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Another random document with
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upon the wisdom of a young lady attending the Fair at night with
only a companion of her own sex.
Her lips are sealed with reference to a certain subject, and she
evidently does not suspect that Craig has seen her in company with
the young miner.
On his part Craig feels a genuine regret to remember what the
Colorado sheriff told him in connection with John Phœnix, whose
downfall is bound to suddenly occur. Perhaps, when he comes to
know her better, he may be able to learn what peculiar bond there is
between these two—who can tell the vagaries that flit through the
mind of a bachelor in love. If this young fellow has won her regard,
and his true character comes out with his arrest for embezzlement,
perhaps—well, hearts have before now been caught in the rebound.
At length he forces himself to speak again upon the subject of her
return. Perhaps she might not like to drive up to her father’s house?
She laughs for the first time since entering the carriage, and it
pleases Craig to hear her.
“If you knew me better, Mr. Craig, you would never suspect me of
being afraid in anything that concerns the dear old governor. He
idolizes me. If I say I’m going to Japan to-morrow he would never
throw an obstacle in my way. Though a bear to others, he’s the
dearest and best man in the world to me. That is why I have dared
to undertake this task—through love for him.”
He wonders what task, but is not rude enough to ask. They roll
between elegant mansions on Dearborn Avenue, and will soon be at
their destination.
“Then you will alight in front of your door?”
“If you please, sir.”
No more is said, each being busy with thoughts that come unbidden
into the mind. The driver has been coached and knows where to
turn. At length the carriage stops. Dorothy looks out.
“It is home,” she says quietly.
Immediately the gentlemen are out to assist the ladies. One glance
Craig gives at the huge pile of masonry and he has impressed the
location of the princely mansion on his mind. It rather staggers him
to think of this young girl, the sole heiress to great wealth, having
passed through such singular adventures on this night. Craig is a
Canadian, and, in a measure, accustomed to English ways. He
wonders what his people would think of such an escapade, and
smiles at the recollection of his austere aunt, so proud of her blue
blood and of an unblemished name. It is the destiny of Canadians to
draw nearer the American, while separating from the English, and
the younger generation feel this more and more in the drift of
commerce.
So Aleck, while brought up with a keen perception of the proprieties,
can even pardon such a breach of the same under certain
circumstances. Somehow he lays much stress on the personal
declaration that her motives are governed by sacred purposes. Not
that he can understand it—he does not attempt to do so—but there
is a charm in Dorothy’s presence that makes him believe whatever
she may say.
’Twas ever thus. A man in love is fain to pin his faith on the
goodness of the ethereal being who has charmed him. All others
may be false, deceptive, and born flirts, but this one bright,
particular star is an exception. That is the subtle glamour love dusts
in the eyes of his votaries. Whom the little god would secure in his
net, he first makes blind.
“I cannot thank you for your kindness, Mr. Craig. Perhaps by to-
morrow night I shall be in a better condition to talk upon this
subject. I feel that an explanation is due you,” she says, giving him
her hand.
“I don’t know about that, Miss Cereal,” he says.
“But you will come?” she adds eagerly.
He tries to keep his feelings in subjection by remembering the
strange companion with whom Dorothy sauntered about the Midway,
and who certainly took upon himself all the airs of a lover. Only in
this way can he subdue the sudden spasm of exaltation that sends
the hot blood leaping through his veins at the solicitude of her voice.
“I promised, and unless something prevents me I shall be there,
glad of the opportunity to meet your father.”
Then she says good night, and runs up the steps. A light burns in
the hall. Mrs. Merrick lingers a minute to say a few words.
“I will keep my promise, depend upon it, young sir. Some time you
may know my story, and perhaps you will believe I have not been
wholly actuated by a love of money.”
Then she follows her young mistress up the steps. A servant has just
opened the heavy door, and Aleck can see the handsome hall.
The young reveler on the seat beside the driver has reached the
pavement.
“Beg pardon, gents, but is there room inside for a chap of my size?
Devilish hard seat up there, you know. Here, driver, 's your pay,”
handing him a bill with the air only a royal prince or a roysterer half
seas over can assume.
Under these circumstances what can Aleck do—objections to the
stranger paying would be useless, and possibly stir up his fighting
blood, for men in his condition are exceedingly touchy. He feels an
interest in the fellow, since he came to their relief in time of need, so
they all enter the vehicle, giving the name of the hotel at which they
stop. It chances that Aleck names the Sherman House, and the
stranger bursts out with:
“My hotel—singular coincidence—something of a pleasure. Glad to
know you, sir. Wake me up when we arrive, kindly. Good. Find
shares sixteen above par—Hecla two hundred and three. Oceans of
money—no cares—a jolly life—see you later perhaps——”
And he sleeps the fitful slumber that follows over-indulgence in
drink. Aleck manages to settle him in a corner, and seats himself
beside the actor, who has been regarding the scene with something
like amusement.
“Pretty far gone, aint he?” remarks Wycherley.
“Disgusting. What a shame; looks like a bright young fellow, too.”
“Well-loaded with long green,” asserts the actor.
“Excuse me, I don’t quite understand.”
“I mean smartly heeled.”
“I’m still in the dark.”
Wycherley laughs.
“I forgot you were from over the border and not up to our
professional terms. What I would imply is that he is a man of means,
of money.”
“How do you know?”
“He took the bill from a great roll. The driver’s eyes stuck out of his
head at the sight.”
“It’s a shame, then, that he puts himself in a condition to be robbed.
