Tangles; Tales of Some Droll Predicaments/The Pipes o' Pan

by Margaret Cameron

 

THE PIPES O' PAN

THE Maxwells, father and son, sat smoking ruminant, after-luncheon cigars on the porch of a little hotel in Middletown. Bright sunlight intensified the frost-painted glory of the old elms before the house, whose fallen leaves made flecks of color on the sidewalk; and the tang of coming winter in the warm autumn air added emphasis to the motto quaintly swinging over the doorway: "As we journey through life, let us live by the way."

"You say you hope to settle that Texas land matter to-day?" finally observed the son, who was clad in boating flannels. "Does—what's-his-name? Blake, isn't it?"

"Blakeney."

"Does he live here?"

"Yes. At least—he's dead, but his heir—or, to be entirely accurate, his heiress—lives here, I believe."

"Heiress! Have you come up here to deal with a woman?"

"So it would seem." The elder man's eyes narrowed as he glanced fleetingly at his companion, whose inquiry was tinged with apprehension.

"Oh!" said the younger, perceiving reasons for his father's unprecedented willingness to spend a whole day viewing from a launch the autumnal beauties of the Connecticut River's banks. The excursion would lend, to a woman, a convincingly casual air to the presence in Middletown of so important a man as John Maxwell. Presently he slowly resumed: "Land was sold for taxes, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"When does Chapin's title become complete?"

"On the twenty-sixth."

"Hm! This is the twentieth. Not much time to lose, is there?" They smoked on in silence. Then: "What are you going to offer her?"

"That depends on what I think she'll take," carelessly responded the father, not, however, relaxing the vigilant lines about his eyes. "Of course, I shall offer her a fair price."

"As what, for example?" persisted the other.

"Oh—perhaps a dollar or so an acre."

"One dollar an acre? Chapin refused fifty—refused to sell at any price, in fact, didn't he?"

"Chapin's another story!" The father's tone was sharp and low, and he glanced quickly back, through the open window, into the vacant room behind them. "But it is unnecessary to advertise the fact to the surrounding populace, Stuart. I've come up here to do business with the owner of that property, and I shall take no more cognizance of the sex of that person than the law will take in its interpretation of any contract she may make with me. Business is business—a fact which, notwithstanding frequent repetitions, your mind seems never yet to have grasped firmly!"

"I understand all that, sir," the young man waved his hand impatiently, "but this girl—this daughter—"

The elder Maxwell laughed. "This girl! Given a woman in the case, your imagination promptly conjures up a vision of delight! Eighteen—or has the ideal age advanced a peg or two now?—soft-eyed, soft-voiced, soft-hearted—and soft-headed! Edgar Blakeney was seventy years old when he died—a failure—and his daughter is probably forty, lean, drab, shrill-tongued, and penurious. A thousand dollars for her equity in that land will seem to her like manna to the Israelites. Being a Connecticut Yankee, however, she'll probably suffer rack and thumbscrew rather than admit that she was satisfied."

"But is that the point, sir? You know and I know that since the discovery—"

"'Sh!" Both men glanced quickly about, and the younger one lowered his voice.

"The land has recently become very valuable. You undoubtedly have law, but have you equity on your side in—"

"Now, if you please!" Mr. Maxwell raised a hand to silence his son's impulsive utterance. "Really, your talents are wasted in the practice of law, Stuart! You should be a poet or a parson or a schoolmaster. Didacticism is the very breath of your nostrils. Oh, well! I dare say that's partly your youth. Every youngster feels himself a Daniel or a Moses until he discovers his place in a society founded upon the survival of the fittest. I've had no objection to your dreaming along over impossible ideals through your boyhood, but it's time for you to wake up and begin to live. Here you are, twenty-eight years old, and your values are not yet established."

"Pardon me, dad; my values are pretty definitely established—only they don't always tally with yours."

"What you need is responsibility—experience." Thus the father led the conversation into more tranquil channels. "Marry some practical, sensible girl. She'll teach.you values, actual values. Why don't you marry? Ever thought about it?"

