CHAPTER TWENTY
It was in the succeeding spring that Chet Bowen died, and his wife found satisfaction in a funeral whose carriages extended almost from the home to the graveyard. He was buried in a black suit which made him look somehow unnatural, for his natural color was a drab rustiness…. Mr. Woodhouse, instead of hiring an experienced man from the city, promoted Angus to the cashier’s position in Chet’s place, and elevated Gene Goff to be a species of bookkeeper-assistant, to look after a great deal of the petty detail which had occupied Bowen. Another bookkeeper was brought in, and in this way Angus was given time to continue as Mr. Woodhouse’s personal representative, as well as to undertake duties in the bank which never had been entrusted to his predecessor. For Mr. Woodhouse had marked qualities in Angus which made him valuable to the old man, qualities of level-headed common sense, of acute perception, of initiative…. Angus was by way of becoming Rainbow’s most important financial personage—in the sense of operating the largest bit of financial machinery. When we consider Angus’s age this state of affairs may be regarded as extraordinary. There are few cashiers who have only passed their majority, but Angus was many years older than the tale of his birthdays—and many years younger.
Henry G. Woodhouse had reached that time of life when it was inevitable he should look forward to a day when Rainbow would know him no more. His years were beginning to weigh upon him. No longer could he bring to his endeavors the enthusiasm and acumen which had once been his; he discovered that fatigue stalked his path and that constant attendance at the office irked him. He longed for rest and knew a craving for leisure. All these things contributed to Angus Burke’s advancement. Daily the old gentleman shifted more from his shoulders to the younger man’s, and his confidence in his youthful assistant was remarkable, yet not so remarkable when one perceives how natural it is for age to lean upon the sturdiness of youth. Had Angus been unscrupulous, self-seeking, he might have obtained a sinister influence over the old gentleman—the sort of influence Judge Crane and his family accused him of exercising.
Judge Crane had approached Mr. Woodhouse upon the subject of taking his son into the bank upon his graduation from college—making the error of letting it appear that, in his opinion, young Malcolm should begin as soon as possible to learn to husband the fortune which was to be his upon Mr. Woodhouse’s death. He went away with the sort of flea in his ear which Henry G. was so capable of placing when he deemed the moment required it…. And Judge Crane’s fear of Angus’s influence fanned his hatred of the boy to fresh heat….
Sometimes Mr. Woodhouse would absent himself from the oflice for days at a time; sometimes he would look in once or twice during the day…. He was satisfied, but, what is of more importance to Angus Burke, Rainbow was growing satisfied, too. It had tested his mettle. It had known the touch of his ability, and gradually it was not only becoming accustomed to him, but, in a business way, was commencing to give him its respect…. So Henry G. was able to spend much of his time in his library or in driving about the countryside behind the finest team in Rainbow—for of automobiles he would have none. His position was enviable, even if it was arrived at so late in life. He was learning to enjoy what remained to him of his years…. Not every man finds an assistant so dependable as to make this pleasant state of affairs possible….
In the early summer of that year Mr. Woodhouse prepared to make an extended trip in the East—combining business and pleasure, and Angus was to be left alone, in sole authority for a matter of six weeks.
“I want to rest and to play,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “I want to forget all about Rainbow and business and mortgages and loans. While I am in Boston I shall stay at a modest, inconspicuous hotel, and nobody excepting yourself shall have my address. I don’t care what comes up—no matter who it concerns nor how important it is—don’t trouble me with it. I depend upon you, Angus…. At this season it is scarcely likely anything of great importance will arise, but if it does, exercise your own judgment and tell me about it when I get home.”
“Very well, sir,” said Angus. “I’ll try to manage.”
Mingling with men, with strangers on business errands from the outside world, and, in a limited degree, with the younger folks of Rainbow, had loosened somewhat Angus’s tongue. He did not speak so slowly, with that appearance of phlegm, of stolid thinking which had once been characteristic of him. His ideas took form in words more readily; his speech was more facile.
