The Speculations of Jack Steele/Chapter 5
V.—THIRD AND LAST TIME-GONE.
JACK STEELE'S friends were amazed to find him back in town almost within a week after he had left with such lavish preparations for a long stay in the wilderness. It was difficult for him to offer an adequate explanation, and it grew to be most annoying, once he had constructed his excuses, to be compelled to repeat them to every friend he met, and listen without cursing to the inane advice given by people who didn't in the least know what they were talking about.
"What! back already?" cried Richard K. Vernon, vice-president of the Wheat Belt Line, Jack's oldest friend and former chief, who had offered to place a private car at his disposal if he would keep close to the railway. Vernon held that camping out in a private car was the right way to do it, and that a canvas tent was a delusion and a snare. "Back already?" exclaimed this genial man. "Why, Jack, you look as haggard as if you'd been through a panic in the wheat market. Didn't the mountains agree with you? "
"No," said Jack shortly and truthfully; "threatened to develop throat trouble," and he tapped his neck significantly.
"How long were you in the mountains?"
"Five days."
"Oh, well, I told you how it would be before you left. That's what comes of sleeping in a cot-bed, over damp ground, under thin canvas. You should have taken both my advice and my private car; then you could have carried all the comforts of town with you."
Now that the immediate tension of the crisis had relaxed, John Steele found himself very close to a mental and physical collapse. It was true that the great Peter Berrington was dead, but the elation which that startling piece of news had first caused subsided long before he reached the city. Men die, but systems remain. Had the shadow of Peter Berrington been lifted, after all, even though Peter himself was now a shadow? The grotesque uncertainty of the situation was making rags of John Steele's nerves. Even as he walked through the crowded streets he had to fight down an impulse to shriek aloud, raising his hands to heaven and crying—
"In Heaven's name, if you're going to do anything, do it now, and let's have it over!"
It was not that he shrank from ruin, or even from death, both of which he had faced within the past year. It was the uncertainty of when and how the blow was to fall. He began to fear that something worse than either ruin or death would overtake him. In the privacy of his own room he would some- times march up and down with set teeth and clenched fists, saying to himself—
"You must quit thinking of this, or you'll go mad," and yet with all his strength of mind he could not stop his planning to circumvent the unseen danger which threatened him.
The fantastic nature of the peril that surrounded him was such that if it were made public, he would be laughed at from one end of the country to the other. In a busy, practical, work-a-day world, it was incredible that a group of men, only one of whom he had ever seen, and that most casually, should sit in a sky-scraper in New York and actually plan the murder of a young man in Chicago; for this group of men were churchgoers, Sunday-school teachers, philanthropists who had founded colleges, bestowers of charity on a scale of munificence hitherto unexampled. And yet more potent than all these things was the fact that they were hard-headed business men, the most successful business men in the world, intent on their own affairs, and naturally far removed from any thought of revenge, for the simple reason that revenge is not business, and there is no money in it. It was quite true that this same group, in early days, had been accused of burning rival factories, of inciting riots, and of many other crimes against the peace and security of the commonwealth, but these things had never been legally proven or brought home to the group by irrefutable evidence. Where investigation had followed crime, and the inquiry was not quashed, it had always been shown that the rash acts were the work of over-zealous employés exceeding their instructions. The hands of the financial group in the tall building on Broadway were clean. No band of Quakers were more set against violence than these mild-mannered men in New York. If Jack Steele had told the story of the attempted lynching among the Black Hills, the incredulous public would have looked upon the affair as a practical joke played by humorous mountaineers on a tenderfoot from the east. No one knew better than Jack Steele that to connect Dakota Bill of the Black Hills with Nicholson of New York was an impossibility He was certain that the miners knew nothing of Nicholson; that they held a genuine lynching grievance against the owner of the mine, whoever he was, and that they were acting quite, naturally according to their instincts when this supposed owner had fallen into their hands.
Alice Fuller, who led him so easily into the trap, as the tame animal in the stockyards leads its fellows to the slaughter-pen—she, of course, knew for whom she was acting, but Jack doubted if this knowledge led by any followable clue to Nicholson. When he thought of the handsome girl, he shuddered; and, for ten thousand reasons, that episode must never become public. To be hoodwinked by a pretty woman was merely to join the procession of fools that extended from the time of Adam to the year 1905.
