The Son of his Father

"I'm glad you feel that way about Hazel, Dad," cried Gordon, his face flushing with genuine pleasure. "She's some girl. I guess I'm the luckiest feller alive winning her for a wife, eh?"

"You're going to – marry her?"

"Why, yes. She's the greatest, the best, the – "

"Just so. But we're not both going to marry her."

Gordon flung back in his chair with a great laugh. But his father's eyes still maintained their irony.

"Say, I'm sort of sorry talking that way now. There's other things." Gordon fumbled in his pocket while he went on. "Slosson? Why Slosson's trying to stave off pneumonia in a disused, perforated shack way up on Mallinsbee's ranch. He's a skunk of a man anyway, and I had to let him know I thought that way. I haven't heard about the pneumonia yet, but if he got it I don't guess it would give me nightmare." Then he handed across a small volume in morocco binding which he had taken from his pocket. "I don't seem to think you'll need much explanation about the other. That's your code book, which I forgot to return in the hurry of quitting New York."

The millionaire turned the cover, closed it again, and quietly bestowed it in his pocket.

"Guess I'll keep this," he said without emotion. "Yes, it tells me a lot. It tells me I've credited Mallinsbee and his crowd with the work of my son. It tells me that my own son is solely responsible for the idea, and execution, of rolling his father on this land deal. It tells me that the principles of big finance must have a fertile resting place somewhere in my son. Well, there's quite a lot of time before daylight."

It had been an anxious moment for Gordon when he handed back the private code book, and he had watched his father closely. He was seeking any sign of anger, or regret, or even pain, as his own actions became apparent to the other. There were no such signs. There was only that non-committal half smile, and it left him still uncertain.

His father's patience seemed inexhaustible. Had Gordon only realized it this was the very sign he should have looked for in such a man. James Carbhoy loved his son as few men regard their offspring, but he wanted his son to be something more than a mere object of his affection. He wanted him to be an object upon which he could bestow all the enormous pride of a self-made man. He wanted to feel that exquisite thrill of triumph resulting to his vanity, that Gordon was his son – the son of his father.

"Yes, there's quite a while before daylight, Dad, and I'm glad." Gordon ran his fingers through his hair. "So I'd better hand it you from the beginning. I want you to get a right understanding of my motives. It was opportunity. That thing you've always taught me fools most always try to dodge, and most good men generally miss."

His father nodded and Gordon settled himself afresh in his chair.

"Yes, I'm in this thing, Dad," he went on, after the briefest of pauses. "In it right up to my neck," he added, with a whimsical smile. "It was the opportunity I needed to make good. Being neither a fool nor a good man I took it, and now I sit with a wad of one hundred and five thousand dollars in good United States currency. It's here in my pocket, and I'm ready to hand it over to you in payment for those old debts. You will observe I have still eight weeks of my six months to run. I want to say, as you'll no doubt agree when you've heard my story, that I've made, or acquired it, through graft and piracy, such as I talked about to you awhile back, and, as far as I can see, my method has been as completely dishonest as an honest man could adopt. Dad, I've always regarded your sense of humor as one of your greatest attributes, but whether it'll stand for the way I've treated you, even with my intimate knowledge of you, I'm not prepared to guess. This is the yarn."

Gordon plunged into the story without further preamble while his father sat and smoked on with that half smile still fixed in his gray eyes. The younger man watched the still, inscrutable, sphinx-like figure with eyes of grave speculation. He missed no detail in the story of his irresponsibility and haphazard adventure. He started at the moment when he booked his passage for Seattle, and carried it on right down to the melodramatic moment when he burst into that parlor to rescue the girl he loved from a peril which he knew had never threatened her. He told it all with a detail that spared neither himself, nor the confidential agent Slosson, nor any one else concerned. He showed up the spirit of graft which actuated every step of his progress, and did not hesitate to apply the lash with merciless force upon the railroad organization his father controlled.

And right through, from beginning to end, the millionaire listened without sign or comment. He wanted to hear all this boy – his boy – had to say. And as he went on that pride, parental pride, in him grew and grew.