Judging from his talk I should say he was from the West.”
“Singular we should run across so many persons from that quarter.
And this isn’t Colorado day, either. There’s the sheriff, then Phœnix,
who is wanted out in Denver, and finally this young chap.”
“Phœnix! yes, I know him,” utters the man in the corner, as if the
name has caught his ear, deaf to all other sounds.
“Talk lower, Claude. Where do you put up?”
“Oh, I have a room,” carelessly.
“Won’t you stay over with me at the Sherman to-night?”
“Couldn’t think of it, my dear boy. Very fussy about my quarters;
cranky bachelor, you know. Have to be just so.”
“Oh, I see! and a room in a hotel is a cheerless waste in comparison.
I can see the cozy chair, the papers and magazines at hand, pipes
on the tables, in fact, a comfortable den.”
“That’s it; you just describe the very thing, Aleck. Nothing like home
comforts. Only apt to unfit us for the rough experiences of life; that’s
the only fault I’ve got to find. Here’s the Sherman—take care of the
young chap—and good-night.”
 CHAPTER XIII.
A BACHELOR’S “DEN.”
After leaving the Sherman House Wycherley has the driver take him
down Michigan Avenue. He produces a cigar, one of Aleck’s choice
weeds. Then comes a match.
“Ah! this is solid comfort,” he muses, stretching his legs out on the
front seat as if eager to fill the whole vehicle; “it is my dream
realized: a private carriage, a fine weed—perfect happiness. When
my million comes home, I’ve got it all laid out. It won’t take me long
to spend it. I can shut my eyes and imagine I’m a McCormick or a
Cereal going home to my palatial abode. It’s just elegant, you know.”
Thus he chuckles and interviews himself after a habit peculiarly his
own, until suddenly the vehicle draws up to the curb.
“Twenty-first Street, sir,” says John, who is especially good-natured
after receiving the fat fee from the young roysterer.
Wycherley alights with great dignity.
“Good-night, my man,” he says, and the driver, impressed with his
air, answers respectfully.
The ex-actor saunters along the avenue until the hack has vanished.
Then he turns on his heel and retraces his steps to the corner. Along
Twenty-first Street he walks. At this hour of the night, the dividing
line between two days, there are few people abroad, and Wycherley
meets no one on his tramp.
As he advances the neighborhood grows more squalid, until he is in
one of the poorest sections of the city, not far from the railroad.
At length he pauses in front of a dilapidated frame, evidently a
tenement—pauses with a dramatic gesture, and mutters:
“Behold! the Hotel des Vagabonde, where thieves never break
through and steal; where no one rolls and groans from an
overloaded stomach; the home of the highway prince, the boot-black
cavalier, and the jolly old bachelor. Waive all ceremony and enter, my
dear boy. I’ll not arouse the janitor, poor fellow. And as I’m a wise
man I’ll extinguish this cigar for a double reason—it’ll give me a
morning smoke, and prevent a sensation in the princely hotel, for a
Havana is unknown in this region of powerful clay pipes, and the
odor might offend the fastidous nose of some lodger, when there
would be the deuce to pay.”
No sooner said than done.
At the door no keeper challenges his entrance; day and night it is
free to all. Wycherley climbs various flights of rickety stairs. It is very
dark, but he seems to know from intuition just where every broken
board lies, and the higher he gets, the lighter his spirits grow. He
hums an operatic air and changes it to “After the Ball.” Really this
man makes light of care—troubles sit upon him like bubbles.
Now he stops in front of a door, fumbles in his pocket, finds a key,
and enters.
“Where the deuce is that electric button? very queer I fail to find it.
Well, making a virtue of necessity I’ll have to fall back on Old
Reliable.”
A match crackles, the flame shoots up. Then he applied it to the
wick of a candle stuck in the neck of an old beer bottle.
The scene is a remarkable one! Rarely did candlelight illumine a
more destitute room. From the wall large pieces of plaster are gone,
ditto the ceiling. A general survey of the place would result about as
follows: imprimus: the lone bachelor himself; item: one trundle bed,
scantily clad and sadly in need of smoothing; item: a carpet bag with
a tendency to falling over on one side because of constitutional
leanness; items: a piece of looking-glass fastened to the wall, a
single wooden chair, a tin basin, a bare table on which the candle
holds full sway.
That is the sum total.
Wycherley, merry dog that he is, glances around him with the air of
a king. He has a faculty of seeing luxury behind misery, of making
much out of little.
“Ah! Aleck was a shrewd one to guess what comforts I enjoy. There
is my luxurious armchair; this my heap of magazines and papers,”—
picking up a penny afternoon News—“and the whole scene one of
comfort. Ah, this is living. Now for my meerschaum, my slippers.
Hang the luck! I believe that valet has misplaced them again. Never
mind, this will do.”
He kicks off his shoes, opens a drawer in the table and takes out a
clay-pipe minus half the stem. This he fills with scrap tobacco, holds
it to the candle and puffs away with an enjoyment that cannot all be
assumed.
“A strange night it has been. To think I’d meet Aleck and Bob Rocket
so near together—two fellows I regard so highly. It’s a queer world,
and a mighty small one, too, when you come down to it. Heigho! my
chances of wedding the heiress are nil. Upon the whole I must
confess to a certain relief. How foolish for a man to give up the free
life of a gay bachelor, with its delightful uncertainties, for double
harness and the harassing cares of stocks and bonds. Ugh! deliver
me. See how cozy I am! Who would care to change it?”