It was difficult for Jack Steele to cease his thoughts of the Amalgamated Soap combination, for the papers continued full of Peter Berrington and the financial upheaval which his sudden death was certain to cause. The imagination of the world was touched by the fact that this tremendous power which Peter Berrington had wielded in ever-increasing force for nearly half a century now lapsed into the hands of a girl, Constance Berrington, aged twenty-four, the only child of the billionaire. The newspapers printed column after column about this young lady, who appeared to be even more of a recluse than her father was. They published portraits of her, no two alike—pictures ranging from the most beautiful woman in Christendom to the most gaunt and ugly hag; which seemed to indicate that photographs of Miss Constance were unobtainable, and that the artists drew on their imagination as well as on their Whatman pads. She avoided society, was never seen at such resorts as Newport or Lennox; she took no part in the festivities of a great city, and believed that the door of a theatre was the gate of hell. Gossip said she was haunted by a fear of being married for her money, and so at this early age had become a man-hater. It was also alleged that she had a conscience, a possession with which her father had never been credited even by the wildest imaginative writer. She was going to devote her life and her billions as far as possible to the undoing of the harm which her parent had accomplished.
"She is fanatically religious," proclaimed one newspaper.
"She is a plain, commonplace girl," said another, "whose father has bequeathed her his cash, but not his brains."
When Jack Steele found he could not cease thinking over his paralysing situation, which had entirely emasculated his initiative and wrecked his business career; when he feared lunacy awaited him, he resolved to meet this girl, and persuade her, if he could, to stop the huge, golden Juggernaut which threatened to crush the life or reason out of him. Yet it seemed cowardly for a grown man to make such an appeal to a young girl who was an entire stranger to him, and who, if he actually succeeding in reaching her presence, would most likely feel indignant and insulted that such crimes as he placed before her without the slightest proof should be attributed to her father. Thus his interview would doubtless end with his being turned out of the house by the servants. Then again, even if she believed him—and the chances were only as one in ten thousand—had she the actual as well as the nominal power to stop the persecution? Was she like the Czar of Russia, helplessly at the head of an organisation over whose movements the supposed chief had no control?
Yet, after all, Jack Steele had not gone so far towards insanity as to be in any error regarding the real mover in the conspiracies of which he was the victim. Nicholson was the man; there could be no doubt of that. Twice Steele had beaten Nicholson to the ground. In the great wheat deal he had exposed his treachery and dishonesty, had publicly shown him to be an unscrupulous scoundrel, had prevented him from making millions in a single coup, which was all prepared and certain to succeed had not Steele disarranged the machinery. He had humiliated the man personally, wounding his pride and crushing his self-esteem. Was it possible, then, ever to make terms with one naturally so embittered? Steele braced himself up and resolved to try. Twice he had defeated him, and there remained in Jack's hand the powerful weapon of publicity. After all, could Amalgamated Soap risk such an exposure as it was in Jack's power to cast forth to the eager Press of the country? Was it so certain that the public would not believe the story he might tell regarding Amalgamated Soap? Even though Nicholson was imbued with malice, his colleagues would be more reasonable, more amenable to persuasion. They might induce this angry man to refrain from tempting the avalanche. He resolved to propose a treaty of peace with Nicholson. Then came the doubt. Should Nicholson agree to such a pact, would he keep it? Would he merely use it as a sedative to lull his intended victim into false security? Such an outcome was very likely; still, a frank talk with Nicholson could do no harm, and Steele had not the slightest intention of being lulled into security by anything Nicholson might say. Recalling to his mind the stony countenance of that human sphinx, Steele could not delude himself that any appeal to conscience or any plea for mercy would have the least chance of success. Nicholson was as unemotional as the Pyramids; Steele could make no bargain with such a man unless he had something to offer. Therefore he did not go impetuously to New York and fling himself at the feet of Nemesis. He set about the preparation of the goods he would trade with this white Indian. It gratified him to think that after all these months of doubt and uncertainty he could at last come to a definite decision about anything.
There were no women in Jack Steele's office. His confidential stenographer was a quiet man a little older than himself, named Henry Russell. Steele touched an electric button on his desk, and Russell came in, note-book in hand.
"Sit down, Russell. If I remember rightly, you were connected with a newspaper in your early days?"
"In a very humble capacity, sir; I was merely a reporter."
"Oh, don't say merely. A reporter is ever so much more important than an editorial writer. Have you ever attempted a novel?"