“There is one matter I have waited to speak about,” he said. “I do not know that it will come up while you are away, but it may prove embarrassing…. Judge Crane is borrowing money.”
He paused a moment to await Mr. Woodhouse’s comment.
“I know, I’ve heard something of it. He’s rather mysterious about it.”
“I think I know what he is doing,” Angus said. “He will want more money… a great deal more money, I believe.”
Mr. Woodhouse waited for Angus to elucidate.
“He believes,” said Angus, “he has discovered oil. You know there has always been footless talk of oil in this valley… because we have all seen oil floating in colored patches on the river. Sometimes if you stir the mud with a stick this oil will arise and spread…. People have said there must be oil, but nobody has ever tried to find out.”
“Yes. Naturally I have heard…. I have noticed this oily scum which floats on the water—iridescent patches that undoubtedly smell of petroleum…. Crane may be right.”
“He seems,” said Angus, “to be going ahead before he knows whether or not he is right…. It was Bishwhang gave me a hint of what the Judge is up to—Bishwhang heard some talk between Judge Crane and a stranger who was here a few days back—evidently an expert who came to investigate.”
“And Crane, I assume, is buying property with a view to becoming another Rockefeller.”
“Buying and optioning.”
“And borrowing money.”
“Yes…. We have his note for two thousand dollars—unsecured. Then there are other collateral loans.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse thoughtfully, “I loaned that money to Malcolm because he was Malcolm. A personal matter. I never figured it as good business. You understand, of course.”
“I understand…. But Judge Crane will need more money, I am sure. If he comes to me, what shall I do?”
Mr. Woodhouse regarded Angus fixedly for a moment before replying. It would have been interesting to read his thoughts, but those he kept to himself. “You will know the circumstances better than I. Perhaps you have made some investigations. If the matter arises exercise your own judgment, forgetting that Judge Crane differs in any respect from other customers of this bank.”
Two days later Mr. Woodhouse left for Boston. Angus was left behind, properly empowered to transact any business which might appear either for the bank or for his …. It was an unusual display of trust. To Dave Wilkins it was the proudest day of his life.
Already rumors of Judge Crane’s subterranean activities were afloat in Rainbow. The post office knew he was up to something, but could not discover what; knew he was taking options on property up the river, buying outright farms whose owners were suspicious of options. It required a great deal of money…. There were those who claimed the Judge represented an incoming railway and was securing rights of way; others took the stand that His Honor was in possession of some sort of information which would boom land values, and was preparing for the event; others, more astute, held that he had discovered coal, or iron or gold…. Very few, indeed, guessed petroleum.
The Judge was close-mouthed, mysterious. He realized he excited curiosity, and, even though his aim was secrecy, he made such a parade of it as a man of his character would make, delighting in the sensation he caused. He dearly loved to be in the public eye and on the public tongue.
The second week after Mr. Woodhouse’s departure, the Judge walked into the bank and passed directly into Angus Burke’s room without the formality of knocking. He uttered no word of greeting or courtesy, but drew from his pocket a promissory note which he tossed on Angus’s desk.
“I want fifteen hundred dollars,” he said, as an autocrat issuing a command to a slave.
Angus picked up the slip of paper, held it in his fingers for a moment, and studied it before replying. He turned it over, observing that there was no endorser.
“You want to borrow fifteen hundred dollars?” he asked.
“You heard me say so.”
Angus turned his chair and looked up at the Judge. “Will you be so good as to give me a list of the sums you have borrowed elsewhere within the past two months—and of your various liabilities and assets. A complete financial statement.”
“It’s none of your business what I’ve borrowed. All you have to do with the matter is to loan the money I ask. I don’t want any impertinence from you.”
Angus’s face was expressionless. “We already have your unsecured note for two thousand dollars,” he said.
