Chapter XIV A Proposition to Make
Two weeks passed, and during the time Howard busied himself with the writing of letters to numerous real-estate men and postmasters in the West. Sometimes he would put down his pen to muse over what Florence had said, that she might tell him something after the lapse of four weeks, and more than once had he spoken to her with regard to what seemed to him as her vague information, but she had told him to wait. He knew her well enough not to persist. One of his earliest memories was a certain sort of stubbornness which formed a part of her character. She was gentle and lovable, but strong. He fancied that had she been reared in a different sphere of life she would have become a leader in the Salvation Army.
Bodney came to the office every day, but was so restless that he rarely remained long. Once he came to the door, saw the preacher within, and stole away without speaking. And one afternoon Howard heard him and Goyle tossing high words in the hall, but a few moments later they went out, arm in arm. One morning the Judge came in. “I didn’t know but you had left this place,” he said, standing near the door and looking about to search for the old memories, Howard mused.
“No, sir. The fact is I may not move to any other office in this town.”
“In this town!” the old man repeated. “What other town is there?” To a Chicago man that ought to have established his complete soundness of mind. “I can give you credit for all sorts of—let me say, weakness—but I cannot see why you should be so foolish as to leave this city.”
“You came at an early day,” said Howard. “I might better my prospects by going to a town that is still in its early day.”
“Um, and come back broke. You haven’t stuffed that old suit of clothes yet.”
“There’s time enough for that, sir?”
“What! Then you really intend to do it?”
“Didn’t you command me?”
“None of your banter.” The Judge walked over to the old iron safe, with the names Elbridge & Bodney slowly rusting into the invisible past, put his hand upon it and stood there with his head bowed. From the street came the sharp clang of a fireman’s gong, and the old man sprang back.
“There is a fire somewhere,” said Howard.
“There is, sir; it is here,” the Judge replied, putting his hand on his breast. Yes, it was now only too evident that his mind was diseased. The young man went to him, took his hand, looked into his eyes. “I beg of you to believe that my love for you is as strong as ever. I don’t know how to humble myself, for you have taught me independence, but I would get down on my knees to you if—” The old man threw his hand from him and hastened from the room. In the hall he encountered the opium eating doctor. “Why, my dear Judge, I am surprised to see you out.”
“And you will be still more surprised if you don’t get out of my way.”
“But won’t you stop a while for old-time’s sake?”
“I will do nothing, sir, but attend to my own affairs, and I request you to do the same.”
“Of course, yes, of course. Well, drop in when you are passing.”
The old doctor stepped up to the door of Howard’s office. The young man stood confronting him. “I have thought over what you said the other day concerning your father, and have come to the conclusion that you are right,” said the doctor. “There is something wrong with him.”
“But I wish you wouldn’t irritate him. And, by the way, why did you tell him that I told you to go out to the house?”
“Didn’t you request me to go?”
“I certainly did not.”
“Well, really, I misunderstood you. By the way, someone told me that you intended to give up this office. It is a better one than mine, having the advantage of a better view, and I don’t know but I might take it.”
“I am not going to give it up yet a while.”
Bodney came into the hall and the old doctor shuffled into his own den. “I guess he wants to poison someone,” said Bodney, nodding toward the doctor’s office. “Anybody with you?” he asked.
“No,” Howard answered, as they both stepped into the office. “Why?”
“Oh, I am getting so I don’t want to see anybody. I feel as if I were a thousand years old,” he added, dropping upon a chair.
“You don’t look well, that’s a fact. What seems to be the trouble?”
“I don’t know. Liver, perhaps. Goyle been here today?”
“No, and I don’t want him to come again. Now, look here, George, I believe that fellow has a bad influence on you. You are not the same man since you became so intimate with him. What’s his business? What does he do?”
“I’d rather not talk about him, Howard.”
“Then his influence must be bad. Turn him over to me the next—”
“No,” Bodney quickly interposed. “Let everything go along as it is till the proper time and then—then I will attend to him. I am not in a position now to do anything, but one of these days I am going to tell you something that will open your eyes to the perfidy of man—man close to you. Don’t say anything more now; I am crushed. I am—”
He leaned forward with his arms on a table and his head on his arms, his eyes hidden from the light. “Why, my dear boy,” said Howard, going to him, touching him gently, “don’t look at it that way. It is not so bad as that.”
“It is worse,” said Bodney, in a smothered voice. “It is worse than you can possibly picture it. And when I tell you, you will hate me as you never hated a human being on the earth. Don’t ask me now, for I can’t tell you. Just simply don’t pay any attention to me. But I beg of you not to say a word at home. I have been led into hell, Howard, and there is no way out.”
“Oh, yes, there is, my boy. There is the door through which you went in. Go out at it.”
“I can’t. You don’t know.”
“Are you in financial trouble? Has that fellow led you—”
“Worse than that, Howard. But I can’t tell you now.”
Once his long-delayed confession flowed to the very brim of utterance, but he forced it back and sat in silence. Howard went out and Bodney was thankful to be alone with his own misery; but he was not to be long alone—Goyle came in.
“Why, what’s the matter, old chap? You seem to be in the dumps. Come, cheer up now. You’ve got no cause to be so blue? You don’t see those fellows over yonder in the bank blue, do you? I guess not. And they are the biggest sort of robbers. I beat the horses today. And here’s thirty of what I owe you. Oh, it’s coming around all right. You can’t keep a squirrel on the ground, you know.”