"No, sir."
"Still, you know something of literary form and the way a book is put together, I suppose?"
"I know nothing about the writing of books, sir. I think I have a fair knowledge of how a sentence should read."
"Well, that's the main thing. Still, as a reporter you must have seen a good deal of the seamy side of life, and later you have had to do with important business affairs, even since you came into my employ."
"That is very true, Mr. Steele."
"Don't you think you could concoct the plot of a novel? A novel of every-day business life, let us say, like one of those that have been so successful lately—a book pulsating with the greed of gold, and all that sort of thing, you know? Unscrupulous men, and perhaps an adventuress here and there, of perfectly stunning beauty. For instance, someone resembling that girl who came in to see me a fortnight ago."
"Yes, I remember her. She was good looking."
"An amazing beauty, I thought her," said Steele, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets and marching up and down the room. "Well, couldn't such a belle of the markets as that inspire you towards the writing of a great work of fiction?"
Russell shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Steele."
"There's nothing much doing just now," continued the promenading man. "At this present moment I intended to be off on my vacation, but I found the mountains too exciting—er—too dull, I mean—and so you see I am back among you earlier than I expected. Now, Russell, between ourselves, there is nothing more absurd than for a successful business man to attempt the writing of a novel. Yet I'm the sort of person who cannot remain idle, and there is nothing in sight to do for a month or two. I'm going to while away the time by composing a business novel, and I want you to assist me. I'll dictate the thing straight off to you, and you must invent the names and kick the sentences into shape."
"I'll do my best, sir."
"And remember, Russell, of all the confidential transactions you've been called upon to perform, this is the one in which I demand the utmost secrecy. I should be the laughing-stock of the town if it once got out that I were plunging into fiction instead of into wheat."
"I'll never breathe a whisper of it, sir."
"I am sure you won't, and that is why I trust you. Now, we'll just lock the doors and refuse ourselves to all comers. If a novel is to be a success nowadays, when people have so much to read and so little time for reading, it must be as sensational as possible, and I think I can do the trick. Anyhow, if it fails, there's no great harm done, and for a time we two will court that seclusion which I read in the papers all true literary men surround themselves with."
The two men worked together day after day, until the first draft of the history was completed and typed; then they revised this copy very thoroughly, and Steele directed that duplicates should be made, with blanks left for all proper names. He professed himself dissatisfied with the titles they had invented, and said that while the final manuscript was being prepared, he would concoct more suitable appellations for his main characters, and insert them with his own hand. This final revision was accomplished by John Steele alone, when he inserted the real names; then with his own hand he wrote the following letter to Stoliker, editor of the Chicago Daily Mail:—
"My dear Stoliker,—
"If the accompanying manuscript ever comes into your possession, I want you first of all to remember that on a certain night I brought to you a most remarkable article regarding the wheat situation in this country, the truth of which you quite legitimately doubted. After-events proved the accuracy of my statement, and you were thus enabled to score a great triumph for your paper. Believe me, then, when I tell you that every word here typed is true; for when you read the accompanying pages, I shall not be by your side to use arguments in favour of its publication. I shall either have disappeared or, more probably, I shall be dead. In either case, this manuscript, every name in which is real, will give you a clue to the disaster which has overtaken me. In the meantime I remain,
"Your friend,
"John Steele."
This letter and the manuscript he wrapped up into a parcel, which he securely sealed. On the outside he wrote instructions that in the case of his death or disappearance the package was to be handed intact to Stoliker, of the Chicago Daily Mail. The other package, with a duplicate of the letter to Stoliker, was placed in the vault of a depository, supposed to be the greatest strong-room in the city, which he afterwards learned, with some amusement, belonged to Amalgamated Soap. The thin key and the code word which opened this receptacle he placed in a sealed envelope which he left with his lawyers, with instructions to forward the envelope to Stoliker in case of his death or disappearance.
All this accomplished to his satisfaction, he took the Limited to New York, and entered the tall building on Broadway which was body to the brain that directed the activities of Amalgamated Soap. Asking that his card should be taken to Mr. Nicholson, and replying to an inquiry that he had no appointment, he was taken into a small but richly furnished waiting-room, which he saw to be one of many on the eleventh floor, and there he rested for nearly half an hour before a messenger entered and announced that Mr. Nicholson would be pleased to see him.