"Why—naturally." Stuart laughed lightly. "I suppose every fellow has thought about it—in a vague sort of way, at least; but—well, I've never happened to meet 'the not impossible she.'"

"Humph!" grunted Mr. Maxwell. "Still looking for poetry—affinity and love at first sight and all that sort of thing—are you? Wake up, lad! Living's a very unmetrical sort of prose, and you'll do well to prepare for it advisedly. You go a great deal into society. You must have met many an eligible girl."

"I've never met one, sir, who I could flatter myself would consider me seriously even if I asked her to."

"Humph!" again commented the father.

"PARDON ME, MY VALUES DON'T ALWAYS TALLY WITH YOURS"

Stuart Maxwell, aside from possessing a well-built, well-developed, well-cared-for body, had the brow of a thinker, the eyes of an enthusiast, and the nose and chin of a man of action. Sincerity, integrity, sympathy, and strength lay written upon his countenance; and as his father's glance took inventory the old man dryly added:

"I guess you've got assets enough, if you want to use them. Here comes a pretty girl."

"Perhaps she's your Miss Blakeney."

"Nonsense! Look at her! She's no New England spinster! All countries and all ages enter into the make-up of a woman like that."

By this time the young woman under discussion had reached the foot of the hotel steps. Turning now, she ascended them and paused at the top, frankly regarding the two men.

"This is Mr. Maxwell?" she asked. "I'm Frances Blakeney."

Both men sprang to their feet.

"Just step into the parlor, Miss Blakeney," said the elder. "I won't detain you long. Stuart, will you go down to the boat? Or stroll about town for half an hour? I shall probably be ready to go then."

"Thanks; I think I'll remain here—with Miss Blakeney's permission," was the calm response. "Shall we go in?"

"Oh—this is my son," said Mr. Maxwell, fairly trapped, adding, significantly, "Miss Blakeney has come to see me on business. We needn't detain you."

"Have you had much business experience, Miss Blakeney?" Stuart asked, smiling down at her.

"No. That is, I never had any until my father died, a year ago. Since then, of course—" She paused, pregnantly.

"Since then you have grown more accustomed to handling large affairs?"

"Oh no!" She glanced quickly up at him. "My father had no 'large affairs' at the end, except—⁠ Things were rather involved, as perhaps you know." She looked from one to the other uncertainly.

"But he left you comfortably provided for?" quickly interposed Stuart, before his father could speak.

"He left me—everything," she admitted, with reserve.

Meanwhile young Maxwell's glance had been busy. He noted that every article of her dress, while worn with a certain freshness of manner, was old, and that although her smile was bright, her eyes looked weary. He thought she was about twenty-three.

"There isn't much here for a woman to do if she wishes to add to her income," he suggested.

"No."

"You—pardon me—you have no profession?"

"I teach—I wish to teach—music," she said, her instinctive reticence dissipated by the kindliness of his face and manner, "but—the field here is—rather limited."

"My dear Stuart," interposed his father, "we are detaining Miss Blakeney unwarrantably, and incidentally delaying our own departure."

"Right, sir. But mightn't it facilitate things if you should make use of my legal attainments in this matter?" His lips laughed, but his glance met his father's with steady significance. "I've been particularly successful in arranging settlements and compromises, you know."

The elder man feigned not to see that the girl's face brightened perceptibly at the suggestion, and he replied, very dryly:

"Thanks. I have thus far managed to conduct my business without undue dependence upon—the qualities you would bring to this discussion, legal or otherwise. And while my business with Miss Blakeney is very simple, I must again remind you that it is business."

For a moment the men gazed tensely into each other's eyes, each striving for supremacy, and neither wavered. Then the elder bowed to the girl, indicating that she should precede him into the house. She cast a smiling glance back at the young lawyer.

"I hope my father can help you to a satisfactory arrangement of some of those large affairs," said he, lightly. "Perhaps you have heard that he is sometimes called 'Midas Maxwell'?"