Then he consults his memorandum book and makes a few notes on
the market, gaining his points from the closing sales as reported in
the newspaper. After this he yawns.
“Heigho! I feel weary. My sumptuous couch invites repose. It calls
not in vain. To sleep, to dream, perchance to discover in second
sight how to-morrow’s market will jump. ’Tis a consummation
devoutly to be wished.”
His preparations for going to bed are simple indeed. He removes his
coat and vest; his collar and necktie follow; then he crawls under the
army blanket.
“The deuce! I forgot to douse that ten candle electric light. Shall I
call Robert to press the button? Let the weary retainer sleep. Thus
bright genius overcomes all obstacles.”
One of his shoes flies through space with unerring accuracy, over
goes beer bottle and candle, and, rolling off the table, lands with a
thump on the bare floor.
“Eureka! score one for Sir Claude de Wycherley. Must practice that
little game; save immense amount of trouble. Hard on the bottle,
though. Now to woo the gentle goddess of slumber. Think of the
untold thousands rolling on feather beds and hair mattresses. Little
they know of the genuine luxury of a shuck bed. This is comfort
now, you bet.”
The night wind sighs through a hole in a window pane, and lulled by
this music, supplemented by the ringing of engine bells, and an
occasional shriek from a switching locomotive, Wycherley falls
asleep.
For an hour or two only his stentorian breathing can be heard in the
tenement room.
Then the man on the cot suddenly sits up. His room is no longer in
darkness.
“Jove! that was a beastly dream I had. What a pleasure to awaken
and find it was only a dream. Can it be morning? What the devil is
all that racket outside, people shouting? Bless me! I believe it’s the
engines pumping. There must be a fire in the neighborhood. I’m
sorry for the poor wretches; never took any enjoyment seeing a
house burn. Tchew! bless my soul, the room’s half full of smoke.
Think I’ll get up and investigate. Too bad to have a gentleman’s
slumbers disturbed in this way, but I’m interested now, because, you
know, it might be the Hotel des Vagabonde that is ablaze.”
While he thus communes with himself he gropes around for the lost
shoe, and draws it on. Then he goes to the door. As he opens it a
volume of smoke pours in. He instantly closes the door again.
“I declare, it is this house, after all. Another experience, my boy. My
palatial mansion is doomed, I fear. Ho! for the salvage corps. Is my
account book, the repository of millions, safe? Then let the fire
demon do his worst.”
He even stops to button his collar; then seizing the lean grip, he
waves his hand around him in a majestic way.
“The best of friends must part. Many happy hours have I spent here.
Alas! that it should end thus. Farewell, farewell, and if forever, then
forever fare thee well.”
He opens the door and steps into the hall.
“Great Scott!” he exclaims.
Dense smoke fills the hallway. The crackling of flames makes mad
music, and when this is supplemented by the shrieks of terrified
women, shouts of firemen, the throbbing of engines, and a dull roar
from the dense crowd that collected like magic under such
circumstances, the result is a combination that once heard can never
be forgotten.
Wycherley looks down the stairway and immediately draws back
again. Even his remarkable nerve is shaken by the sight. Besides, he
hears cries near by that tell him he is not the only one imprisoned in
the upper story of this old tenement, now in flames—cries that can
only come from a terrified woman.
“Think, old boy, and if ever you cudgeled your brains, do so now. It’s
useless trying to get out below—rather too warm for comfort. How
about the other way?”
The flames are roaring up the stairway, and whatever is done must
be done quickly, or else it will be too late. He remembers some sort
of ladder leading to a trap in the roof. It offers a chance. Whether
the situation will be improved or not, who can say?
Groping his way through the terrible smoke, he lays hold on the
ladder. Just then from a room near by comes the wail:
“Oh, God! help me, save me, and I will undo the past. I swear it.
Help! help!”
Wycherley recognizes a woman’s voice. He is not a hero, lays no
claim to be such, but if death is the inevitable consequence he
cannot try to save himself and desert a fellow creature. Down goes
his carpet bag, and in five seconds he is at the door of the other
room in the upper story of the burning tenement.
“Who’s here?” he shouts.
A figure at the small window, almost in the act of casting herself out,
turns to him.
“Oh, save me, sir! It is too horrible! I am not fit to die. Save me!”
she pleads wildly.
“Be quiet! I’ll do the best I can, but you must obey orders. Come
with me,” he says.
“Not down there! no, no. I looked—it was like the fires of hell!”
“To the roof! we must get out of this smoke or we’ll suffocate before
the fire touches us. Come, and I will save you or we’ll die trying.”
His cheering words reassure the poor woman, and she clings to his
coat. They reach the stairs leading upward, and Wycherley
mounting, opens the trap. What a blessed relief—here they can at
least get a breath of air.
Once upon the roof of the tenement the ex-actor casts about him for
some means of escape, some method by which to cheat the hungry
flames that must speedily burst through and envelop the whole
tenement in their rapacious maw.
The case seems desperate; no friendly roof offers a refuge. On one
side a great warehouse, fire-proof and grim, rears itself; on the
other lies a smaller building, with the roof far below. If he had a
rope Wycherley can see how he might escape. Without one the case
is almost hopeless. Already ladders have rested against the building,
but none are long enough to reach to the top. They see him. Shouts
in the street below announce this fact—encouraging cries that give
him hope. A stream of water breaks above and showers them.
Wycherley turns up his coat.
