The Penalty Part 50

[Ill.u.s.tration: The engineer made generous terms across the dinner-table]

"Why," the engineer stammered a little, "I thought you'd have lots and lots of friends that you'd want to let in on the ground floor. But if you haven't, and if my money is as good as another's--you see, it's a grand property--I'm not above longing for an interest in it myself."

"I can't deny," said Wilmot, who had been worrying himself dreadfully about finding the means, "that this looks like easy money to me."

The engineer made generous terms across the dinner-table, and the young Allens borrowed his money from him.

"I suppose," said the engineer hopefully, "that you'll run out from time to time to see how things are getting on?"

"Run out?" exclaimed Barbara; "we are going to live with the proposition until it goes through or under. Aren't we, Wilmot?"

"I hoped you'd feel that way about it, Barbs."

"You _knew_ I would."

At first they lived in a tent, and then in a series of large wooden boxes that they called first "The House" and then "Home." Machinery began to come into the camp in the wake of long strings of mules walking two and two. Upon the report of their special consulting engineer the nearest transcontinental railroad began to lay metals across the desert, to the mines. One day came strangers with picks and shovels, and the next day came more. And these began to scratch among the sage-brush and to explode sticks of dynamite against the faces of hills. Claims were staked; shanties built; a hotel with saloon attached, all of shining tin and tar paper, arose in the night. The first thing Barbara knew Wilmot began to talk of a stretch of sage-brush as Main Street. And the same day she heard a man with red beard speak of the little town as "Allen."

One night a man was shot dead among the sage-bushes of Main Street. Six hours later Wilmot came in on a horse covered with lather. There was a stern, but not unhappy, look in his eyes.

"Well?" she asked.

"He showed fight," said Wilmot; "and we had to pot him."

"Did you--"

"Would you care? We shook hands on keeping all details secret. I think the town of Allen will be run orderly in the future. And by the way, have I such a thing as a clean shirt?"

"You will have," said Barbara, "when the things dry."

"Barbara!"

"Yes, it had to come to it. There are only two women in town, and the other isn't fit to wash your shirts, dear."

"Let me see your hands."

He examined them critically, then kissed them uncritically.

"They don't look like a washer-woman's hands yet," he said.

"No," she said, "not yet. But please say they look less and less like a sculptor's."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "You will," said Barbara, "when the things dry"]

"Barbara," he said, "they look more and more like a dear's. But tell me, aren't you getting bored with it--missing New York things and all and all?"

"No," she said stoutly, "I'm not. I'm useful here in some ways. And I was about as useful there as--as all the other people. I'm not even worried about the mines."

"Neither am I. But development's a great deal slower than I thought.

We've still plenty of money. And the moment we begin to ship ore, we'll have plenty of credit which is just as useful. No! I'm not worried.

We're going to be rich, and we're going to live in a palace."

"And then what?"

"That _is_ worrying me. What do people do when the striving's over, and the sixteen hours a day hard work? What _do_ they do? Oh, Barbs, we know lots of such people, and we must find out exactly what they do, and--do something else. Living as we are living has its drawbacks; but it's not a place to hurry over."

"It's a good way to live," said Barbara. "If you've got sense enough to know that it's good while it's going on. People who speak of the good old days, or who are always looking forward to better days, are usually unhappy. All the time I've been washing your clothes and mine this morning I kept saying, 'Now this is really _good_--this is really worth while,' and once when I got the better of an ink-spot, my heart began to beat as if I'd just finished some immortal work."

They were much amused with Bubbles, who came out to them for the Christmas vacation. The short fall term had already stamped him with the better ear-marks of the great New England boarding-schools. He was quite a superior person, rather p.r.o.ne to quotes just as if they had been facts out of the gospel, the sayings of Mr. This and Mr. That. And he used superior words, and spoke of various Kings of England as if he had _always_ known that such persons existed. He had in addition a smattering of Latin, his pride in which he strove in vain to conceal.

And most of all he considered the school-boy captain of the foot-ball team a creature, on the whole, wiser and more knowing even than Abe Lichtenstein.

But by the time he had been a week in camp he was himself again. And by the time he returned to school he had forgotten the ablative singular of Rosa.

They thought best to tell him that he would have plenty of money some day. In view of this would he persist in being a secret service agent?

He thought so. He wasn't sure. The service needed money often and always service. Had he seen his father? Yes, and he told them about the interview.

"And," said Bubbles, "he sent me a box Thanks-giving, There was a cold turkey and caramels and guava jelly and ginger-snaps, and walnut meats and seedless raisins, and, and as Mr. Tompkins says, it doesn't do to be _too_ hard on a man."

[Ill.u.s.tration: They were much amused with Bubbles, who came out to them for Christmas vacation]

LIII

Spring came. Their mine made its first shipments of ore and was no longer a paper success. The balance-sheet for the first month after shipments had begun made Wilmot whistle. He couldn't believe the figures, and worked till late into the night, trying to find some dreadful error. Finding none, finding that with the help of others he had really made good at last, the rough life began to lose its savor. If he still owed money it could be but for a short time. He was free as air--free to do what he pleased--almost to spend what he pleased.

"Barbs," he said, the next morning, "the mine's no good; we've got to tackle something else."

"What do you mean, no good? Why, you said--"

"I know what I said. The mine is a success. Aside from what your father has, you're a rich woman. And I'm a rich man. And that's the difficulty.

There's no use working our hearts out over a thing that's a definite success--is there? No fun in it. We've got to look round for something else. Now we are always going to have money--that's certain. What are we going to do with it? Think of something hard--something worth while."

"Oh," she said, "I can't--can you?"

"No," he said almost angrily, "I can't. And that's the rotten side of money. That's the stumbling-block for everybody who succeeds in collecting a lot of it. The distribution is infinitely harder than the collecting. I think we'd better pull up stakes, go back to New York, and think hard."

"Yes. Let's."

"I'd like to have a talk with Blizzard."

Barbara's eyebrows went high with surprise.

"Why not? Your father writes that the man is doing more good right in New York City where it's most needed than any six philanthropists the place ever owned. Maybe he's got something really big in view, and maybe he'll let us in on the ground floor."

"Well," said Barbara, "considering everything, I shouldn't care to have much to do with him."