John Maxwell frowned, but the girl laughed shyly.

"Yes," she said; "I've heard that."

"Well, don't let it frighten you. He isn't really anything so metallic. In fact, between ourselves, he has a delightfully human touch, once you really know him."

She nodded brightly, and disappeared. Mr. Maxwell, following her, paused in the doorway.

"Stuart," he commanded, coldly, "you will see that the launch is ready for immediate departure in half an hour. And oblige me by not interrupting again. When we have reached an agreement I may ask you to attend to some technical matters. I shall not desire your opinion."

"Very well, sir." Stuart obediently arose to depart, and sauntered down the steps, lightly whistling. Then, with no more definite purpose than a desire to be at hand during a discussion in which he felt that the girl would need the help he could not offer, he returned, still whistling, to his seat on the porch and scrawled a line on a card, meaning to send it, by the first passing boy, to the engineer of the launch. Hearing voices, he realized that his father and Miss Blakeney were sitting near an open window at his left, and that while he could neither see them nor—presumably—be seen by them, every word of their low-toned conversation was distinctly audible. His first impulse was to withdraw to the other end of the porch, but he reflected that if he left the seat it might be taken by some one less discreet, and while he hesitated he heard his father say:

"I'm afraid my asking you to meet me here, Miss Blakeney, together with my son's rather—er—unfortunate suggestions, may have given you an exaggerated impression of the importance of my business with you. It's really a small matter; but as I chanced to learn, a few days ago, that you were living here, and as my son and I were coming up the river to-day to—er—see the foliage, it seemed simpler to arrange a meeting, and to settle in a few minutes a little matter that would otherwise have required perhaps several letters. So I wired you."

"I'm glad to learn that so busy a man as you, Mr. Maxwell, can spare a whole day, just to see the foliage." The voice was perfectly guileless, but a whimsical smile, half suspicion and half delight, broke over the face of the eavesdropper without. "Did you find it very beautiful?"

"Oh yes—yes, very! Quite worth a considerable sacrifice to see." Stuart's face darkened, and he deliberately settled himself to listen, eyes wary and lips compressed. "Now, about this little matter of business. I believe your father owned at one time a large but entirely unproductive tract of land in Texas."

"Yes."

"This land, as you perhaps remember, was sold for taxes."

"Yes; I remember."

"But, according to the law, the purchaser's title is not completed for—oh, well, for several years, during which period the original owner can at any time redeem the property by the payment of the tax and certain interest on the sum to the second purchaser. You understand that?"

"Yes; but—we never redeemed it."

"Exactly. Now, a company of which I am a member has been buying more or less land in Texas for—er—grazing and—speculative purposes, and this piece of your father's—of yours, now—happens to lie in line with our purchases. We're not, naturally, paying very much for property of this character—you understand that it is virgin territory, entirely uncultivated—but we should be willing to give you something in order to quiet your claim and acquire title to the property!"

"But—there is the owner—the other one. Mr.—Chapin, isn't it?"

"Yes—something like that, I believe. We should also have to satisfy his claim, of course. That is regulated by law, you understand."

"Oh, is it? And how—how much would you—" She paused, breathlessly unable to complete the phrase, and John Maxwell read her palpitant, suppressed eagerness as if it had been print. So, incidentally, did his son.

"Well, now, you mustn't expect too much, you know, from land like that," he reminded her, his tone deprecatingly kind. "Of course it has never yielded you a penny."

"No—not yet."

"Well, there are about a thousand acres, I'm told. Say a dollar an acre—that's about what we've been offering for similar property—a thousand dollars—cash. What do you say?"

For some time, with a musician's acute sensitiveness to sound, Frances had been subconsciously aware of a melody softly whistled just outside the window, and now, by an entirely involuntary mental process, the words of the song were flashed across the background of her thought:

I know a maid - en fair to see,

Take care! Take care! She can both false and

friend - ly be, Be - ware! Be - ware

As Mr. Maxwell paused, asking, "What do you say?" the last phrase was insistently repeated, out of its place.