“Pardon—it is my last collar,” he says calmly.
They have placed a ladder against the smaller house. Brave firemen
are bringing another which will be carried up the sloping roof, and
used to reach those above.
All that now may be considered is the question of time. Will they
succeed, or be too late? The fire is having everything its own way.
These old tenements burn like match wood. Already the flames have
eaten a hole through the roof, and curl and twist wickedly as though
stretching out eager hands for new victims.
The heat is growing unbearable, and yet the ladder is not in
position. He realizes that the case is desperate, and casts about for a
chance to lessen it. The woman lies there groaning. They are
dragging the ladder up the roof, and in a couple of minutes it will be
in place, but that time is an eternity under such conditions. Just
now, to remain means death. He sees one chance, takes the woman
—she is a slight creature—in his arms, slips over the edge of the
roof, and with feet braced on a ledge, exerts his whole strength to
maintain his position, while the encouraging shouts of the firemen
below give him hope. It is a picture for an artist—the race between
life and death, between the greedy flames and the uplifting ladder,
but the ladder wins.
 CHAPTER XIV.
THE MAN OF THE WORLD.
When the man who hangs there with such a weight upon his left
arm feels that he cannot endure the strain five seconds longer, a
voice shouts out just at his feet:
“Drop her down to me!”
Brawny arms are outstretched, and the woman, falling from his
nerveless clasp, is caught and held. Now that he can change his
position Wycherley is not so hard set, and manages without
assistance to lower himself.
It has been an exceedingly narrow escape, for hardly has he
reached the lower roof when, looking up, he beholds the greedy
tongues of fire crawling over the edge at the very point where he
held on with such grim resolution.
A scuttle has been torn open, and through this the woman has been
taken. Wycherley would linger, but the firemen tell him nothing can
save this house from sharing the fate of its neighbor, and that he
had better lose no time in making good his escape.
So he, too, crawls through the scuttle. Even in such dire distress and
under such peculiarly unromantic conditions his sense of humor does
not desert him, and he chuckles more than once while making his
way to the street. When tenements burn there are sad enough
sights, Heaven knows, but at the same time many comical ones crop
up, for people in the mad excitement may be seen hugging feather
beds, while tossing pictures, mirrors, and every fragile object out of
the window.
Hardly has he reached the street than someone near by says:
“There he is.”
Immediately hands are laid upon his arm, and turning he beholds a
woman.
“God bless you, sir. You saved my life. I cannot find words to thank
you,” she says, between her hysterical sobs.
“Then don’t worry about trying. What I did wasn’t much,” is his
characteristic answer.
“Oh, sir! my life is not of much value to me, but to another it may
be. Tell me your name—where I can find you after I have seen him.”
He notes curious glances cast upon them, and desires to break
away.
“A letter to Claude Wycherley at the Sherman House would reach
me. But I beg of you to forget all about it,” he adds.
Reporters are as thick as peas, and he would avoid them if possible,
not wanting to figure in a sensation. Wycherley is so retiring in his
disposition, so modest withal, that any such notoriety might
embarrass him exceedingly.
“Where have I seen that woman before? Don’t ever recollect
meeting her in the Hotel des Vagabonde, now, alas! no more; and
yet her face seems so familiar to me. Give it up. Where now, my
dear boy? The clock strikes four. Daylight will be along—even now I
see it creeping up over the lake. To pass the time until then—ah!
here’s a bootblack’s chair. Quite an idea. I’ll keep it warm until it’s
time for breakfast,” saying which he sits down and dozes.
The great city is waking up. As day comes wagons rumble by and
working people with buckets in hand swing past to their labors. Soon
the shrill cry of the newsboy is heard in the land.
“Tribune—Times—Inter-Ocean!”
Wycherley sinks a hand in his pocket, and after a thorough and
systematic search in order that he may corner all fugitive pieces, he
draws out sundry nickels and coppers, which, upon being marshaled
upon the palm of his hand, he counts.
“Twenty cents, sum total; not a fortune, it’s true, but better than I’ve
known many a time. Let’s see how I’ll divide it: five for a paper, ten
for breakfast, and the last nickel brings a cigar. There’s luxury for
you; a prince could have no more. Hi! boy, come here.”
In another minute the paper has changed hands.
“Now to feed the inner man, who clamors for attention. Over a cup
of coffee and some rolls in a beanery near by, I’ll read my fortune.
What a delicious state of uncertainty—it’s heads or tails whether I
win or lose a million. Then I enjoy all the sensations of the greatest
plunger and never risk a dollar. I must copyright my scheme. Hello!
what’s this?”
He has come upon a little girl crying—a child who belongs in the
poorer walks of life, for her clothes are scanty, and her face thin.
She sobs as though her heart would break.
“Come, come, what is the matter, my child?” he asks, touched by her
despair.
“I can’t find it, and it was all granny had.”
“What have you lost, then?”
“She sent me out last night to buy something to eat, and I fell down
and lost the money. I came early this morning to look, but I can’t
find it. She won’t have any breakfast, poor old granny. I’ve cried
nearly all night, but she told me never to mind, that God would find
it for me in the morning, but I guess he forgot.”
Indeed, her swollen eyes give evidence that what she says is true.
Wycherley makes a grimace, but sturdily puts his hand in his pocket.
“How much was it, my dear?”
“Only fifteen cents, sir, but it was all granny had, and she won’t get
any more till to-morrow.”
