The Grain of Dust Part 38

Norman looked at Tetlow shrewdly. "How do you know this?" he asked.

Tetlow's eyes shifted. "Can't tell you. But I know."

"Galloway hates me."

Tetlow nodded. "You were the one who forced him into a position where he had to make peace with Burroughs. But Galloway's a big man, big enough to admire ability wherever he sees it. He has admired you ever since."

"And has given his business to another firm."

"But if the break comes he'll need you. And he's the sort of man who doesn't hesitate to take what he needs."

"Too remote," said Norman, and his despondent gesture showed how quickly hope had lighted up. "Besides, Billy, I've lost my nerve. I'm no good."

"But you've gotten over that--that attack of insanity."

Norman shook his head.

"I can't understand it," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Tetlow.

"Of course you can't," said Norman. "But--there it is."

"You haven't seen her lately?"

"Not since that day ... Billy, she hasn't--" Norman stopped, and Tetlow saw that his hands were trembling with agitation, and marveled.

"Oh, no," replied Tetlow. "So far as I know, she's still respectable.

But--why don't you go to see her? I think you'd be cured."

"Why do you say that?" demanded Norman, the veins in his forehead bulging with the fury he was ready to release.

"For no especial reason--on my honor, Fred," replied Tetlow. "Simply because time works wonders in all sorts of ways, including infatuations.

Also--well, the fact is, it didn't seem to me that young lady improved on acquaintance. Maybe I got tired, or piqued--I don't know. If she hadn't been a silly little fool, would she have refused you? I know it sounds well--in a novel or a play--for a poor girl to refuse a good offer, just from sentiment. But, all the same, only a fool girl does it--in life--eh? But go to see her. You'll understand what I mean, I think. I want you to brace up. That may help."

"What's she doing?"

"I don't know. I'll send you her address. I can get it. About Galloway--If that break comes, I propose that we get his business--you and I. I want you for a partner. I always did. I think I know how to get work out of you. I understand you better, than anyone else. That's why I'm here."

"It's useless," said Norman.

"I'm willing to take the risk. Now, here's what I propose. I'll stake you to the extent of a thousand dollars a month for the next six months, you to keep on as you are and not to tie yourself up to any other lawyer, or to any client likely to hamper us if we get the Galloway business."

"I've been borrowing right and left----"

"I know about that," interrupted Tetlow. "I'm not interested. If you'll agree to my proposal, I'll take my chances."

"You are throwing away six thousand dollars."

"I owe you a position where I make five times that much."

Norman shrugged his shoulders. "Very well. Can I have five hundred at once?"

"I'll send you a check to-day. I'll send two checks a month--the first and the fifteenth."

"I am drinking a great deal."

"You always did."

"Not until recently. I never knew what drinking meant until these last few months."

"Well, do as you like with the money. Drink it all, if you please. I'm making no conditions beyond the two I stated."

"You will send me that address?"

"In the letter with the check."

"Will she see me, do you think?"

"I haven't an idea," replied Tetlow.

"What's the mystery?" asked Norman. "Why do you speak of her so indifferently?"

"It's the way I feel." Then, in answer to the unspoken suspicion once more appearing in Norman's eyes, he added: "She's a very nice, sweet girl, Norman--so far as I know or believe. Beyond that--Go to see her."

It had been many a week since Norman had heard a friendly voice. The very sound of the human voice had become hateful to him, because he was constantly detecting the note of nervousness, the scarcely concealed fear of being entangled in his misfortunes. As Tetlow rose to go, Norman tried to detain him. The sound of an unconstrained voice, the sight of a believing face that did not express one or more of the shadings of contempt between pity and aversion--the sight and sound of this friend Tetlow was acting upon him like one of those secret, unexpected, powerful tonics which nature at times suddenly injects into a dying man to confound the doctors and cheat death.

"Tetlow," said he, "I'm down--probably down for good. But if I ever get up again, I'll not make one mistake--the one that cost me this fall. Do you know what that mistake was?"

"I suppose you mean Miss Hallowell?"

"No," said Norman, to his surprise. "I mean my lack of money, of capital, of a large and secure income. I used to imagine that brains were the best, the only sure a.s.set. I was guilty of the stupidity of overvaluing my own possessions."

"Brains are a mighty good a.s.set, Fred."

"Yes--and necessary. But a man of action must have under his brains another a.s.set--_must_ have it, Billy. The one secure a.s.set is a big capital. Money rules this world. Some men have been lucky enough to rise and stay risen, without money. But not a man of all the men who have been knocked out could have been dislodged if he had been armed and armored with money. My prodigality was my fatal mistake. I shan't make it again--if I get the chance. You don't know, Tetlow, how hard it is to get money when you are tumbling and must have it. I never dreamed what a factor it is in calamities of _every_ sort. It's _the_ factor."

"I don't like to hear you talk that way, Norman," said Tetlow earnestly.

"I've always most admired in you the fact that you weren't mercenary."

"And I never shall be," said Norman, with the patient smile of a swift, keen mind at one that is slow and hard to make understand. "It isn't my nature. But, if I'm resurrected, I'll seem to be mercenary until I get a full suit of the only armor that's invulnerable in this world. Why, I built my fort like a fool. It was impregnable except for one thing--one obvious thing. It hadn't a supply of water. If I build again it'll be round a spring--an income big enough for my needs and beyond anybody's power to cut off."

Tetlow showed that he was much cheered by Norman's revived interest in life. But he went away uneasy; for the last thing Norman said to him was:

"Don't forget that address!"

XV