Beware! Beware!

She hesitated, unwittingly influenced by the impression thus subconsciously received at a moment when her mind was in turmoil. The pride that forbade her revealing her financial straits to this stranger, and the hard-won business acumen that taught her the unwisdom of too ready acceptance of any first offer, were almost overwhelmed by the clamoring forces of necessity, and by panic fears lest this actual proffer of money for property long since given up as lost should pass before she could seize it.

The repeated phrase, breaking the proper sequence of the melody, forced itself into her consciousness, annoying her by its interruption of her thought.

"Why—I—I don't know," she faltered. The whistle ceased. "I—this is—very unexpected. I haven't had time to—to think."

"I can quite understand that the offer is unexpected," readily rejoined Mr. Maxwell, "but is it a matter requiring long consideration? The land practically passed out of your hands some time ago, and unless it is your intention to redeem it yourself—⁠ By the way, perhaps you still hope to redeem it yourself?"

"No," faintly acknowledged the girl. "I can't." The whistle had apparently stopped entirely, and she felt the exaggerated relief following the cessation of any petty and persistent irritation.

"Then why do you hesitate? You'll hardly have another such offer for that property, Miss Blakeney."

I know a maiden fair to see.
Take care! Take care! Beware! Beware!

From where she sat by the window she caught sight of a white shoe and a bit of striped flannel, and remembered that young Maxwell had been whistling when he started for the landing. She wondered vaguely that he had returned so soon, and wished that she dared ask his advice. She had liked his face.

Beware! Beware! Beware! Beware!

The significance of the oft-repeated phrase suddenly startled her, and she clutched at the hope, no sooner recognized than rejected as fantastically absurd, that it was intended as a warning to her. Nevertheless, the thought influenced her.

"I say you can hardly hope to receive such an offer again," repeated Mr. Maxwell, persuasively.

"N-no, I suppose not," she replied, bewildered and uncertain. "I suppose you are right, but—I should like to think it over—to consult some one. My—my judgment isn't always good!"

"I'm beginning to perceive that." Mr. Maxwell's smile softened the words. "My dear young lady, don't permit yourself to give way to timorous, feminine irresolution. Here is a business proposition. Prove your worthiness of it by meeting it in a businesslike way."

She sat staring with unseeing eyes at the glowing, sunlit trees, and from without came the melodious suggestion:

Things are sel - dom what they seem.

Skim milk mas - quer - ades as cream.

Of course this could be only coincidence, but in the absence of other counselors would she not be wise to accept as a sort of oracular utterance this recurring warning?

"You will understand," continued Mr. Maxwell, a shade less urbanely, "that my time is necessarily limited, and you will pardon my suggestion that this transaction is perhaps of greater importance to you than it is to us. A thousand dollars is my offer. Will you accept it?"

No, Sir! No, sir! No,Sir! No-o-o-o, sir!

No, sir! No, sir! No, sir!.... No!

vigorously prompted the whistle. Surely, surely that could not be coincidence!

"I—" she hesitated, took a long breath, and said, unsteadily, "I think—not!"

Glory, glory hallelujah!
Glory, glory hallelujah!

exulted the whistle.

She glanced fearfully at Mr. Maxwell, but he was evidently unaware of outside intervention, and she presently perceived that the son was employing a medium of which the older man not only had no knowledge, but to the very sound of which he was entirely insensible; and a kind of intoxication began to creep through her veins. Her companion bent his gaze somewhat sternly upon her.

"Apparently you don't quite understand the situation. Miss Blakeney. Here you have an opportunity of getting something for a property which will otherwise yield you nothing. I hope you're not going to be foolish—and perhaps a little avaricious—and by hesitating lose all chance of getting anything at all from your equity."

"I don't wish to be foolish—and certainly not avaricious," murmured Frances, mentally whirling in her futile search for words to fit a familiar strain now sounding; "but, you see, I—I don't quite—"

Misinterpreting her hesitation, he added, as a fillip: "I have already called your attention to the fact that this is a comparatively small matter to us; but if we could obtain this property at a reasonable figure, it could be made a part of what we already own and would round out our holdings very nicely."