“A mere trifle, my child. There you are. Don’t mind saying thanks,
but be very, very careful not to drop any.”
Her looks are eloquent enough as she goes skipping along toward
the grocery. Wycherley watches her and then chuckles.
“There goes my breakfast, and the cigar, too. Well, what of it? ’Tisn’t
the first time you’ve fasted, my boy, and may not be the last. Good
for the digestion, don’t you know. Besides, you’re invited to dinner at
the Sherman House with Aleck, and a sharp appetite will give you
more of a chance to enjoy the good things of life. It’s brought relief
to one small heart, anyway. Now, I might as well return to my chair
and settle this question of a million. If I’ve won I can lay back and
imagine a royal banquet fit for the gods.”
Presently he is scanning the reports.
“What’s this? Unexpected advance in Golconda mining stock—I was
deep in that. Decline of Reading. I skipped that, glad to say. How
about the Consolidated on which I spread? I can hardly see for
excitement. What’s that, advanced two cents? Hurrah! and I only
hoped for one. Sell out, sell out, don’t hold anything a minute later.
I’ve gone and done it. Yes, sir, as sure as fate, I’m a millionaire. No
thirteen dollars this time; all previous losses wiped out and
something like a million to my credit. Think of it, a cool million, too.
Champagne—no, that wouldn’t do on an empty stomach. I’ll hie
away to Kinsey’s, and scan his bill of fare. This settles it. I’m cut out
for a broker. The whole secret is to stand by your colors long
enough, and success is certain.”
Someone grasps his foot, and looking down he sees the bootblack
commencing operations.
“Hold on there, boy! just gave the last fifteen cents I had to a little
girl who lost her money. You’ll have to trust me or take this paper in
pay.”
The boy grins and says the paper will do him, so Wycherley makes
some notes from it.
“Haven’t time to figure, now. May be a difference of a hundred
thousand or so either way, but that doesn’t matter. There’s that
woman’s face before my mind again. Where have I seen her? Stupid
in me to forget asking her name when I gave mine. Well, let it pass
—a memory like many others in a checkered career. Ah! done, boy?
Thanks. I’ll leave you the paper and call again.”
It is just twelve when Wycherley turns up at the hotel, and finds
Aleck awaiting him. No one would think the jolly actor had not eaten
a bite since the previous night. He has great command over his
system, and although the aroma of the soup almost overcomes him
he restrains his fierce ardor. Above all it is his aim to act the
gentleman.
“I see you’ve been up to your old tricks again, Claude,” says the
Canadian kindly, as he looks into the face of the adventurer.
“What d’ye mean, my dear boy. Surely four o’clock was too late for a
morning paper.”
“I had the whole thing from the lips of a party who was an eye-
witness—who heard you give your name to the poor woman you
rescued.”
“The deuce you say. I hoped it wouldn’t get out.”
“And I’m proud to know you, to be your friend, Claude Wycherley.
More than that, you builded better than you knew, comrade.”
“How now, Aleck?”
“This gentleman took the woman you saved to a boarding-house
near by. I confess something of curiosity, and a desire to hear her
story direct, led my steps there after breakfast. Then again I had an
idea she might be poor and needy, and, if so, I might second your
deed. At any rate, I walked down and found her. She glowed with
enthusiasm over your kindness, and described the whole scene so
eloquently that I could, in imagination, see you hanging from that
roof with one arm and supporting her—you who professed to be all
in a tremble at the prospect of climbing the Ferris wheel. I can
understand that now, my dear fellow, and know full well it was not
timidity that kept you back, but the sturdy desire to baffle Aroun
Scutari in the climax of his work.
“Enough of that. Now comes the surprising part of the business.
When I talked with the woman I saw she was much more refined
than her position would indicate. She asked questions, too, and
eager ones they were; questions about Samson Cereal, questions
that aroused my suspicions.
“Then I turned the tables and she confided her story to me, at least
the outlines of it. You could have knocked me down with a feather, I
was so astonished. Of course, you have never even guessed her
identity—how could you?”
“I don’t know. You mention Samson Cereal—a wife of his turned up
last night; perhaps she is another,” carelessly.
“Claude, you wizard, go up head.”
“What! is it a fact?” demands the amazed Wycherley.
“As true as gospel. His first wife. He was divorced from her before he
went abroad, and I have reason to believe she is the mother of this
bold John Phœnix!”
 CHAPTER XV.
HEARD AT THE SHERMAN TABLE-D’HÔTE.
No wonder Wycherley stops eating and looks at his companion in a
dazed way. The announcement made by the other is of a nature to
take his breath away. What sort of man can Samson Cereal be? It is
quite enough, he thinks, to have one wife, who was supposed to be
dead, turn up, but two of a kind—quite staggers him.
“Wait a moment, Aleck, until I collect my wits. Really, you have
knocked them helter-skelter with such a remarkable assertion.
There, now, go on with the circus. This woman, whom I had the
good fortune to assist, was once the wife of the old speculator, you
say.”
“It is true. They were married when he was a young man—just at
the close of the War. I believe he met her in Kentucky, for she was a
native of Lexington, and called a beauty, and I imagine somewhat of
a flirt.
“Some years later a child was born to them, a boy. Samson began to
suspect his wife of being in love with a dashing Southerner. He was
a plain man himself, you know, and Adela—that is her name—admits
that he gave her no cause for such treachery. She lays it all to the
fact of her own mother dying when she was a child, and of her
father’s lax ways of living, and that she had never known a woman
friend whose advice could have saved her.