Nicholson's room was large and sumptuous, with several windows opening on Broadway. The two financiers, big and little, met on the plane of ordinary politeness, without any effusion of mutual regard on the one hand, or evidence of mutual distrust on the other.
"I have called," said Steele, "to see if we can come to any workable arrangement."
"In what line of activity?" asked Nicholson.
"In a line of passivity rather than of activity," explained Steele, with a smile. "When I was a youngster, and engaged in a light, it was etiquette that as soon as the under boy hollaed 'Enough!' the fellow on top ceased pummelling him. I have come all the way from Chicago to cry 'Enough!’"
Nicholson's eyebrows rose very slightly.
"I fear I do not understand you, Mr. Steele."
"Oh, yes, you do. It will save your time, which I know to be valuable, if we take certain things for granted. When we first met, I was so unfortunate as to find myself opposed to you. I admit frankly that I entirely underestimated your genius and your power. Since then, on one occasion you came within an ace of ruining me. On a second and more recent occasion you came within an ace of causing my death. Now, I have called at the captain's office to settle. In the language of the wild and woolly west, my hands are up, and you have the drop on me. What are your terms?"
For a few moments Nicholson regarded his visitor with an expression in which mild surprise was mingled with equally mild anxiety. When at last he spoke, his voice was perceptibly lowered, as if he addressed an invalid in a sick-room.
"You are not looking very well, Mr. Steele?"
"No, nor feeling well, either, Mr. Nicholson."
"I am sorry to hear it. What is the trouble?"
"Amalgamated Soap, I should say," said John, with a dreary laugh. "Excellent for the complexion, but mighty bad for the nerves."
"I shall make no pretence of misunderstanding your meaning, Mr. Steele," Nicholson went on with the patient enunciation one uses towards an unreasonable child. "You are hinting that in revenge for fancied opposition on your part, either I personally, or the Company with which I am associated, or both, have entered into a conspiracy, first to rob, and secondly to murder you. I hesitate to speak so bluntly, but, as you quite sensibly remark, we should be frank with each other."
"Your bluntness is more than compensated for by your accuracy, Mr. Nicholson. What you describe is exactly what you have done. Mere accident saved me from ruin in the Consolidated Beet Sugar formation. Less than a month ago I was led across the plains by one of your minions—a most charming, beautiful, and fascinating young woman—into a death-trap, from which I escaped largely through my own ingenuity. Now, I have written down a rather vivid and strictly accurate account of these doings. I have put in your name, and that of Amalgamated Soap, and my own, and there are three copies of this narrative in existence, two of them with a slow match attached which you can very easily light."
"Meaning that this interesting account will appear in print, Mr. Steele?"
"Quite so. Now, I ask you, Mr. Nicholson, is it worth while going any further with this feud? We're not illicit distillers in the mountains trying to pot-shot each other, hut two supposedly sane men; and the world is amply wide enough for both. What do you say?"
"Really, Mr. Steele, it's rather difficult to know what to say without seeming impolite. Many things have been printed about Amalgamated Soap during the last twenty years, and so far they have never been replied to, nor have our dividends been adversely affected. A few of the articles I have read. Some were largely statistical, others of a defamatory character, others, again, contained the two qualities combined. But you, Mr. Steele, threaten to inject a most unusual and interesting quality—namely, that of an attractive young man journeying across the prairies with a beautiful and mysterious young woman. If I raised a finger to prevent the publication of a human document so well calculated to touch the better and more sentimental parts of our nature, I should consider that I was depriving my fellows-creatures of a source of pure enjoyment. I believe we sometimes unite beauty and soap in our advertisements. Attractive pictures they are. But this romance of the Black Hills"
"How do you know it was the Black Hills?" asked Steele quickly.
"Didn't you mention the locality?"
"I said the plains."
"Then I beg pardon—this romance of the plains"
"Now, stop a moment, Nicholson, just stop where you are. Do you see what a mistake you've made? For your own purpose, whatever it may be, you have been pretending that this human document of mine, as you call it, is a myth. Yet, in the calm and choice language with which you are describing it, you have suddenly given yourself away. You know the mine was in the Black Hills, and, of course, I knew you knew from the very first. Now, let us quit sparring. I asked you what your terms were. I am not using threats at all; I am merely trying to come to an arrangement. Suppose, on the third attack, you succeed in driving me to the wall. What good will it do you?"
