Rope Part 7

"_And_ an education," said Judge Barklay.

"And a gold-mine for us--in just one little year. We could do it; I _know_ we could."

"And if the stupid fool who's had it this last year could make money out of it," added the Judge, "and you used any intelligence on it, you'd come out ahead. John made up his figures very carefully. That's the kind of man he was."

Henry stared at them alternately. "But if I _did_ fall down--"

"Henry!" The Judge was using a professional gesture. "What do you suppose your time is worth, at its present market value? Don't you think you can afford to risk a year of it against half a million dollars?"

"But when I've practically closed with Mix--"

"Sign any agreement?"

"No, he's having one typed."

The judge breathed in relief. "You're lucky. You'd lose money if you took a third interest for a gift, and if you took _all_ of it as a gift you'd lose three times as much. Because you'd have to a.s.sume your share of his liabilities. People think he's got money, but he hasn't; he's broke. He must have picked you for a life preserver."

Henry's jaw dropped. "What makes you think so?"

"I don't think so; I _know_ so. Oh, he's pretty shifty on his feet, and he's got a good many people hoodwinked--your uncle always gave him too much credit, incidentally--but his New York correspondents happened to be clients of mine when I was practising law, and they've both asked me about him and told me about him, inside of the last six weeks."

Henry sat unblinking "Is that--a fact!"

"And if you wanted to sell out," continued the Judge, with a trifle of asperity, "why on earth didn't you go to Bob Standish? Why didn't you go to an expert? And why didn't you have an audit made of Mix's company--why didn't you get a little information--why didn't you know what you were buying? Oh, it isn't too late, if you haven't signed anything, but--Henry, it looks to me as if you need a guardian!"

At the sight of his face, Anna went over to him, and perched on the arm of his chair. "That's enough, Dad.... _I_'m his guardian; aren't I, dear? And he's just upset and dizzy and I don't blame him a bit. We won't say another word about it; we've told him what we think; and tonight he can have a long talk with Bob. You'd want to do that, wouldn't you, Henry? Of course you would. You wish you'd done it before. You're feeling awfully ashamed of yourself for being so hasty.

_And_ sn.o.bbish. I know you."

Henry looked across at the Judge. "Might as well have my brains where my hair is, mightn't I? She sees it just as easy.... All right; we'll let the whole thing ride 'till I've seen Bob."

His friend Standish, gazing with childlike solemnity out of his big blue eyes, listened to both sides of the story, and to Henry's miscalculation, at no time during the recital did he laugh uproariously, or exclaim compa.s.sionately, or indicate that he shared any of Henry's conclusions:

"Oh, yes," he said, "people might giggle a bit. But they always giggle at a man's first shot at business, anyway. Like his first pair of long trousers. It's done. But how many times will they do it? A thousand?

Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? At maybe seven dollars a giggle? For less than that, I'd be a comedian. I'd be a contortionist. I'd be a pie-thrower. Henry, old rubbish, you do what they tell you to."

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

"Would I lie down like a yellow dog, and let people say I hadn't sand enough to stop a wrist.w.a.tch?"

"I know, but Bob--the Orpheum!"

"I know, but Henry--don't you sort of owe it to Mr. Starkweather? You wouldn't have put on this milk-fed expression if he'd soaked it to you himself, would you?"

At this precise instant, Henry was required on the telephone. It was his Aunt Mirabelle; and even if he had been dining with royalty, she would still have called him--if she could have got the address.

"Henry," she said acidly. "I've just found out what kind of a building it was your uncle deeded you. Theodore Mix told me. _I_ didn't know your uncle was ever messed up in that kind of a thing. He never told me. Good reason he didn't, too. I certainly hope you aren't going to spread this news around town, Henry--it's scandalous enough to have it in the family, even. Of all the h.e.l.lish influences we've got to contend with in this day and generation--"

"Well," said Henry, "it isn't any of it _my_ fault, is it?"

"That remains to be seen. Are you going to _run_ that--dive?"

"Why--I don't know. If I didn't--"

"Oh, yes, you're probably thinking how selfish I am. You wouldn't recognize a pure motive if you met one in the street. But to think of a Devereux--almost the same thing as a Starkweather--"

"What's your idea? To have me be a jolly little martyr?"

