The Son of his Father

Hazel had entirely recovered from her recent experiences. She laughed outright. More and more this man appealed to her. His calm, reckless courage was a wonderful thing in her eyes. Their whole schemes might be jeopardized by that afternoon's work, but he had acted without thought of consequence, without thought of anybody or anything beyond the fact that he yearned to beat this man Slosson, and would spare nothing to do so. What was this wild scheme he had suddenly conceived, almost the first moment he was left in sole control?

She tried to look serious.

"Can you tell it me now?" she asked.

"I could, of course, but – "

"You'd rather wait to see father about it."

"I don't know," said Gordon, with a wry twist of the lips and a shrug. "Say, did you ever feel a perfect, idiotic fool? No, of course you never have, because you couldn't be one. I feel that way. Guess it's a sort of reaction. I just know I've busted everything. The whole of our scheme is on the rocks, through me, and, for the life of me, somehow I – I don't care. I've hit up that cur so he won't want his med'cine again for years, and it was good, because it was for you. So I don't just care two cents about anything. Say, I'm learning I'm alive, same as you talked about the first day I met you, and it's you are teaching me. But the champagne of life isn't just Life. Guess Life is just a cheap claret. You're the champagne of my life. That being so, I guess I'm a drunkard for champagne."

Hazel was held serious by some feeling that also kept her silent. Somehow she could no longer face those shining, smiling, ingenuous blue eyes. She wanted to, because she felt they were the most beautiful in the whole world, and she longed to go on gazing into them forever and ever. But something forced her to deny herself, and she kept hers straight ahead.

Gordon went on.

"Say, I haven't said anything wrong, have I?" he cried, fearful of her displeasure. "You see, I can't put things as they run through my head. That's one of the queer things about a feller. You know, I've got a whole heap of beautiful language running around in my head, and when I try to turn it loose it comes out all mussed up and wrong. Guess you've never been like that. That's where girls are so clever. D'you know, if you were to ask me just to pass the salt at supper it would sound to me like the taste of ice-cream?"

Hazel looked round at the earnest face with a swift sidelong glance. Then her laughter would no longer be denied.

"Would it?" she cried.

"Say, don't laugh at a feller. I'm in great trouble," Gordon went on quickly.

"Trouble?"

"Sure. Wouldn't you be if you'd bust up a man's scheme the same as I have, and if the only person in the world whose opinion you cared for can't help but think you all sorts of a fool?"

Hazel's smile had become very, very tender.

"Who thinks you a – fool?"

"Anybody with sense."

"Then I'm afraid I've got no sense."

Gordon found himself looking into the girl's serious eyes.

"You – don't think me – a – fool?" he cried incredulously.

Hazel had no longer any inclination to laugh. A great emotion suddenly surged through her heart, and her pretty oval face was set flushing.

"When a woman owes a man what I owe you, if he were the greatest fool in the world to others, to that woman he becomes all that is great and fine, and – and – oh, just everything she can think good of him. But you – you are not a fool, or anything approaching it. I don't care what you have done in our affairs – for me, whatever it is, it is right. I'll tell you something more. I am certain that if my daddy wins through it will be your doing."

Gordon had nothing to say. He was dumbfounded. Hazel, in her generosity, was the woman he had always dreamed of since that first day he had seen her, which seemed so far back and long ago. He had nothing to say, because there was just one thought in his mind, and that thought was, then and there to take her in his arms and release her for no man, not even her —

Hazel was pointing along the trail.

"Why, there is my daddy coming along – on foot. I've never – known him to walk a prairie trail ever before, I wonder what's ailing him."

And then Gordon had to laugh.

They were back in the office. By every conceivable process Silas Mallinsbee had sought to discover what had happened. But Hazel would tell him nothing, and Gordon followed her lead.

The old man was disturbed. He was on the verge of anger with both of them. Then Hazel lifted the safety valve as she remounted her mare, preparatory to a hasty retreat homewards.

"I'll get back to home, Daddy," she said, in a tone lacking all her usual enthusiasm. "Mr. Van Henslaer has a lot to tell you about things, and when I am not here he'll be able to tell you all that happened – out there."

Gordon again took his cue.

"Yes, I've a heap to tell you," he said, without any display of enjoyment.

The men passed into the office as Hazel took her departure. Her farewell wave of the hand and its accompanying smile for once were not for her father. Even in the midst of his mixed feelings that obvious farewell to Gordon made the old rancher feel a breath of the winter he had once spoken of, nipping the rims of his ears.