Judge Crane bristled with rage. “Where is Mr. Woodhouse?” he demanded hoarsely. “I wonder what he’s thinking of to leave a whippersnapper like you to be insolent to customers?”
“Mr. Woodhouse left me in charge of the bank,” Angus said calmly. “You will have to deal with me.”
“I demand to know where he is.”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot tell you.”
“Burke,” blustered the Judge, “I’ll have you out of here for this, you—”
“We will discuss the matter of this loan,” Angus said concisely. “You already have, as I said, an unsecured note with us for two thousand dollars. Now, without security or endorsements, you ask for fifteen hundred more…. As a lawyer, you know that is not business. Banks do not loan that way.”
“There was no difficulty about the first loan,” Crane said, glaring at Angus.
“That loan was asked and granted on the ground of relationship. There was no business in it…. This is a different matter. I am not empowered to make friendly loans, nor loans of sentiment.”
“Then give me Mr. Woodhouse’s address.”
Angus disregarded the question. “If you bring me adequate security I will be glad to advance this money. Either that or a satisfactory endorser.”
“Why, you—you young—. You know my son will own this business some day…. You know….”
“I know Mr. Woodhouse owns it to-day. I know what he expects of me.”
“I know what he should expect of you,” Crane burst out with venom. “If he weren’t getting into his second childhood he would never leave you—scum like you—with money to handle. Your father was a thief and you—”
Angus stood up quickly. Crane failed to finish his sentence.
“You must not speak to me like that,” Angus said with something of his old-time manner. “You must not call me names—you nor anybody else…. I’ve told your son—he knows. You have been against me always…. I don’t know why…. But you must not call me names—ever again.”
“I—I—you young….”
Angus advanced a step. He spoke calmly now, so calmly that Crane fell into grievous error. The chill of fear, that relic of his childhood passed away from him. He was perturbed, but master of himself.
“You must not speak to me as you have…. Here I am not Angus Burke, but Mr. Woodhouse’s representative… cashier of this bank. You must remember…. You must have respect for Mr. Woodhouse.”
“I have respect enough for Mr. Woodhouse,” Judge Crane snarled; then, mistaking Angus’s quiet for a sign of weakness or lack of courage, he went on, “But you—don’t forget who you are…. A nobody and worse. You ought to be in prison….”
Angus’s face went gray, his jaw protruded and set, and his eyes smouldered with a dangerous light. He clutched the Judge’s shoulders, jerking the man toward him, close to him. His face was menacing…. Angus Burke was on the point of losing control of himself….
“Stop!” he said chokingly. “Be still…. I won’t have it…. You—”
Crane struggled to free himself, but Angus was the stronger; as he was powerful enough to hold the man’s body, so his spirit was strong enough to hold the man’s eyes, to dominate him, to intimidate him…. Suddenly he recovered himself, on the verge, as it were, and pushed the Judge away from him as one who fights off a temptation. He sat down in his chair. “You understand…. It’s not safe…. I don’t want to hurt you—or anybody….” Then he breathed deeply once. “If you want to talk business now, all right. But don’t mention Angus Burke….”
The boy continued to stare into the Judge’s face; Crane’s eyes fell, his knees felt queerly weak. He was cowed…. Angus picked up the note again and held it out.
“I cannot let you have this money without security,” he said, as though nothing had intervened since the matter of the loan was first mentioned.
Crane paced up and down, striving to recover himself. He was impressed, subdued, but his rage and hatred burned the hotter for his subjection, his humiliation. The man was able to see that here he had to do with a strength finer, more securely fortified, more admirable than his own; he knew that his will had been mastered by a more powerful will…. Presently he spoke sullenly.
“My house,” he said. “How much on first mortgage?”
“Twenty-five hundred dollars.”
It was difficult for Crane to speak at all—now he could only nod in assent.
“I will have the papers drawn,” Angus said. “Will you come in, with Mrs. Crane, to sign this afternoon?”