Desperately she sought words for a new theme, several times repeated.

"I'm sure you won't be unreasonable in the matter, now that you understand it, Miss Blakeney," smilingly resumed the financier, "and that you will accept our offer without further unnecessary delay!"

No, sir! No, sir! No, sir! No-o-o-o-o, sir!

protested the whistle, rapidly.

"I really—don't feel that I can do that," she summoned courage to say. "I—no, I cannot accept it, Mr. Maxwell."

Glory, glory hallelujah!

came prompt reassurance from her counsel.

"Ah? I'm very sorry." Mr. Maxwell arose, as if to close the interview, and noted her quickly caught breath and the nervous apprehension of her glance. "I had hoped to do both you and my company a service by arranging this little matter in this way."

She recognized a refrain from "Der Trompeter von Säkkingen":

God bless thee, love, it was but idle dreaming;
God bless thee, love, it was not so to be,

and responded, albeit with weakening valor:

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but—I cannot accept your offer."

Assailing doubts of her wisdom in thus implicitly submitting to the guidance of a stranger, and that stranger John Maxwell's son, were reflected in her voice; and Stuart, tensely listening, gripped his hands around the arm of his chair and obstinately set his teeth.

His father eyed the girl keenly.

"You're sure this is your final decision, Miss Blakeney?" he asked. "I think you may regret it when it is too late."

The martial strains of "Hold the Fort" spiritedly slitting the air, and the memory of young Maxwell's honest eyes and strong, pleasant face, steadied her. Recollections of his kindly manner toward her during their brief chat, of his little tilt with his father—insignificant at the moment—and of his penetrating, luminous gaze as he reminded her of his father's nickname, flashed across her mind and renewed her courage. She did not understand the situation, she had no idea whither he was leading her, but in that instant she rejected distrust of Stuart Maxwell and resolved to conduct this matter as he should indicate, subordinating her impulses to his judgment.

"I can't see that I shall have anything to regret," she answered, after a moment's thought, a new firmness in her voice; "but possibly, with reflection—⁠ Will you hold the offer open for a week, Mr. Maxwell, and give me time to think it over?"

"Bully!" whispered Stuart to the ambient ether. "Bully for you!"

"That is quite impossible," said Mr. Maxwell, positively, fancying capitulation at hand. "I can't do that—nor do I see any reason for it. My offer is definite, and it seems to me, as a business man, that your only wise course is plain. At any rate, if we make this deal, we make it now—to-day."

Again that familiar, baffling motif, for which she had sought the words in vain!

"Indeed, my time is almost exhausted." He glanced at his watch. "My launch and my son are waiting for me at this moment down at the landing."

Despite her inability to interpret her instructions, a little smile twisted at the corners of her lips; and in the same instant came light. It was "Warum?" But—words? Then, in a burst of comprehension, she translated aloud.

"Why?"

"'Why'?" repeated Mr. Maxwell, slightly taken aback by the sudden, jubilant inquiry.

"Yes; why? Why is this offer being made now? Why—why is there such haste about it?"

"I'm not aware that there's any particular haste about it," said the financier, dryly. "We happen to be investing rather largely in Texas just now. The possibilities of the State are great, and have been attracting more or less attention lately. This property chances to lie well for our purposes, and so I make you an offer for your equity in it. That's very simple, isn't it? Doubtless it may seem sudden to you, off here in this quiet backwater, but to us, out in the stream, it's all in the day's work."

From the porch "Warum?" again floated softly in to her.

"You say it lies well for your purposes," said she, slowly, her mind, stimulated by excitement, working in new directions. "What are your purposes?"

"I think I told you that we want it for grazing and speculation. You will understand, of course, that with our large capital we can afford to hold comparatively unproductive land for a length of time impossible to investors of smaller means, hoping for a rise in the market."