"None at all, Mr. Steele, and I assure you I have not the least desire to interfere even in the remotest degree with your affairs. You evidently attribute to me more power than I possess. The undertakings of our association are all matters of mutual arrangement between the directors, of whom I happen to be one. We meet each day at eleven o'clock, and I trust you will believe me when I say that if I proposed to my colleagues either the robbery or murder of Mr. John Steele, I should be very promptly asked to resign my position, and deservedly so. Really, Mr. Steele, if I may make an appeal to your own common sense, you must admit that the building up of the prestige of this company, its successful carrying on, its increase in all parts of the world, are not accomplished by such bizarre devices as you ascribe to us."
"Do you mean to say that you did not, in my own presence, attempt to wreck the Consolidated Beet Sugar Company when you thought I would be ruined by it, and immediately go to allotment when you learned I had escaped the trap?"
"I am very glad you mentioned that, Mr. Steele, because a few simple words will show you that I am not the Machiavelli you suppose me to be. To wreck you I should have had to wreck ourselves to at least an equal amount, and it is not the custom of Amalgamated Soap to purchase revenge at so excessive a price. It is one of our principles never to enter into any company put before the public unless the capital is fully subscribed. To my surprise, I learned that we were a million short, therefore I could not agree to go to allotment."
"But you went to allotment all the same when you learned I was out."
"Pardon me, it was not learning that you were out of it which caused me to change my mind. It was knowing you had sent a letter to the papers informing the public that we were interested in the Consolidated Beet Sugar Company. The moment our good name was involved, I proposed going to allotment; but before doing so, I myself drew my cheque for a million dollars and bought the unsold shares. Your being in or out of the Company had nothing to do with my action."
"You will not come to terms, then?"
"There are no terms to come to."
"Is this your last word, Mr. Nicholson?"
"If you will pardon the liberty I take, Mr. Steele, I shall venture some last words on another subject. As I said when you came in, you are not looking well. Do you know what paranœa means?"
"I do not."
"Then, if you take my advice, you will consult a physician and ask him about it."
"I'll ask you, to save the physician's fee. What is paranœa?"
"It is a disease of the brain, and its symptom is fear. The victim imagines that someone, or everyone, is plotting against him. All the energies he possesses are directed towards the circumvention of conspiracies that are wholly imaginary. This disease, if not checked, leads to insanity or suicide."
John Steele rose to his feet.
"Does paranœa ever lead to murder, Mr. Nicholson?"
"Quite frequently."
"Then as I understand the directors of Amalgamated Soap are a most piously inclined body, please solicit their prayers that I may not be afflicted with the malady you mention. I thank you for giving me so much of your time, and now bid you 'Good day.’"
"Good-bye, Mr. Steele," said Nicholson, rising; then speaking in his suavest manner, he said—
"If ever you entertain any project that requires more capital than you can command, I shall be most pleased to submit it to the Board, and perhaps we may be of assistance to you. As I told you before, I have the utmost admiration for your financial ability."
"Thank you, Mr. Nicholson; I shall bear your kind invitation in mind. However, I may inform you that I have entirely dropped out of all speculative business. I am one of the few men who knows when he has had enough. I have accumulated all the money I shall need during my lifetime, and I intend to take care of it."
"A most sensible resolution, Mr. Steele; and once more good-bye, with many thanks for the visit."
John Steele walked up Broadway the most depressed man in New York. His attempted compromise had proven a complete failure, his journey east a loss of time. And yet of what value was time to him, who dared not undertake the most innocent project through fear of the developments that might follow? Nicholson had said that fear was the symptom of the malady he had so graphically depicted. Could it be possible, Steele asked himself, that he was actually the victim of a disease, every indication of which he seemed to possess? Nicholson had evidently planted that thought in his brain to his further disquietude. That man, who rarely allowed a smile to lighten his face, had inwardly laughed at him, flouted him, defied him! and all done with soothing, contemptuous insults.
Steele walked slowly up Broadway until he came to its intersection with Fifth Avenue, and then he followed the latter street, aimlessly making for his hotel. Nevertheless, when he came opposite the hotel, he wandered past it and on up the Avenue. Suddenly he shook himself together and denied the cowardliness which he had hitherto attributed to the design forming in his mind. He would appeal to a woman, and if he could not thus circumvent the demoniac Nicholson, he would go out of business entirely, as he had threatened, and either travel or take up some interesting recreative occupation. He made inquiries, was directed to the Berrington residence, walked up the steps of that palace, and rang the bell. A servant in gorgeous livery opened the door.