“Samson was just, but he was also merciless. The awakening came
like a thunder clap. He cast her off and applied for a divorce, which
was given him; also the custody of the boy, then four years old.
“Fearing she might attempt to steal the child, he sent him away, and
for years did not look on his face, because it reminded him of a
faithless wife.”
“Ah,” breaks in the actor, “then the mother and boy were very much
alike. Your speaking of Phœnix causes me to remember. She
reminded me of someone. I see it now. The resemblance is marked.”
Aleck smiles.
He can afford to do so now, since he has learned of the relationship
between Dorothy and the young miner. That both of them spring
from the same father. Her “sacred mission,” is plain to him at last,
for it must have a connection with some reconciliation between
father and son.
That is why Craig smiles. The teeth of his terror have been drawn,
and he no longer need worry about the possible rival who comes out
of the wild, untamed West.
“Later on Samson went abroad. We know what happened to him
there. He made a strange venture into the sea of matrimony, and, as
before, drew a blank. Coming to Chicago he entered upon the
speculative business, in which he has since become famous; but at
that time he was only a small dog, a drop in the bucket, and
unnoticed.
“I do not know what trouble came up. We have believed the
beautiful Georgian left him and fled to her native land again.
Perhaps later on we may learn more about this.
“At any rate, it was given out that she was dead. Dorothy believed
so, and in all probability does so to-day. We chance to know that
Marda the Georgian lives—that she is at the Fair, and has come for
some definite purpose.
“As to Adela—her life has been a sad one. Cast off by her husband
she went back to Kentucky. She was still lovely, and it was not long
before her hand was sought in marriage by a worthy gentleman.
Investigation brought to light the fact that in granting the divorce to
Cereal, the woman was still looked upon as married, and forbidden
to ever again enter upon wedlock while her husband lived.
“Thus Adela was forced to refuse the offer. She taught school; her
people moved West; and she has experienced many strange
vicissitudes of fortune, yet she vowed in my presence and in the
sight of Heaven that the one indiscretion named was the last of her
life—that her eyes were opened, her life saddened, and ever since
the day her husband put her aside she has lived in the one hope
that the time would come when she might redeem herself in his
eyes. She has not lived in vain. Whenever the yellow fever raged in
the South, there Adela could be found nursing the sick. She was the
angel of light in Jacksonville when the dread scourge wasted
Florida’s metropolis. Only for her own illness she would have been in
Brunswick this summer. Her life is nearly spent—she has
consumption now—and it is the prayer of her last days that before
she goes he may forgive her; that some opportunity may yet arise
whereby she can win that pardon.
“Now about her boy. Once she found him, but dared not make
herself known, on account of the past. He suddenly disappeared
from the city where he was attending a military academy, nor could
she trace him again; but at the town photographer’s she found a
picture of him which she has carried ever since, no doubt to cry over
in her lonely hours, poor woman.”
Aleck hands over a card photograph. It is not a stylish picture, such
as our artists of to-day produce, but faithful to the life. It represents
a young fellow of about fifteen, a handsome, independent-looking
chap, with something of a Southern air about him, which is
heightened by the cadet suit of gray he wears.
“This settles all doubt,” remarks Wycherley; “it’s the young miner
from Colorado, whom we saw with Dorothy—her brother; and at the
same time I can see the poor lady I helped out of the Hotel des
Vagabonde fire.”
“You had your room in that tenement, Claude?”
“Yes,” reddening a trifle.
“And all your books, your bachelor trophies, your many comforts
were lost?”
“Everything. My luxurious divan, my chair, the like of which could not
be found in a Vanderbilt mansion, the wonderful oil paintings, gems
of art, the original collection of curios which a Sypher might not
despise—all went. But, Aleck, my boy, my entire loss didn’t exceed
five dollars, I assure you. What is that to a man who has won a
million.”
“Ah! your speculation then was a success?” smiling.
“A stupendous one. Wiped out all past debts and have a million
ahead. No time to figure it up yet; may be a couple of hundred
thousand either way, but that is a matter of small importance.”
Craig never ceases to be amused at the strange idiosyncracies of his
queer companion. He realizes by this time—perhaps from the
enormous dinner Wycherley is making—that the other has no
means, and it is really ridiculous to see a man without a dollar in his
pocket declaring so carelessly that a quarter of a million one way or
the other is a matter of little importance.
“One thing about this matter gives me pain,” the Canadian says
presently.
“You refer to Bob Rocket and his mission?” remarks the actor, still
busy with knife and fork.
“Yes. He comes to arrest John Phœnix, whom we know to be the
son of Samson Cereal.”
“That is unfortunate, but the young man has embezzled fifty
thousand dollars from the mining company, and the outraged law of
Colorado must take its course. You wouldn’t think of hindering
Rocket in the discharge of his duty, Aleck?”
“Oh, no! far from it. At the same time, I cannot help regretting the
circumstance. It will be a blow to Dorothy, who seems to think a
good deal of this half brother. They must have met before.”
“Perhaps corresponded. As for myself, I am amazed at the young
man’s foolhardiness. Why has he allowed the fatal attraction of the
Fair to detain him here when he should be across the lakes in
Canada. That’s the trouble with most men—they don’t use common
sense under such circumstances.”
“We’ve got more than we want of them over in Canada. If my
country should ever become a member of your Union, which, I grant
you, is a possible thing, though I’m not one in favor of it, there will
be such an exodus of boodle aldermen and other rascals as has
never been seen before; and no honest man in the Dominion will
shed a tear. Why, some among us favor annexation simply to save
Canada from being the dumping ground of your swindlers.”