At the end of the story Gordon added a final comment —

"I want to say, Dad, I haven't done this all myself. I've had the help of two of the most cheerful, lovable rascals I've ever met. Also the help of one honest man. But above all, through the whole thing, I've been supported by the smile of the sweetest and best woman in the world, the girl who's done her best to care for your comfort here. She's sacrificed all scruples to help me out, while her father, bless him, has never approved any of my dirty schemes. There you are, Dad, that's the yarn. I don't guess it'll make you shout for joy, but, anyway, you started me out to make good – anyway I chose – and I've made good. Furthermore, I've made good within the time limit, and, in making good, I'm bringing back a wife to our home city. I'm standing on my own legs now, as you always guessed you wanted me to, and if you don't just fancy the gait I travel – why, it's up to you. That's mine – now you say."

The fixity of his father's attitude had driven Gordon to say more than he had intended, but he meant it, every word, nor did he regard his parent with any less affection for it. But now, as he awaited a response, a certain unease was tugging at his heartstrings.

At last the millionaire rose from his seat and crossed to the curtained window. He drew the curtains aside, and, raising the sash, flung out his cigar stump. Then for a moment he gazed out at the moonless night. While he stood thus the smile in his thoughtful eyes deepened.

At last, however, he turned back, and the face that confronted the son he loved wore the sharp, hawk-like look which his opponents in the business world of New York were so familiar with.

"That's all right," he said sharply. "But – you've forgotten something."

Gordon became extremely alert.

"Have I?" Then he laughed. "It 'ud be a miracle if I hadn't."

"Sure. Most folks forget something. I forgot that code book."

"Yes."

Their eyes met.

"You've forgotten that I can stop the work at Buffalo Point. You've forgotten that you've passed out of the realms of simple graft and plunged into criminal proceedings, which brings you within the shadow of the law. You've forgotten that I can smash your schemes, break you, and send you to penitentiary – you and your entire gang."

The steady eyes were deadly as they coldly backed the sharp pronouncement of the words. Gordon was caught by the painful emotion which the harshness of them inspired. He knew that his father had spoken the simple truth. He knew that in the eyes of the world he was a plain criminal. The unpleasant feeling was instantly thrust aside, however. He had not embarked upon this affair without intending to carry it through to the end he desired.

"I haven't forgotten those things, Dad," he said, with a sharpness equal to the other's. "I thought of 'em all – and prepared for 'em. I'm not playing. You put this thing up to me. I'm here to see it through."

"And then?" There was a shade of sarcasm in the millionaire's tone.

"Then? Why, I could tell you lots of reasons why you can't do any of these things. There's arguments that I don't guess you've missed already. But, anyway, just one little fact 'll be sufficient to go on with. You're here a captive, and you can't get away till I give the word."

For one of the very few times in his life James Carbhoy was seriously disconcerted. Choler began to rise, and a hot flush tinged his cheeks and his eyes sparkled.

"You – would keep me here a prisoner – indefinitely?" he exploded.

"I'm not playing, Dad," Gordon warned.

Gordon had risen from his chair, and the two stood eye to eye. It was a tense moment, full of potent possibilities. One of them must give way, or a clash would inevitably follow, a clash which would probably destroy forever that perfect devotion which had always existed between them.

For Gordon it was a moment of extreme pain. But in him was no thought of yielding. From his father it was his invincible determination to force an acknowledgment of fitness in human affairs as he understood them.

At that moment there was no humor in the situation for him.

In the older man, however, humor was perhaps more matured. Parental affection, too, is perhaps a bigger, wider, deeper thing than the filial emotions of youth. He had only intended to test this son of his. His challenge had been intended to try him, to confound. But the confounding had been with him in the shock of his son's irrevocable determination.

That moment of natural resentment passed as swiftly as it had arisen. Gordon was all, and even more, he told himself dryly, than he had hoped. And so the moment passed, and the hard, gray eyes melted to a kindly, whimsical smile which had not one vestige of irony in it.