"Yes, I suppose so." She was beginning to remember, approximately, certain dates. "How long does it take, Mr. Maxwell, to lose—I mean, when land is bought for taxes, how long is it before the purchaser's title—how do you say it?—becomes—"

"Complete? Several years. It varies in the different States." John Maxwell's tone was careless, but he shot a sharp glance at her from beneath his brows.

"Yes, but in Texas?"

"Two years, I believe—or thereabout."

"Then my equity must be almost at an end. I remember when the land was sold. Poor father regretted it so!"

Glory, glory hallelujah!

whistled Stuart, enthusiastically.

"Yes, the term has almost expired—certainly." Mr. Maxwell's smile intimated that her reasoning was slow. "That is exactly why I advise you to sell now, before you lose all interest in the property."

"Why didn't you tell me that, Mr. Maxwell? Why didn't you say that my equity would shortly expire?"

At this direct inquiry the man outside stopped his low whistling, to indulge in a delighted grin.

"I gave you credit for some knowledge of your own affairs," was the ready answer. "I reminded you that hesitation now would result in your realizing nothing at all from your equity."

"Yes, you did that." She regarded him thoughtfully. "But why, under those circumstances, should you wish to buy of me at all?"

"You happen to own it."

"Yes, I know; but you said you would also have to settle Mr. Chapin's claim. If my equity expires so soon, why didn't you wait and buy directly of him? Wouldn't that have been simpler? It seems to me that you're paying twice where once would have sufficed."

The insolent strains of Mephistopheles's "Song of the Golden Calf" confirmed her suspicions and added determination to her inquiry.

"We always prefer, under circumstances like these, to see the original owner get something out of it," smoothly explained Mr. Maxwell, "especially when that owner happens to be a woman. The men who go about buying up lands at tax sales are not generally a very reputable sort; and we like not only to curtail their profits as much as possible, but to recognize the rights of the original owner."

"I see. That's very considerate of you," said Frances, gravely. "By the way, I don't think you have told me just when my equity will expire."

"I said that it would soon be lost—very soon; and doesn't it seem to you, in consequence, that your wisest course would be to sell while you can?"

"Indeed it does!"

"Ah! Then you accept my offer!"

"Oh, I haven't said that!" she protested, her eyes asparkle and her color high. "Have I?" she added, her face turned toward the window.

No, sir! No, sir! No, sir! No-o-o-o-o, sir!

promptly came the light reply.

"Haven't you?" The old man showed his surprise. "I thought you had, in effect."

"Oh no. I should like very much to sell—but not at your price, Mr. Maxwell."

"Ah? Suppose we sit down again." He smiled indulgently. "Now, what should you consider a fair price, Miss Blakeney?"

For a moment she hesitated, at a loss what to reply. Then: "I should like what the property is really worth," she ventured, daringly.

"Oh, of course you're entitled to that," was the ready admission. "You will remember that we have already recognized your right as the original owner. Otherwise we should have made you no offer at all." He paused a moment, giving her time to grasp the full significance of that suggestion. "But you must also remember that in addition to buying your equity we have to settle Mr. Chapin's claim, comprising not only the original amount of the taxes, but interest for several years at a very high rate."

"How much does Mr. Chapin's claim amount to?" she asked.

"I've not ascertained the exact amount."

"But about how much?" she persisted. "As much as you offer me?"

"Yes."

"Twice as much?"

"Probably."

"Three times as much?"

"Possibly."

"Five times as much?"

"Oh, I think hardly so much as that!" His tone was light, and he smiled pleasantly.

She sat silent, looking at him for a moment. Then, with great apparent simplicity, she observed:

"It will cost you a lot before you get through, won't it? You may have to pay several thousand dollars for that dry, barren tract."

"Yes." So guileless was her glance that he suspected no trap. "You see, this is only the beginning. We shall certainly have to spend several thousand dollars before we finally acquire title."

"Well," said she, decidedly, "that being the case, I'm not going to part with my equity for one thousand."