"There's this much to say, Henry--at least I'd put John's money to a n.o.bler use than you ever would."

Henry grimaced. "Your League?"

"Yes, what else?"

He was an impulsive young man, and sometimes he made up his mind by contraries. "I wouldn't count too much on it," he said cheerfully. "I might astonish you."

"You--Henry Devereux! Am I going to see my own sister's son in a polluted enterprise like--"

"You're going to see your own grandfather's great-grandson make P. T.

Barnum look a Kickapoo medicine man--if necessary," said Henry. "Only don't you worry about any pollution. That's where I draw the line. I'm not going to stage one single pollute."

"You _are_ going to operate that place?"

"Why certainly," said Henry. "And speaking of operations, I've got a hunch the patient's going to recover. I've just been holding a clinic.... Well--good-bye, Aunt Mirabelle." He turned back to his wife and his friend Standish. "So _that's_ settled," said Henry, and grinned, a trifle apprehensively. "We're off in a cloud of dust....

Waiter, where's those two portions of crow I ordered four months ago?

The service in this place is getting something rotten."

CHAPTER VI

Mr. Theodore Mix, sprawled in his desk chair, gazed with funereal gloom at the typewritten agreement which lay before him, unsigned. It was barely twenty minutes ago that Mr. Mix had risen to welcome the man who was to save his credit and his reputation; but during those twenty minutes Mr. Mix, who had felt that he was sitting on top of the world, had been unceremoniously shot off into s.p.a.ce.

His creditors surrounded him, (and because they were small creditors they were inclined to be nasty), he owed money to his New York correspondents, whose letters were becoming peremptory, and his brokerage business was pounding against the rocks. Quietly, overnight he had located a purchaser for the Orpheum, and as soon as Henry's name had been safe on the dotted line, Mr. Mix would have been financed for many months ahead. And then came Henry--and Henry, who had been cast for the part of the lamb, had suddenly become as obstinate as a donkey. Mr. Mix, gazing at that agreement, was swept by impotent rage at Henry, and he took the doc.u.ment and ripped it savagely across and across, and crumpled it in both his hands, and jammed it into his sc.r.a.p-basket.

For the moment, he subordinated his personal problems to his wrath at Henry. He charged Henry with full responsibility for this present crisis; for if Henry had simply scribbled his signature, Mr. Mix would have made a good deal of money. It never occurred to him that in the same transaction, Henry would have changed places with Mr. Mix. That was Henry's look-out. And d.a.m.n him, he had _looked_!

"I'm going to get him for that," said Mr. Mix, half-aloud. "I'm going to get him, and get him good. Jockeying me into a pocket! Conceited young a.s.s! And I'd have been square with the world, and paid off that infernal note, and had _four ... thousand ... dollars_ left over." His lips made a straight line. "And he'd have brought fifty thousand dollars' worth of business into this office--he'd have _had_ to--he'd have had to hold up his friends--to protect his ante. Yes, sir, I'm going to get him _good_."

Mr. Mix sat up, and emitted a short, mirthless laugh. He frowned thoughtfully: and then, after a little search, he examined the pamphlet which Mirabelle had given him, and skimmed through the pages until he came to the paragraph he had in mind. Enforcement of the Sunday ordinances ... hm!... present ordinance seems to prohibit Sunday theatrical performances of all kinds, but city administrations have always been lax. Want the law on the books, don't dare to repeal it, but don't care to enforce it.

Mr. Mix sat back and pondered. He knew enough about the motion-picture business to realize that the Sunday performances made up the backbone of the week. He knew enough about the Orpheum to know that Henry's quota, which under normal conditions would require only diligence, and initiative, and originality to reach, would be literally impossible if Sundays were taken from the schedule. The League's blue-law campaign, if it proved successful, would make Henry Devereux even bluer than Mr.

Mix. "Three rousing cheers for reform!" said Mr. Mix, and grinned at the pamphlet.

Another brilliant thought infected him. He had long since pa.s.sed the stage in which women were a mystery to him: he had long since realized that unless a man's pa.s.sions intervene, there is nothing more mysterious about women than about men. It was all humbug--all this mummery about intuitions and unerring perception and inscrutability.

Women are all alike--all human--all susceptible to sheer, blatant flattery. The only difference in women is in the particular brand of flattery to which, as individuals, they react.