"You're a blamed young scamp," he said cordially; "but – I'm afraid I like you all the better for it. Say, do you think that little girl of yours and her father have gone to bed yet?"

Gordon reached across, holding out his hand.

"Dear old Dad," he cried, "I'm dead sure we'll find 'em both not a mile the other side of that door. The game's played out, and – we quit?"

The father caught his son's hand and wrung it.

"It's played out, boy; and God bless you!" They stood for a moment hand gripped in hand. Then the millionaire pointed at the door.

"I'd like to see 'em before – daylight."

With a delighted laugh Gordon turned away to the door and flung it open.

"Say," he called, "Hazel! Ho! Mr. Mallinsbee!"

In a moment Hazel had darted to her lover's side, and was followed more decorously by the burly rancher, with his patch well down over one eye. Gordon pointed at it.

"Guess you can do without that, Mr. Mallinsbee. You're not going to face an opponent; you're going to meet a – friend."

He slid his arm about the girl's waist and drew her gently forward towards his father standing waiting to receive her with humorously twinkling eyes.

"So you're to be my little daughter," cried the millionaire kindly. "Well, my dear, I'm glad. I like grit, and you've got it plenty. I like a pretty face, and – but I guess Gordon's told you all about that. Seeing you're to be my daughter – and Gordon's left me no choice in the matter, the same as he left me no choice in other things – I feel I've the right to tell you you're a pair of – as impertinent young rascals as I've ever had the happiness to claim relationship with. Let me see, just come here, and – Gordon owes me for many nights of anxiety, and I guess I've a right to make him pay. I'll be satisfied with the payment of a kiss from you."

He held out his arms, and Hazel, with a joyous laugh and blushing cheeks, ran to them.

"Thank you, my dear," laughed the millionaire, as the girl frankly kissed him. "And that's the change." He closed his arms about her and returned her kiss.

Then, when he had released her, he turned to Mallinsbee and held out his hand.

"I can always make friends with the fellow who licks me, Mr. Mallinsbee. I'm glad to meet you – with that patch removed from your eye. The game's played and you've won, and I promise you all that's been done in my name by my son goes. You see, henceforth he's my partner now, so he's the right to act in my name. I'm trusting him with my dollars, but you are trusting him with something far more precious. I hope he'll prove as good a son to you as, I'm glad to say, I consider he's been to me."

Mallinsbee smiled a little sadly, and his eyes gazed tenderly in Hazel's direction.

"Directly that boy of yours come around, Mr. Carbhoy, I felt the chill of winter beating up. I'm glad he come, though – I like him. But," he added, with a sigh, "I'll sure need to bank those furnaces some."

Hazel left the millionaire's side and crossed to her father, and passed her arm about his vast waist.

"Don't start yet, Daddy," she said, smiling up at the rugged face. "I haven't left you yet, and when I do it's only going to be for a small piece at a time."

Silas Mallinsbee shook his head.

"Don't you worry, little gal," he said gently. "I guess this winter's goin' to be a mild one. You see, I'm goin' to have a son as well as a daughter, and – who knows? – maybe grandsons – "

But Hazel had quickly pressed one hand over his lips and stifled the possibilities he was about to enumerate.

Gordon laughed, and his father smiled over at the other father.

"See, Mr. Mallinsbee, we don't need to worry with the summer," Gordon cried. "Summer generally fixes things right for itself. Meanwhile we'll just make the winter as easy as we can. You've given your little girl to me, and she's all you care for in the world. Well, that's a trust that demands all the best I can give. I won't fail you. I won't fail her. And you, Dad, I won't fail you."

"Good boy," said the millionaire, with a glow of pride. "I just know it, and – I know it for Mr. Mallinsbee and Hazel, too, if they don't know it for themselves. Say – "

For a moment his eyes grew serious. Then into them crept a gleam of twinkling humor which found reflection on the faces of both Gordon and Hazel, who waited for him to complete what he had to say.

"You've told your mother, Gordon?" he inquired. "Seems to me you've told her 'most everything in those – chatty – letters of yours."