"Now, now, my dear child!" deprecated the old man. "It's evident that you understand neither the situation nor your own position. Do you fully realize that your interest in this property is, at best, only an equity of short duration?"

"I won't accept a thousand dollars for it, just the same," she repeated, lifting her chin contumaciously.

He regarded her with growing disquiet, and yielded a point.

"I suggest, Miss Blakeney, that if you have a friend here whose knowledge of business methods exceeds your own, you refer the matter to him. I know what any business man would advise in such a matter, and I'll delay my departure for an hour to give you time for consultation."

She hesitated then, but not for long.

Late! Late! So late!
And dark the night and chill.

"Thank you very much, but it's a little late for that," she pluckily returned. "I feel quite competent to handle the matter, now that I understand it a little better. You and I will decide it—now Mr. Maxwell," she added, with a delicate touch of malice not lost on her opponent. For the first time it occurred to him to doubt that her attitude throughout had been entirely ingenuous.

"Well," said he, somewhat sharply, "what do you want? Out with it!"

"First, I want to know why you are so anxious to buy this land that you can't wait until next week. What has made it so suddenly valuable that you're willing to pay a large sum for it?"

Before she had finished the last question, her coach, whose faith in the acuteness of her penetration was rapidly waxing, ventured, as the nearest tuneful approach to the truth that he could remember at the moment:

Down in a coal-mine, underneath the ground.
Where a gleam of sunshine never can be found. br/ Digging dusky diamonds all the season round, br/ Down in a coal-mine, underneath the ground.

Listening, she continued, almost without pause: You have told me of grazing and speculation. Is there also, perhaps, coal?" The whistle stopped. "Or gas?" Silence. Misty recollections of certain newspaper reports, negligently read, prompted her. "Or—oil?"

Glory, glory hallelujah!
Glory, glory hallelujah!

"By Jove!" Stuart told himself. "That girl's a corker!"

"There's more or less oil talk in Texas just now, I believe," admitted his father; "most of it very much exaggerated, I think."

"Ah? And oil-lands are valuable, aren't they, Mr. Maxwell? Very, very valuable?"

"I believe they are, but I'm not prepared to enter upon an abstract discussion concerning their values just now. The question is not pertinent, and I must again remind you that I am in haste. I have made you an offer, Miss Blakeney. Unless you are prepared to accept it at once, I shall withdraw it and proceed to make other arrangements. You will thereby lose your equity and gain nothing whatever, since you assure me that you cannot redeem the property yourself."

Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, ripe, I cry.
Full and fair ones. Come, and buy.

"I did say that, didn't I?" murmured Frances, feeling for the thread. Then, archly, as she caught it: "But I didn't say that I had no intention of selling it, did I?"

"Selling it? To whom? You can't sell it!" he exclaimed. "You haven't time! You've only six days left!"

"Really?" Too late he saw his admission, and outside his son waited with compressed lips for the obvious retort; but she was magnanimous. All she said, and she said it laughingly, was: "Do you think it would take a man six days to make up his mind to buy that equity—under the circumstances?"

John Maxwell sprang to his feet and took a quick turn across the room. When he came back, he stopped before her.

"Well," he said again, "what do you want?"

Stuart, who had been whistling one old song to no purpose, now changed to another—

Com - rades, com - rades, ev - er since

we were boys|.... Shar- ing each oth - er's

8or - rows, Shar-ing each oth - er's joys.....

Stopped, and repeated the strain.

The girl took a long breath, looked up at the man before her, and then said, quietly:

"I want—an interest."

"You want—what?"

"An interest—with you—in this property."

Mr. Maxwell laughed shortly. "Well, from my experience to-day, there's no one I'd rather be associated with. We'd get all there was coming! But I'm afraid that's impossible. There are other people interested with me in this matter, and—⁠ No, it couldn't possibly be arranged. We'll pay you a good price—"

No, sir! No, sir! No, sir! ... No!
The Union forever! Hurrah, boys, hurrah!

had been recommended while he spoke, and now she interrupted:

"No, Mr. Maxwell. I will sell to you only on that one basis."