"I wish to speak with Miss Berrington," he said.
"Not at 'ome, sir," was the curt answer.
Steele put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a twenty-dollar bill.
"I think the lady is in," he said quietly, handing this legal tender to the man in plush. Even in the residences of millionaires tips of this size are unusual, and the haughty menial at once melted. He pocketed the money.
"No, sir," he said, "she is not in town at all. Speaking confidentially, sir, Miss Berrington's that peculiar she don't like New York. Her ladyship—I beg your pardon, sir—Miss Berrington is at her country 'ome, some distance out of town, sir."
"How far? Where is it?"
"On a lake, sir. I don't quite remember its name."
"Lake Saratoga?" suggested Steele.
"It begins with an S, sir. Oh, yes, sir, Superior—Lake Superior, sir."
"Great Heavens!" cried Steele, unable to repress a smile, "that isn't just exactly in the environs of New York. I suppose you couldn't tell me whether the house is on the Canadian or the United States side?"
"No, sir, I couldn't say, sir, being it's in Michigan, sir."
"Oh, well, that's near enough; I can guess the rest."
The man in plush pronounced the name of the State as if the first syllable were spelt M-i-t-c-h.
"Yes, sir, her ladyship—beg your pardon—Miss Berrington owns a large estate there, so they tell me—thousands and thousands of acres, all covered with forests, and there's a big 'ouse there full of servants; but her lady—but Miss Berrington receives nobody, sir. Not if you brought a letter from the King of Hengland, sir."
"Ha! Rather exclusive, isn't she?"
"Yes, sir."
Thanking the man, Steele turned away and walked down the Avenue to his hotel, resolved to let the Berringtons or the Nicholsons do their worst. He would attempt no further parley with any of the gang, and—probably inspired by the accent of the servitor in plush—gave serious thought to the investing of all his money in British Consols, small as was the percentage granted by that celebrated security. He took it for granted that the Government of Britain was probably free from the influence of the Berrington crowd, and he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that no other sphere of human activity was.
Arriving at his hotel, he found a telegram waiting for him. It proved to be from his oldest and most trusted friend, the vice-president of the Wheat Belt Road, Richard K. Vernon. The telegram ran:—
"Congratulate me. Have just been appointed president of the Wheat Belt System. Important development. Great opening here that just suits you, and so I must see you at once. If you cannot come here, telegraph me, and I shall leave at once for New York."
"Ye gods!" cried Steele, bracing up his shoulders, while the look of anxiety lately customary to his countenance vanished like mist before the sun, "just at the point when I don't know what to do, here comes my chance. I'll bet a farm Vernon is going to offer me the vice-presidency of the road. I'll take it like a shot, and raise the freight rates on soap if Vernon will let me."
He seized a telegraph-form and wrote:—
"Heartiest congratulations. The right man in the right place. You need not come to New York, as I am leaving for home to-night; and to relieve your mind of any anxiety, I shall accept your opening, whatever it is."
Before two days were past, John Steele was closeted with his friend Vernon in the president's room of the huge Wheat Belt building. The great, flat table in the centre was covered over with broad maps taken from the civil engineer's department, maps unknown to the general public.
"Now, Jack," said his friend, "I'm in a position to offer yon the absolute surety of doubling, trebling, or even quadrupling your money."
"Thunder!" cried Jack in a tone of disappointment, "I thought you were going to offer me the vice-presidency of the road."
Vernon looked up at him in surprise.
"Would you take it?" he said.
"Take it? Of course, that's what I thought I was engaging to do when I telegraphed from New York."
"Why, no sooner said than done, Jack. I'd no idea you wished to get back into the railway business. I should think a man who can make millions outside wouldn't be content to sit here at a salary of ten or fifteen thousand a year."
"I am tired of making millions," said Jack.
"You don't mean to say," protested Vernon, with something like dismay in his words, "you don't mean to say you won't go in with us? I took your telegram as consent, and because I could thus guarantee the bringing in of a big capitalist, I have induced others to join and secured an extra slice for myself."
"Where there are millions to be made," said Jack dubiously, "there is always a risk, and I had determined not to accept any more chances."