And his mind settled upon the thought of banking the furnaces with – coal.

He took his seat in the big chair he always used and lit a cigar. Gordon went at once to his desk and sat down. He leaned forward with hands clasped, and looked squarely into the strong face before him.

"It's bad talk," he said briefly.

"So I guessed."

Then, after a few moments of silence, Gordon recounted the story of the events of the afternoon right up to Mallinsbee's arrival at the office.

The rancher listened without comment, but with obvious impatience. This was not what he wanted to hear first. But Gordon had his own way of doing things.

"You see, I took a big chance on the spur of the moment," he finished up. "I just didn't dare to think. The idea took right hold of me. And even now, when I tell it you in cold blood, I seem to feel it was one of those inspirations that don't need to be passed by. In the ordinary way I believe it would succeed. Slosson would have been driven into our plans. But – but now there's worse to come."

"So I guessed."

Mallinsbee's answer was sharp and dry.

"And it's the most important of your talk," he added a moment later. "What happened – out there?"

Gordon's eyes took on a far-away expression as he gazed out of the window.

"I nearly killed David Slosson," he said simply. Then he added, "I knew I'd have to do it before I'd finished."

His gaze came back to Mallinsbee's face. A fierce anger had made his blue eyes stern and cold. Then he told the rancher of his finding Hazel struggling furiously in the man's arms, and of her piteous cry for help, and all that followed.

While he was still talking the girl's father had leaped from his seat and began pacing the little room like a caged wild beast. His cigar was forgotten, and every now and then he paused abruptly as Gordon made some definite point. His eyes were darkly furious, his nostrils quivered, his great hands clenched at his sides, and in the end, when the story was told, he stood towering before the desk with a pair of murderous eyes shining down upon the younger man.

"God in heaven!" he cried furiously; "and he's still alive?"

Then he turned away abruptly. A revolver-belt was hanging on the wall, and he moved towards it. But Gordon was on his feet in a moment.

"That gun's mine, and – you can't have it!"

Gordon was standing in front of the weapon, facing the furious eyes of the father.

"Stand aside! I'm – going to kill him – now."

But Gordon made no movement.

"No," he said, with a stony calmness.

It was a painful moment. It was a moment full of threat and intense crisis. One false move on Gordon's part, and the maddened father's fury would be turned on him.

The younger man forced a smile to his eyes.

"You once said I could scrap, Mr. Mallinsbee. I promise you I scrapped as I never did before. That man hasn't one whole feature in his face, and if the hangman's rope had been drawn tight around his neck it couldn't have done very much more damage than my fingers did. I tell you he's has his med'cine good and plenty. There's no need for more – that way. But we're going to hurt him. We're going to hurt him more by outing him from this deal of ours than ever by killing him. We're going to stand at nothing now to – 'out' him. Let's get our minds fixed that way. If one plan don't succeed – another must."

Standing there eye to eye Gordon won his way. He saw with satisfaction the fire in the old man's eyes slowly die down. Then he watched him reluctantly return to his chair.

It was not until the rancher had struck a match and relit his cigar that Gordon ventured to return to his desk.

"You're right, boy," Mallinsbee said at last. "You're right – and you've done right. If the whole scheme busts we – can't help it. But – but we'll out that – cur."

The hall porter at the Carbhoy Building was perturbed. He was more than perturbed. He was ruffled out of his blatant superiority and dignity, and reduced to a condition when he could not state, with any degree of accuracy, whether the Statue of Liberty was a symbol of Freedom or a mere piece of cheap decoration for New York Harbor.

The precincts of the beautiful colored marble entrance hall over which he presided had been invaded, against all rules, by a woman who obviously had no business there. Moreover, he had been powerless to stay the invasion. Also he had been forced to submit out of a sheer sense of politeness to the sex, a politeness it was not his habit to display even towards his wife. Furthermore, like the veriest underling, instead of the autocrat he really was, he had been ordered —ordered– to announce the lady's arrival to Mr. James Carbhoy, and forthwith conduct her to that holy of holies, which no other female, except the cleaner, had ever been permitted to enter. It was Mrs. James Carbhoy who had caused the deplorable upheaval.