“Yes,” Crane jerked out. He turned and stamped to the door, exhibiting what discourtesy he dared venture as he stood for a moment on the threshold glaring at Angus. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and went out slamming the door after him.
Angus gripped his hands together when he was alone, and shut his eyes. His face was gray—he was remembering… remembering! Yet even then he could question himself, and the question he asked, the answer he demanded of himself was if he had dealt fairly in this matter; if his own prejudice had swayed him; if the insults to himself had moved him to act as Mr. Woodhouse would not have acted had he been present…. He was able to reply that he had dealt with Judge Crane as he would have dealt with a stranger, justly and fairly. It was a matter in which he was entitled to find satisfaction, yet he found none. Angus was not one given to self-congratulation.
Perhaps an hour later Gene Goff knocked on the door, and had to knock a second time to make himself heard.
“Man wants to see you,” he said, twitching at his necktie and craning his neck to look over Angus’s shoulder into a small mirror. “He let on it was about investments or suthin’.”
Angus went into the main banking office and perceived an individual, evidently an artisan, patently a character of sorts, who leaned in happy-go-lucky attitude against the wall.
“Did you want to see me?” Angus asked.
“If you’re Money I do…. If you’re Capital I yearn to see you. I itch to chat with Finance.”
Angus sniffed the air; it was not innocent of the odor of intoxicants.
“I am the cashier,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I,” said the stranger, “am an inventor.” He stretched his arm at full length before him and pointed a long, eloquent finger at his chest. “An inventor. I furnish brains, ingenuity, the raw materials of fortune… somebody else supplies the money. Comprehensible, eh?”
“No,” said Angus characteristically.
“I have invented no less than fourteen articles, devices, and mechanisms—whatever you call ’em. All to be manufactured from wood, from the trees of the forest. I have invented boons for the housewife, aids for the merchant, doo-dards for the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. The world needs them. It cannot get along without them…. But an invention, young man, is like a keg of—er—amber beverage without a—what-d’ye-call-it—a bung-starter. There’s no way of making use of it. Clear now?”
“Not yet,” said Angus.
“In words of one syllable, then, I have the inventions, duly patented and protected by statutes in such case made and provided.” The man smiled slyly, but with a certain charm and shook his head with a boyishly self-satisfied air. “Oh, they’re patented, and nobody can gouge ’em out of me. I’m looking for capital to manufacture ’em. Are you Capital, and will you build me a factory and supply the sinews of war? That, young friend, is what I’m getting at.”
Angus considered. One never discovered opportunities by refusing investigation. People made money by manufacturing novelties. He studied the man again briefly.
“I’ll look,” he said.
The man swayed back and forth, and then he grinned—after which he threw back his head and laughed, and the laughter was pleasant, infectious. “Young feller,” he said, “if you don’t spend money faster’n you talk I’ll be gray-haired and wobbly before I git a cent…. But I sort of cotton to your looks. Open up your door, Mr. Money, and I’ll show you the thingumbobs.”
For an hour Angus was occupied with the man, examining his ingenuities, listening to his drolleries. At the end of that time he said, “A factory would benefit Rainbow. I think you have things which would sell…. Go talk to Dave Wilkins.” That was all; no promises—no false hopes extended. Yet the inventor was satisfied.
“Son,” said Mr. Verry, for that was the man’s name, “folks has to do a sight of minin’ in you ’fore they git to mineral, but I calc’late when they hit a nugget it’s eighteen-carat fine.”
Angus looked after the departing man with a hint of a smile on his lips. He was beginning to understand the uses of humor. Indeed, during the past half year he was learning to laugh. It was an accomplishment in which Dave Wilkins delighted.
“That’s all he needs now,” Dave said to Browning. “If he can learn to laugh, he’s going to come out on top.”
For a man who seldom made use of laughter himself, Dave Wilkins set a high value on the commodity.