world, and Henry Carleton the musician and man of letters--the artist to his finger-tips.

As Jack entered, he glanced up pleasantly enough, though far back in his eyes there lurked a hidden gleam of some emotion difficult to fathom.

"Why, h.e.l.lo, Jack," he said, "I'm surprised to see _you_. What brings you here? Sit down." He motioned toward a chair.

Jack Carleton came forward into the room, standing a little awkwardly with his hand on the back of the proffered seat. "It's the market, Henry," he said briefly, "I've got caught. I have to raise twenty thousand by the opening to-morrow, or go under. I've just come from home; I thought I'd find you there. I'll tell you the truth. I hate like h.e.l.l to come to you, and you know it, but I've got to get the money somehow, and if you can help me, I wish to Heaven you would."

Henry Carleton gazed at him meditatively. "Better sit down," he said curtly, and this time Jack accepted the invitation. There was a short silence. Then Henry Carleton drew a tiny note-book from his pocket, and looked up, with pencil poised, "Now let's have it," he said.

Jack Carleton frowned. It was easy enough to see that the confession of his sins was little less than torture to him. "Well," he began, a trifle defiantly, "it's like this. I've got in a trifle deeper than I meant to when I started. Things looked so like a cinch, I couldn't help it. I've fifteen hundred shares of Suburban Electric, and seven hundred Akme Mining, and five hundred Fuel, and a little other stuff besides. My heaviest account's with Turner and Driver; then I've got an account with Harris and Wheeler, and another with Claxton Brothers; altogether--"

Piece by piece the whole story came out. Henry Carleton wrote, figured, meditated; asked a question here, another there; meditated again.

Finally he seemed to make up his mind. He spoke with deliberation, weighing his words. "No one can tell," he said, "what the next twenty-four hours are going to bring. But what you ought to do is clear.

You've got to lighten up, to start with. Close out your account with Harris, and with the Claxtons; hang on to what you have at Turner and Driver's, if you can. That's enough; and that's our problem: how best to try to carry it through."

As if the words brought him measureless comfort, Jack drew a long breath of relief. "You think, then," he asked, almost timidly, "you can fix it somehow? You think you can get me by?"

Henry Carleton did not at once reply, and when he finally spoke, it was but to answer Jack's question with another. "Have you done everything you can yourself?" he queried. "Where else have you tried?"

Jack gave a short mirthless laugh. "Where _haven't_ I tried?" he retorted. "I've tackled about every friend and acquaintance I've got in the world. I began four days ago. And I've had the same identical come-back from every one of them. They're sorry, but they have to look out for themselves first. And security. They all talk about that. I never knew before that security cut such a lot of ice with people. But it does."

Henry Carleton nodded grimly. "Yes, it does," he answered dryly, "most of us make that discovery sooner or later. And generally for ourselves, too. And when you mention security, Jack, you've come right down to the root of the whole trouble. We might as well acknowledge it now. I can't help you myself. I tell you so frankly. I couldn't use trust funds for such a purpose, of course. Any one would tell you that. That's out of the question. And my own money is hopelessly tied up. I couldn't get the sum you need under a month, if I could then. But there's one thing I might do. It isn't business. I hate to try it. But I don't want to see you disgraced, Jack, if I can help it. Wait here a minute, till I see--"

He rose and walked over to the telephone booth in the rear of his office, and entering, closed the door behind him. In two minutes he came back to his desk, penciled a name on a card, and handed it to Jack.

"This fellow Farrington," he said shortly, "is under some obligations to me. I think you'll get what you want from him. Better see him anyway.

He's in the Jefferson Building, top floor. I told him you'd be there in ten minutes, at the most."

Jack Carleton rose. "I'm much obliged, Henry," he said, a little lamely, "you're very good. I'm much obliged. I'll go right over, of course."

The other stood gazing at him with a curious expression on his swarthy face, a curious gleam far back in his dark eyes. "Don't mention it," he said smoothly, "Carletons must stand together, Jack. We mustn't bring dishonor on the name, whatever we do."

Unerringly he had pierced the weak joint in the armor. Jack's face went whiter than before. He stood for a moment silent, then spoke with effort. "No," he answered, "we mustn't do that," and turning, he left the room.

Up-town toward the Jefferson Building he hurried, half-daring, yet half-fearing, to hope. Noting the number of the room on the framed directory placarded within, he left the elevator at the tenth floor, and hastening down the corridor, paused opposite the door. Externally the office was a modest one, with "H. O. Farrington, Agent" inscribed in plain black lettering on the gla.s.s. Entering, he found the interior to correspond. A tiny room, with a small enclosure at one end, within which sat Farrington himself, a man perhaps best described by saying that he perfectly typified that somewhat vague being whom most of us have in mind when we speak glibly of the "average man." "Average" best described him in height, build, and appearance, the nondescript sort of person whom one meets on Monday, and pa.s.ses in the street on Tuesday, wholly unconscious of ever having seen him before.

As Jack entered, he glanced up quickly. "Mr. Carleton?" he questioned, and as Jack nodded, motioned to a chair. "Just a minute," he said, and bent over his writing again. Presently, as he stopped, and reached for a sheet of blotting paper, Jack ventured to speak. "I don't know how much you know about this--" he began, but the other raised his hand. "All right," he said briefly, and shoved a check and a receipt across the desk, "Sign, please."

Mechanically Jack glanced at the check. It was for the amount required.

Mechanically, too, he signed the receipt, and handed it back to Farrington. Half unable to realize his good fortune, he rose, the check in his hand. "I'm greatly obliged," he said.

Farrington made no reply. Evidently words with him were precious things.

Perforce Jack turned to go, and then, half-way to the door, turned.

"Mr. Farrington," he said hesitatingly, "if things should go lower--"

Farrington did not look up. "They won't," he said tersely.

Again Jack hesitated. Then, finally, "But if they should--" he said again.