But Mrs. James Carbhoy was in no mood to parley with any hall porter, however gorgeous his livery. She was in no mood to parley even with her husband. She was disturbed out of her customary condition of passive acquiescence. She was heartbroken, too, and ready to weep against any manly chest with which her head came into contact. It is doubtful, even, if a Fifth Avenue policeman's chest would have been safe from her attentions in that direction. And surely distress must certainly be overwhelming that would not shrink from such support.

James Carbhoy detected the signs the moment his door was opened, and his wife tripped over the fringe of the splendid Turkey carpet and precipitated herself into the great morocco arm-chair nearest to her, waving a bunch of letter-paper violently in his direction.

"I've been to the Inquiry Bureau, and had a man detailed right away to go and find the boy," she burst out at once. Then all her mother's anxiety merged into an attack upon the man who silently rose from his desk and closed the door she had left open. "I don't know what to say to you, James," she went on. "I can't just think why I'm sitting right here in the presence of such a monster. Here you've driven our boy from the house. Maybe you've driven him to his death, or even worse, and I can't even get you to make an attempt to discover if he's alive or – or dead. This letter came this morning," she went on, holding the pages aloft, lest he should escape their reproach. "And if he hasn't gone and married some hussy there, out in some uncivilized region, I don't know a thing. S'pose he's married a half-breed or – or a squaw," she cried, her eyes rolling in horror at the bare idea. "It – it'll be your fault – your doing. You're just a cruel monster, and if it wasn't for our Gracie's sake I'd – I'd get a divorce. You – you ought to be ashamed, James Carbhoy. You ought – ought to be in – in prison, instead of sitting there grinning like some fool image."

The millionaire leaned back in his chair wearily.

"Oh, read the letter, Mary. You make me tired."

"Tired? Letter, you call it," cried the excited woman. "I tell you it's – it's a lot of gibberish that no sane son of ours ever wrote. Oh! you're as bad as those men at the bureau. I made them read it, and – and they said he was a – bright boy. Bright, indeed! You listen to this and you can judge for yourself – if you've any sense at all."

"DEAREST MUM:

"I haven't written you in weeks, which should tell you that I am quite up to the average in my sense of filial duty. It should also tell you that I hope I am prospering both in health and in worldly matters. I say 'hope' because nothing much seems certain in this world except the perfidy of human nature. It has been said that disappointment is responsible for all the hope in the world, but I'd like to say right here that that's just a sort of weak play on words which don't do justice to the meanest intelligence. I am full of hope and haven't yet been disappointed. Not even in my conviction that human nature has some good points, but bad points predominate, which makes you feel you'd, generally speaking, like to kick it plenty.

"While I'm on the subject of human nature it would be wrong not to discriminate between male and female human nature. Male can be dismissed under one plain heading: 'Self' – a heading which embraces every unpleasant feature in life, from extreme moral rectitude, with its various branches of self-complacency, down to chewing tobacco, to me a symbol of all that is criminally filthy in life. Female human nature comes under a similar heading, only, in a woman's case, 'Self' is a combination of the two personalities, male and female. You see, 'Self,' in female human nature, is not a complete proposition in itself. Before it becomes complete there must be a man in the case, even if he be a disgrace to his sex. I will explain. You couldn't entertain any feeling or purpose without the old Dad coming into your focus. But with man it's different. The only reason a woman comes into his life at all is so that he can kick her out of it if she don't do just as he says and wants. I guess this sounds better to me writing from here than maybe it will to you in your parlor in New York. But it's easier to say things when you feel yourself shorn of the artificialities of life.

"This is merely preliminary, leading up to two pieces of news I have to hand to you. The first is, I have discovered that woman is the greatest proposition inspired by a creative Providence for the delight of man, but in business, unless specially trained, she's liable to fall even below the surface scum which includes the lesser grade of biped called 'man.' The second is that man, generally, is a pretty disgusting brute, and I allow he deserves all he gets in life, even to lynching. Understand I am speaking generally, as a looker-on, whose eyes are no longer blinded by the glamour of wealth in a big city and the comforts of a luxurious home.

"I feel I've got to say right here that to me, apart from the foregoing observations, woman is just the most wonderful thing in all this wonderful world. Her perfections and graces are just sublime; her understanding of man is so sympathetic that it don't seem to me she'd need more than two guesses to locate how many dollars he'd got in his pocket or the quality of the brain oozing out under his hat.