But I tell you that's impossible!" She laughed. "Come! I'll give you ten thousand dollars."

"No, sir." For once, she anticipated the whistle.

Then, for the last time, will you tell me what you really will accept?"

"What I will accept?" She sparred for time. "Let me see—"

Sharing each other's sorrows, sharing each other's joys...

"I'll accept the interest I have already mentioned, and—and"—Stuart returned to the "Song of the Golden Calf—"and ten thousand dollars, cash, she finished, rather faintly.

Glory, glory hallelujah!

reassured her.

"How much of an interest?"

"Ha—half?"

The Union forever! Hurrah, boys, hurrah!

"You don't really expect me to pay the taxes and the interest to redeem that land," Mr. Maxwell adopted a humorous tone, "pay you ten thousand dollars, and then give you a half interest in a property in which you'll lose all interest in six days, anyway—do you?"

"Yes, I do." She smiled serenely at him.

"What you ask is impossible. I can't do it."

The ship goes sailing down the bay,
⁠Good-by, my lover, good-by.
We may not meet for many a day,
⁠Good-by, my lover, good-by,

briskly and blithely sounded.

"Very well." Frances arose, definitely. "I'm sorry. I should have preferred to sell to you, but of course—" She stopped, with a little shrug.

"See here!" He took another turn across the room and back. "Will you meet me in New York to-morrow, and see if we can close this?"

Again she hesitated, and received soft instructions, before she dared reply.

"No, I—I can't promise that—" Stuart changed to "Almost Persuaded." "That is, I can't unless you'll agree now to buy at my terms."

"I can't do that. I've already told you that it is impossible—almost impossible. But I'll see what I can do."

"My time is very short, Mr. Maxwell. I intend to sell this equity within six days, and you see I can't afford to spend any time following an uncertainty."

"Very well. I'll give you five hundred dollars now for an option until to-morrow afternoon, if you'll come to my office then to meet my son and some of my associates in this land business."

Glory, glory hallelujah!

"Very well, I'll accept that," she said.

Mr. Maxwell produced his check-book, and while he was drawing a check he said:

"If you don't mind, I'd like to have this agreement in writing. My son is a lawyer, and if he's anywhere about, it won't detain you more than ten minutes."

Stuart was found, and his father briefly explained the situation.

"I congratulate you, sir," said the lawyer, "on having gained so charming—and so astute—an associate."

He permitted himself no more than a glance at the glowing face of his accomplice, and gave his attention wholly to the business in hand. The agreements were duly drawn and signed, the hour for the next day's meeting was decided upon, and good-bys were said.

"I shall see you again?" were the only words Frances addressed directly to Stuart.

"To-morrow—and after, I hope."

To which she casually replied: "Thank you. Au revoir, then," and was gone.

"By George! that girl's got a head on her!" exclaimed the elder Maxwell, as they stood on the porch looking after her. "If you had real good sense, you'd marry her!"

"I intend to, if she'll have me," was the unexpected reply.

"Wha—what? You—⁠ Oh, bosh! I told you the minute I saw her that she was clever, but I wasn't prepared for—⁠ What do you think? Was she stringing us all the time?"

"I don't think so."

"Then how the deuce did she know enough to—⁠ You ought to have heard her! I tell you she managed the thing like an expert—and I'm no easy mark, you know!"

"Do you happen to remember, sir, why the Persians were defeated at Marathon?"

"The Greeks were the best fighters."

The young man shook his head, dreamily smiling. "That's what the historians say, but the Greeks knew that it was because they were helped by the great god Pan—whose home was in Arcady."

"Well, what of it? What has that to do with it?"

"Everything," said his son. "Everything!"

"Humph!" grumbled the father, after a moment. "I give it up! It's too deep for me. What's the answer?"

But Stuart, the lawyer, made no reply. He was repeating to himself:

"Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
⁠To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,—
For the reed that grows nevermore again
⁠As a reed with the reeds in the river."