"There is no chance about this, Jack; it is a sure thing, and the development of it rests entirely in my hands. You can double your money and pull out within ten days after I give the word, and I'll give the word whenever you say so."
"What's your project, Vernon?"
"Well, you see, the Wheat Belt Line, which has been one of the most prosperous roads in the country for some years past, is going to build a branch running two hundred and seventy miles north-west until it taps the Wisconsin Pacific. This red line shows you where the road will run. The Wheat Belt Line has secured all the timber-land on each side, but the former president, whose place I have taken, and myself have an option on the prairie and the stump-lands where timber has been cut. The president resigned simply to give his whole time to this land company, and that's why I am in his place. Now, we can get the property at prairie value just now; but the minute we begin surveying, up it will jump. You can trust me to keep my word. If you join us, I shall give the order for surveying the line the moment deeds of the land are in our possession."
"How much money do you expect me to put up, Vernon?"
"You couldn't invest twenty millions, I suppose?"
"Twenty millions! Heaven and earth, no! It would practically clean me out to furnish nine."
"I mentioned the bigger amount simply because I am sure you will double your money within a month, and the more you put in, the more you're going to take out. You see, this is not a speculation, but a certainty."
For a few minutes Jack Steele walked up and down the room, hands deep in his pockets, as was his custom, brow wrinkled and head bent. At last he said, with the old ring of decision in his voice—
"All right, Vernon, I'll go in; but if I fail, you must give me the vice-presidency, as a sort of consolation prize."
"I'll give it to you now," said Vernon. "But it can't fail. I tell you everything is in my hands. It is not as if this were any bluff. The proposed line is a road that is becoming more and more needed every day, and the land is good for the money, even if the road were never built. It's as safe as Government Bonds."
It would be going over ground already sufficiently covered to recount the history of the Western Land Syndicate. Steele had resolved not to invest more than half his fortune; but once a man is involved in an important enterprise, he rarely can predict where he will stop. A scheme grows and grows, and often the financier is compelled to involve himself more and more deeply in order to protect the money already ventured, and finally it becomes all or nothing. Besides this, every speculator is something of the gambler, and once the game has begun, the betting fever has him in its clutch. Before a month was past, Jack Steele had not only paid over every dollar he possessed, but had also become deeply indebted to his bank. In borrowing from the bank he made his irretrievable mistake. As the president had said, the land was intrinsically worth the money paid for it; and if John Steele had merely risked his own assets, he might have been penniless for ten years, but he would ultimately have been sure of getting back what he paid, and probably a good deal more. But to borrow hundreds of thousands at sixty days, in the expectation that he would take profits enough to pay the loan before that time expired, was an action he himself, in less feverish moments, would have been the first to condemn. He felt the utmost confidence in his old friend the new president, and it may be said at once that Vernon, throughout the history of what was known as the Great Land Bubble, was perfectly honest and sincere. He was merely a pawn on the board, moved by an unseen force of which he knew nothing.
On the afternoon of the day during which the final payment on the land made, the president, of the Wheat Belt Line entered the room of his subordinate with a piece of paper in his hand. His face was white as chalk, and he could not speak. He dropped into a chair before John Steele's desk, and the latter, with a premonition of what was coming, took the paper from his trembling hand. It was a telegram from New York, and ran as follows:—
"The Peter Berringtons Estate has acquired control of the Wheat Belt System. The new Board of Directors of the Wheat Belt System yesterday resolved to abandon the Wisconsin Pacific Branch. If the branch is built at all, which is doubtful, it will begin a hundred and seventy miles west of the point formerly selected. You will, therefore, countermand at once any instructions previously given regarding the Wisconsin Pacific connection. The Board also refuses to ratify the nomination of John Steele as vice-president of the road.—Nicholson."
"Cheer up!" said John, with a laugh that sounded just a trifle hollow. "Cheer up, old man. I know all about this, and you're not in the least to blame. You acted in good faith throughout."
"It's horrible, John, horrible! But still, you know, you have the land: that will realise all you've put in before long."
"Yes, Vernon, I've got the land, that's one consolation."
But he knew perfectly well he hadn't. He knew that when the sixty days were up, the bank would foreclose, which was exactly what happened. There were practically no bidders for so large a plot, and Nicholson purchased the property for the exact amount owing to the bank.
The ruin of John Steele was complete.