"I guess her eyes are just the dandiest things ever. Furthermore, when they happen to be hazel, they got a knack of boring holes right through you, and chasing around and finding the smallest spark of decency that may happen to be lying hidden in the general muck of a man's moral makeup. They do more than that. I'd say there never was a man in this world who, under such circumstances, happens to become aware of some such spark, but wants to start right in and fan it into a big bonfire to burn up the refuse under which it's been so long secreted. That's how he's bound to feel – anyway, at first.

"A woman's just every sort of thing a man needs around him. It don't seem a matter for worry if the sun-spots became a complete rash and its old light went out altogether. That feller would still see those wonderful eyes shining out of the darkness, giving him all the light he needed in which to play foolish and think himself all sorts of a man.

"Guess when he'd worked overtime that way and sleep set him dreaming he'd make pictures he couldn't paint in a year. There'd be every sort of peaceful delight in 'em. There'd be lambs, and children without clothes, and birds and flowers. And the lambs would bleat, and the children sing, and the birds flutter, and the flowers smell, and all the world would be full of joy. Then he'd wake up. Maybe it would be different then. You see, a man awake figures his woman needs to look like the statue of Venus, be bursting with the virtues of a first-class saint, and possess the economical inspiration of a Chinee cook.

"In pursuance of these discoveries of mine I feel that maybe I've got a wrong focus of our Gracie. Maybe when she gets sense, and sort of finds herself floating around in the divine beauties of womanhood, some escaped crank may chase along and figure she possesses some of the wonderful charms I've been talking about. Personally I wish our Gracie well, and am hoping for the best. Still, I feel whatever trouble she has getting a husband I don't guess it'll end there – the trouble, I mean.

"To come to my second discovery, it has afforded me some pleasant moments, as well as considerable disgust and anger. It may seem difficult to associate these emotions without confusion. But were you to fully understand the situation you would realize that they could be associated in one harmonious whole. With anger coming first, you find yourself in a frenzied state of elation, capable of achieving anything, from murder down to robbing the dead. It is a splendid feeling, and saves one from the rust of good-natured ineptitude. Then come the pleasant moments, which may find themselves in extreme exertion and the general exercise of muscles, and even, in some cases – brains. Disgust is the necessary mental attitude under reaction. This is how my discovery affected me. But I fancy the object through which I made my second discovery was probably affected otherwise. I can't just say offhand. Maybe I'll learn later, and be able to tell you.

"There is not a day passes but what I make discoveries of a more or less interesting nature. For instance, I've learned that there's nothing like three people hating one person to make for a bond of friendship between them. I'd say it's far more binding than marriage vows at the altar. This comes under the heading of 'more' interesting. Under the 'less' comes such things as – the only time that impulsive action justifies itself is when you're sure of winning out. I have given myself two examples of impulsive action only to-day. The one in which I have won out seems to have ruined the chances of the other. This is a confusion that doesn't seem to justify anything. Still, a philosopher might be able to disentangle it.

"I should be glad if you would give the old Dad my best love, and tell him that the figures representing one hundred thousand dollars grow in size with the advancing weeks. Nor can I tell how big they will appear by the end of six months. If they grow in my view at the present rate, by the end of six months it seems to me I'll need to walk around looking through the wrong end of a telescope so as to get a place for my feet anywhere on this continent. However, as 'disappointment' has not yet appeared to create 'hope,' it is obvious that 'conviction' remains.

"I regret that time does not permit me to write more, so I will close. Any further news I have to give you I will embody in another letter.

"Your loving son,

"GORDON.

"P.S. – I have been thinking a great deal about Gracie lately, she being of the female sex. Of course, I could not compare her with a real woman, but I feel, with a little judicious broadening of her mind, say by travel or setting her out to earn her living, she might develop in the right direction. It is a thought worth pondering. Such a process might even have good results.

"G."

Mrs. James Carbhoy's angry and disgusted eyes were raised from her reading to confront her husband's amused smile.

"Well?" she demanded. "Is it sunstroke, or – or – ?"

"That inquiry agent was a smart feller," the millionaire interrupted. "Gordon surely is a – bright boy."

Mrs. Carbhoy's indignation leaped. And with its leap came another. She fairly bounced out of the chair she had occupied and hurled herself at the mahogany door of the office.

"James Carbhoy, I shall see to this matter myself. I always knew you were merely a money machine. Now I know you have neither heart nor sense."

She flung open the door. Again she tripped over the fringe of the carpet, and, with a smothered ejaculation, flew headlong in the direction of the hall porter's stately presence.