“That’s all right,” replied Bodney, brightening as he took the bank notes. “Can’t keep a squirrel on the ground, but you can shoot him out of a tree.”
“But we haven’t been shot out of the tree yet. Things will begin to come our way now, you see if they don’t. I’ve got a proposition to submit to you that will make us both rich—regular gold mine, with not a dull moment in it—life from beginning to end. I can’t, tell you now, but hold yourself in readiness for it. You can take that thirty and maybe win a hundred at the Wexton. In the meantime I’ll be perfecting my plans. We shall need four or five agents, but I can get them all right, and if we don’t live in clover a bumble bee never did. Now, don’t you feel better? Look at me.”
“Yes, I feel better.”
“And don’t you believe we’ll pull out all right? Hah?” He put his hand on Bodney’s shoulder and looked into his eyes.
“Yes, I do.”
“Of course you do. We have been living in the night, but the sun is rising now. Let’s go over to the Wexton and eat dinner.”
“I ought to stay here till Howard comes back.”
“Why, just to tell him you are going out? If you go out he’ll know you are gone, won’t he?”
“You go on and I will come pretty soon. I said something to Howard just now that I want to correct.”
“All right,” said Goyle. “But come over as soon as you can.”
When Howard returned he found Bodney idly drawing comic pictures on a sheet of paper. He looked at him in astonishment. “Why, what has happened?” Howard asked.
“My fit’s passed, that’s all. I must have talked like a wild man.”
“I rather think you did. You alarmed me—said you were worse than ruined. What has occurred to change it all?”
Bodney laughed as he looked about, making ready to take his leave. He was beginning to be restless, for the fever was rising fast. He turned his eye inward to look for full hands and flushes.
“Nothing has occurred,” said he. “The fit of melancholy has simply passed. That’s all.” He was moving toward the door.
“Don’t be in a hurry,” said Howard. “There is something I want to talk about.”
“I haven’t time now,” Bodney replied. “I have thought of something that must be attended to at once.”
“Just a moment, George. Hasn’t Goyle been here?”
“Goyle? No, not today. And, by the way,” he added, turning toward Howard, “I think I must have spoken rashly about him just now. There is nothing wrong in his make-up; he may appear queer, but he’s all right when you come down to principle. He thinks the world of you.”
“I don’t want him to think anything of me.”
Bodney did not stay to reply. His fever was now so strong that it would have taken two giants to hold him. He fought his way through the crowd, and, panting, rushed into the poker room. They greeted him with the complimentary encouragement usually poured out upon the arrival of the “sucker.” “He’ll make you look at your hole card.” “Cash my chips.” “None of us got any show now.” It was nearly dinner time when Bodney sat down to the game, and when the meal was announced he was winner. Goyle came in and sat beside him at the dinner table. “The scheme I spoke to you about is a sure road to fortune,” he said, in a low tone.
“Bank robbery?” Bodney asked, smiling with the brightness of a winner.
“No, it’s not the robbery of the robbers. It is less dangerous and more profitable—almost legitimate.”
“Almost!”
“Yes—but full of sauce.”
“Don’t you think you’d better tell me what it is?”
“Not now. I want to see you alone—tomorrow. In the meantime make up your mind.”
“How can I make up my mind to do something that hasn’t been proposed?”
“Make up your mind to agree to my plan no matter what it may be. We are going to ride in carriages.”
“Or in a police van, which?” said Bodney, smiling.
Goyle put his hand on Bodney’s shoulder. “I see you are in a hurry to get back to the game. All right, but keep your mind on my proposition.”
“A proposition that hasn’t been made,” replied Bodney, getting up from the table. The game was re-forming, for the poker player does not dawdle over a meal; he eats just as a pig does—as fast as he can.
It seemed that Bodney’s luck had come to stay. “You make your third man every time,” said a losing wretch whose rent was past due. A kindlier eye might have seen through him his ragged children, but the eye of the winner looks at his stack—no poverty and no wretchedness softens its glitter.
The offensive fellow was there, sitting to the left of Bodney, but he was not offensive now; defeat had subdued him; and the Professor was present, in the darkness of hard luck, and with his air of mystery. “You either made your hand or you didn’t,” he said to a man who had drawn one card.
“You ought to know,” the man replied, looking at him with a steady eye. “You are a mind-reader.”
“Yes, when there is a mind to read. I will call you.” He did so and lost his money.
“You knew what I had in my note,” said Bodney. “Don’t you remember, when I met you on the corner? You said it was written with a pencil. Why couldn’t you tell what that man held—whether or not he had made his flush?”
“Both science and psychology stop and grow dizzy when they come to cards,” the Professor replied.
Goyle came in and put his hand on Bodney’s shoulder. “Slaughter ’em,” he said. “You’ve got everything coming your way.”
“But I don’t know how long it will last,” Bodney replied.
“Don’t scare away your luck with mistrust. And above all, don’t forget that I have a proposition to make. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He went out, humming a tune. Bodney looked round to see whether he was gone, and seemed to be relieved upon seeing him pass out. Now it was time to quit, the slave thought. He had not counted his chips, for that was bad luck, but he must have won nearly sixty dollars. Still the cards kept coming, two pairs holding good, and to quit was an insult to the goddess of good fortune. He remembered hearing a gambler say, speaking of an unlucky player: “He stays to lose, but not to win.” At ten o’clock he felt that he had reached his limit, and counted his chips—eighty-seven dollars. “I’ll have to quit you,” he said, shoving back. And now how bright and spirited the streets were. He threw a piece of silver upon the banner of the Salvationists.