Wycherley laughs at this, and hands his plate to the staring waiter
with an aside “a little more of that delicious roast beef—and be sure
to have it rare.”
“You visit the Cereal manse to-night, I believe, Aleck. I wonder if
John will be there. Perhaps he and his father in times gone by have
had a falling out, and Dorothy is patching up the peace between
them. Very clever of her. She’s a girl in a thousand, and
remembering who her mother was—begging your pardon, my dear
boy, as she may yet be a mother-in-law to you—I am amazed and
wonder where she got her sensible ways. Then there’s Bob Rocket—
I know the man to a dot—he’ll be around, and if it should so happen
that he receives his telegram in the midst of the festivities, he’ll
arrest his man right there. Twenty millionaires wouldn’t awe him, nor
would he respect the palace of the Czar of Russia. With the majesty
of the law back of him he’d do his duty.”
“Then we’ll hope that his instructions, having been delayed so long,
will continue to dally, at least until the evening is well spent. If Mr.
Cereal is reconciled to his son, it would be too humiliating to have
the boy arrested at his house. At any rate, I shall keep clear of it,
and for Dorothy’s sake would like to see John get away.”
This absorbing topic has monopolized their conversation thus far, but
having in a measure exhausted it, they branch out upon other
subjects.
At length the dinner is ended. Aleck presses his companion to relate
the stirring scene of the previous night, and is accommodated with a
yarn that has many comical features to it, for the actor is a genius in
discovering the ridiculous side of anything, though Craig declares he
is certain the affair was anything but humorous to those concerned.
All the while the Canadian is planning as to how he may make his
friend accept a loan, without hurting his feelings. In the end he
decides that the best way to do is to go squarely at the matter, in a
frank manner.
“Since you lost all you had in the fire, Claude, you must allow me to
make you a little loan. There, not a word, sir—I shall feel insulted if
you refuse”—passing over a fifty-dollar note.
Wycherley fumbles the bill with trembling fingers. “Great Heavens,
Aleck,” he says huskily, “it’s been many a long day since I’ve held a
bill like this in my hands. It makes me feel like something of
importance. Bless you, my dear boy. I shall repay it if I live.”
Together they leave the dining room.
“Try a weed,” proposes Aleck; and as he draws the fragrant smoke
Wycherley is fain to believe his morning sacrifice has met with its
reward, heaped up and running over.
Together they sit in the cool rotunda of the hotel, enjoying their
postprandial smoke, and exchanging remarks about various things of
mutual interest.
While thus engaged a tall gentleman with a gray mustache, and a
face on which great shrewdness is marked, saunters past and
glances at them. Then he returns and stops.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but the clerk told me Mr. Aleck Craig
was over here. Do either of you happen to bear that name?”
He looks straight at the Canadian, as though easily picking him out
to be the man.
“That is my name, sir,” replies Aleck quickly.
“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Craig. I have a little business with you.
My name is Samson Cereal.”
 CHAPTER XVI.
ENGAGED.
It is a name to conjure with in the markets of the World’s Fair city.
Besides, this gentleman with the iron-gray mustache is Dorothy’s
father.
Both Craig and Wycherley spring to their feet. The latter smiles in a
peculiar way, as though he sees in this a heaven-sent chance to rise.
Perhaps his education in stocks, his enormous wagering against the
uncertainties of the market, may meet a reward. Everything comes
to those who wait, is the philosophy of this strange adventurer.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Cereal. My friend Wycherley, sir. I have
had the pleasure of your daughter’s acquaintance since last winter.”
The elderly gentleman smiles. Aleck notes the firm mouth under the
mustache, and believes poor Adela will wait a long time ere she
hears words of forgiveness for that error so far back in the past, the
fearful blunder that ruined her life. Perhaps he does Samson Cereal
a wrong, but judging from his strong features he believes him to be
a stern man with whom justice goes before mercy.
“I have heard something about your meeting up at Montreal, and my
daughter has told me certain facts that occurred last night—facts
that stamp you a hero——”
“Sir!”
“Facts that make me proud to know you, young man. Let no false
modesty cause you to belittle the deed. I claim that when a man
takes his life in his hands and imperils it for parties unknown to him,
who may be in danger, he rises above the ordinary plane and
becomes a hero. Let us not argue the subject then. I am glad to
meet you for your own sake—glad to know you. Let us sit down
again. I have something to say that is of deepest importance to me.”
He drops into a chair, with one of them on either side. Both the
young men show signs of excitement, and the veteran speculator is
the cool one. Aleck is saying to himself:
“Dorothy has told him how she came to know me—what can he
want to see me for,” and his bachelor heart persists in keeping up a
trip-hammer accompaniment that is rather singular in a man who
has been born and reared in the country of ice and snow.
As for Wycherley, his thoughts run about in this wise:
“Here’s Samson Cereal, the great grain operator, king of the wheat
pit. Let me study him well, since fate has decided that I am to be in
the same line. What would he say if he knew I had plunged on the
markets and came out two million ahead on yesterday’s deal—what,
indeed? I must use my ears—who knows but what in the course of
his everyday talk he may drop some hints that I may seize upon,
and use as a ladder upon which to mount to future success.”
“Mr. Craig, am I right in presuming that this is the gentleman who
was with you last night on the Midway?” begins the operator.