Gordon grinned and shook his head, while Hazel waited – not without some apprehension. His father's smile gave way to a quaint expression of awe at such negligence.

"I'd say she'd be pleased, of course," the millionaire said, without conviction. "It's a mercy not always bestowed on a boy to get a wife like – Hazel. Your mother's a mighty good woman, Gordon, and I'll allow she's got her ways about things. But she's good, and I guess she'll just take to Hazel right away."

There was no confidence in his manner, in spite of the bravery of his words. But Gordon quickly cleared the atmosphere with his cheery confidence.

"You leave the dear old mater to me, Dad," he cried. "You see, you only married her – she raised me. I'll write her to-night, and – say, that reminds me," he added, glancing at his watch. "Daylight'll be around directly. Hazel needs her rest. Hadn't we – "

Hazel laughed. She had no real desire for bed, but she was tired, weary with the strain of all the swiftly moving events. She caught at his suggestion and demanded compliance.

"Yes," she cried. "There's another day to-morrow. Oh, that wonderful to-morrow! A long, bright, happy day in which we have nothing to conceal, no wicked schemes to be worked out. A day of real happiness, when we can just be our real selves. Let's all go to bed and dream our dreams with the full certainty that, however happy our to-day is, to-morrow has always the possibility of being happier."

But Gordon did not write the promised letter that night. He held long communion with himself, and decided to send a telegram. He realized that diplomacy must be brought to bear, for his mother, with all her exquisite qualities, possessed a slightly arbitrary side to her character where her home and belongings were concerned. Therefore he decided on a bold stroke.

He sacrificed his own rest that night, and in doing so sacrificed that of certain others. Sunset was roused from his equine slumbers, as also was Steve Mason disturbed out of a portion of his night's rest.

Gordon rode hard into Snake's Fall. He wished to make the return journey before breakfast. On arrival at the township he ignored every protest from the operator. He overruled him on every point, and was prepared to back his overruling with physical force.

Steve Mason was literally scrambled into his clothes and set to work at those hated keys, and the New York call was sent singing over the wires.

Meanwhile Gordon was left at work upon a sheet of paper upon which, after considerable thought, his diplomatic effort resolved itself into a piece of superlative effrontery.

And this was the message which startled his mother over her morning coffee and rolls, and incidentally sent a current of furious feminine excitement through the entire Carbhoy establishment at Central Park, like a sharp electric storm.

"Mrs. James Carbhoy,

"New York.

"Gordon's work here beyond praise. Boy has done wonders. When you hear all you will be proud of him. I am with him here now. Great events developing. Am most anxious to form alliance with certain people for financial reasons. Your influence required on social side. You will understand when I say rich, desirable heiress. Gordon needs persuasion. Come at once. Special to Snake's Fall. Will meet you at latter depot.

"JAMES CARBHOY."

When this message was handed to the impatient operator and he had carefully read it over, the man looked up with what Gordon regarded as an impertinent grin.

His resentment promptly leaped.

"Say," he cried in a threatening tone, "there's some faces made for grinning, and others that couldn't win prizes that way amongst a crowd of fool-faced mules. Guess yours was spoiled for any sort of chance whatever, so cut out trying to make it worse than your parents made it for you. Get me? Just play about on those fool keys and set the tune of that message right, or Mr. James Carbhoy's going to hear things quick."

The threat of the President of the railroad was sufficient to enforce compliance, but Steve Mason was no respector of persons outside that authority, and his retort came glibly.

"You wrote this, Mister, and – you ain't Mr. James Carbhoy," he said, with a sneer and a half-threat.

But Gordon was in no mood for trifling about anything. He was anxious to be off back to the ranch.

"Mr. James Carbhoy is my father," he cried sharply, "and if that don't penetrate your perfectly ridiculous brain-box I'll add that I'm the son of my father – Mr. James Carbhoy. Are you needing anything, or – will you get busy?"

Steve Mason decided to "get busy," and so the message winged its way over the wires.