“We were together much of the evening. In one sense he has as
much claim upon your thanks as myself, for only through him was I
enabled to do Miss Dorothy a service,” replies Aleck, with the
generous impulse of making his comrade “solid” with the great
manipulator of wheat.
Samson Cereal gravely turns and holds out his hand.
“Allow me, sir; I appreciate the favor,” he says in the singularly deep
voice that has many a time electrified the swaying masses of brokers
and operators on change.
“You are perfectly free to speak upon any subject, sir,” adds Aleck.
“That being the case, I will no longer pique your curiosity,
gentlemen. Am I right in believing that you have through accident
learned certain things connected with a very wretched episode in my
life?”
Aleck’s cheeks flush under his gaze, for somehow he feels as though
Samson reproaches him.
“I beg you to believe, sir, I have not pried into your private affairs
through morbid curiosity. A peculiar chain of circumstances, link
fastened to link, one thing leading to another, has given me some
knowledge of certain unhappy events far back in your life. I have not
sought them, and once in my possession they shall go no further,
depend upon it.”
His earnest manner, his frank expression, serve to convince the
wheat king that what he says he means.
“Mr. Craig, I earnestly hope you will never have to encounter the
family troubles that have darkened my past.”
Aleck secretly indorses this. It is bad enough for a bachelor of some
thirty summers to think of being wedded once, let alone several
times.
“Twice have I breasted the stormy seas of matrimony, and some
fatality seemed to follow me. Both ventures ended in my being
bereft. My first wife was a Kentucky girl. I have sealed that book so
long ago that it may not be torn open now if I can help it. The boy
who came to me as the fruits of that unhappy union resembled his
mother so closely in features that I could not bear to look upon him.
He was at school, a military academy, until seventeen. Then
something like remorse came upon me. I had married again, and my
little Dorothy was more than twelve. I believe she influenced me—
God bless the sunbeam! At any rate I sent for the lad, and started
him in life.
“All went well for a short time. Then another blow fell upon me. I
was being systematically robbed. In my office was a safe. I had
numerous clerks, and John was one. Never dreaming of the truth I
set a detective on the watch, and one day he brought me his report.
It incriminated my own son. At first I was amazed, horror-stricken.
Then my anger arose. I sent for John. He came in smiling, for he
was light of heart. I told him deliberately what I had found out. He
turned very pale and trembled. Fool that I was, I believed these
were evidences of guilt. Then he looked at me proudly and denied it
all. I have a furious temper, Heaven forgive me! I upbraided him,
called him names, and even coupled his mother’s disgrace with his
downfall; declaring that her treacherous nature had descended to
him. Then I told him to go. I remember how proudly he drew
himself up and said:
“'You are my father—you send me from you without a hearing. I will
go—I will change my name and never see you again until this blot is
removed from my character.’
“I have never seen him from that time, but he is in the city to-day—
he will be at my house to-night. Dorothy did it all. Through some
woman who was nursing a poor sick man, she received word to
come to the Hahnemann hospital, where he had been taken. She
went, and found a dying man with a confession written and
witnessed—a wretched man who claimed to be the detective I
employed. He had found no trouble in locating the guilty party, but
being eager to make more money had compromised with the thief
and agreed to implicate John.
“It seems Dorothy and John have corresponded all this while, and
she wrote him to come on at once, telling him of his vindication. An
agreement was made to meet in the shadow of the Ferris wheel,
and hence she has haunted that place of late.
“I am a stern man, but I hope a just one. Feeling that I have
wronged my boy, I am eager to apologize, to make amends. Unfitted
for business, even on this day when of all others I should be at my
office, for I have momentous deals on foot, I decided to step in here
and meet you, for I can assure you, Mr. Craig, I take a deep interest
in your welfare. Perhaps you are not aware of it, but I know several
of your people up in Montreal and Toronto, and can remember
nothing but kindness received at their hands.”
“I am glad to hear it, sir. On my part I feel it my duty to inform you
that one whom you have looked upon as dead is in Chicago,” says
Aleck, while Wycherley chuckles as he wonders which one is meant,
and then fearing lest his ill-timed merriment may cause the great
operator to look upon him with suspicion, he turns it off into a
cough.
Samson Cereal fastens his eyes upon Craig, as though he would
read his soul.
“You refer to whom?”
“The lady you ran away with twenty years ago, near the Bosphorus
—the mother of Dorothy.”
“Good God, man, is she alive and in Chicago? And now I remember
—he is here—we met on the Midway and scowled like two pirates.
He has not forgotten—but she alive! Then they two must be leagued
to do me injury, perhaps through Dorothy.”
“You are both wrong and right, sir. He came here to execute the
vengeance that has slumbered twenty years, but knew nothing of
her presence until last night, when he snatched off the gauzy
covering from the face of the Veiled Fortune Teller of Cairo Street,
and beheld—Marda, once your wife, stolen from his servants. I don’t
know her motive in coming here, nor where she has been all these
years, but have some reason to believe it is the natural mother love
for her child that has brought her—perhaps she comes to stand
between Aroun Scutari and his prey.”
Samson Cereal reflects. He is no longer excited, but singularly cool.
When personal danger threatens, this man can be like a block of ice.
It is this trait that has helped him reach the front rank in his chosen
profession.
“You speak of his vengeance—have you an idea what he means to
do?”
“Ah! I see Miss Dorothy failed to tell you all.”
“Then suppose you supply the missing link.”