by Rex Beach
WITH INTEREST TO DATE
This is the tale of a wrong that rankled and a great revenge. It isnot a moral story, nor yet, measured by the modern money code, is itwhat could be called immoral. It is merely a tale of sharp witswhich clashed in pursuit of business, therefore let it be consideredunmoral, a word with a wholly different commercial significance.
Time was when wrongs were righted by mace and battle-ax, amid fanfaresand shoutings, but we live in a quieter age, an age of repression,wherein the keenest thrust is not delivered with a yell of triumph northe oldest score settled to the blare of trumpets. No longer do themen of great muscle lord it over the weak and the puny; as a rulethey toil and they lift, doing unpleasant, menial duties forhollow-chested, big-domed men with eye-glasses. But among those veryspindle-shanked, terra-cotta dwellers who cower at draughts and eatsoda mints, the ancient struggle for supremacy wages fiercer thanever. Single combats are fought now as then, and the flavor of victoryis quite as sweet to the pallid man back of a roll-top desk as to theswart, bristling baron behind his vizored helmet.
The beginning of this story runs back to the time Henry Hanford wentwith the General Equipment Company as a young salesman full of hopeand enthusiasm and a somewhat exaggerated idea of his own importance.He was selling shears, punches, and other machinery used in thefabrication of structural steel. In the territory assigned to him, theworks of the Atlantic Bridge Company stuck up like a sore thumb, foralthough it employed many men, although its contracts were large andits requirements numerous, the General Equipment Company had neversold it a dollar's worth of anything.
In the course of time Hanford convinced himself that the AtlanticBridge Company needed more modern machinery, so he laid siege toJackson Wylie, Sr., its president and practical owner. He spent all ofsix months in gaining the old man's ear, but when he succeeded helaid himself out to sell his goods. He analyzed the Atlantic BridgeCompany's needs in the light of modern milling practice, anddemonstrated the saving his equipment would effect. A big order andmuch prestige were at stake, both of which young Hanford neededbadly at the time. He was vastly encouraged, therefore, when thebridge-builder listened attentively to him.
"I dare say we shall have to make a change," Mr. Wylie reluctantlyagreed. "I've been bothered to death by machinery salesmen, but you'rethe first one to really interest me."
Hanford acknowledged the compliment and proceeded further to elaborateupon the superiority of the General Equipment Company's goods overthose sold by rival concerns. When he left he felt that he had Mr.Wylie, Sr., "going."
At the office they warned him that he had a hard nut to crack; thatWylie was given to "stringing" salesmen and was a hard man to closewith, but Hanford smiled confidently. Granting those facts, theyrendered him all the more eager to make this sale; and the bridgecompany really did need up-to-date machinery.
He instituted an even more vigorous selling campaign, he sent muchprinted matter to Mr. Wylie, Sr., he wrote him many letters. Being athoroughgoing young saleman, he studied the plant from the ground up,learning the bridge business in such detail as enabled him to talkwith authority on efficiency methods. In the course of his studies hediscovered many things that were wrong with the Atlantic, and spentdays in outlining improvements on paper. He made the acquaintance ofthe foremen; he cultivated the General Superintendent; he even met Mr.Jackson Wylie, Jr., the Sales Manager, a very polished, metallic youngman, who seemed quite as deeply impressed with Hanford's statements asdid his father.
Under our highly developed competitive system, modern business is donevery largely upon personality. From the attitude of both father andson, Hanford began to count his chickens. Instead of letting up,however, he redoubled his efforts, which was his way. He spent so muchtime on the matter that his other work suffered, and in consequencehis firm called him down. He outlined his progress with the AtlanticBridge Company, declared he was going to succeed, and continued tocamp with the job, notwithstanding the firm's open doubts.
Sixty days after his first interview he had another visit with Wylie,senior, during which the latter drained him of information and made anappointment for a month later. Said Mr. Wylie:
"You impress me strongly, Hanford, and I want my associates to hearyou. Get your proposition into shape and make the same talk to themthat you have made to me."
Hanford went away elated; he even bragged a bit at the office, and thereport got around among the other salesmen that he really had done theimpossible and had pulled off something big with the Atlantic. It wasa busy month for that young gentleman, and when the red-letter day atlast arrived he went on to Newark to find both Wylies awaiting him.
"Well, sir, are you prepared to make a good argument?" the fatherinquired.
"I am." Hanford decided that three months was not too long a time todevote to work of this magnitude, after all.
"I want you to do your best," the bridge-builder continued,encouragingly, then he led Hanford into the directors' room, where, tohis visitor's astonishment, some fifty men were seated.
"These are our salesmen," announced Mr. Wylie. He introduced Hanfordto them with the request that they listen attentively to what theyoung man had to say.
It was rather nervous work for Hanford, but he soon warmed up andforgot his embarrassment. He stood on his feet for two long hourspleading as if for his life. He went over the Atlantic plant from endto end; he showed the economic necessity for new machinery; then heexplained the efficiency of his own appliances. He took rival typesand picked them to pieces, pointing out their inferiority. He showedhis familiarity with bridge work by going into figures which bore outhis contention that the Atlantic's output could be increased and atan actual monthly saving. He wound up by proving that the GeneralEquipment Company was the one concern best fitted to effect theimprovement.
It had taken months of unremitting toil to prepare himself for thisexposition, but the young fellow felt he had made his case. When hetook up the cost of the proposed instalment, however, Mr. JacksonWylie, Sr., interrupted him.
"That is all I care to have you cover," the latter explained. "Thankyou very kindly, Mr. Hanford."
Hanford sat down and wiped his forehead, whereupon the other steppedforward and addressed his employees.
"Gentlemen," said he, "you have just listened to the best argument Iever heard. I purposely called you in from the road so that you mighthave a practical lesson in salesmanship and learn something from anoutsider about your own business. I want you to profit by this talk.Take it to heart and apply it to your own customers. Our sellingefficiency has deteriorated lately; you are getting lazy. I want youto wake up and show better results. That is all. You might thank thisyoung gentleman for his kindness."
When the audience had dispersed, Hanford inquired, blankly, "Don't youintend to act on my suggestions?"
"Oh no!" said Mr. Wylie, in apparent surprise. "We are doing nicely,as it is. I merely wanted you to address the boys."
"But--I've spent three months of hard labor on this! You led me tobelieve that you would put in new equipment."
The younger Wylie laughed, languidly exhaling a lungful of cigarettesmoke. "When Dad gets ready to purchase, he'll let you know," said he.
Six months later the Atlantic Bridge Company placed a mammoth orderwith Hanford's rival concern, and he was not even asked to figure onit.
That is how the seeds of this story were sown. Of course the facts gotout, for those Atlantic salesmen were not wanting in a sense of humor,and Hanford was joshed in every quarter. To make matters worse,his firm called him to account for his wasted time, implying thatsomething was evidently wrong with his selling methods. Thus began alack of confidence which quickly developed into strained relations.The result was inevitable; Hanford saw what was coming and was wiseenough to resign his position.
But it was the ridicule that hurt him most. He was unable to getaway from that. Had he been at all emotional, he would have sworn avendetta, so deep and lasting was the hurt, but he did not; he merelyfailed to fo
rget, which, after all, is not so different.
It seemed queer that Henry Hanford should wind up in the bridgebusiness himself, after attempting to fill several unsatisfactorypositions, and yet there was nothing remarkable about it, for thatthree months of intense application at the Atlantic plant had givenhim a groundwork which came in handy when the Patterson Bridge Companyoffered him a desk. He was a good salesman; he worked hard and intime he was promoted. By and by the story was forgotten--by everyone except Henry Hanford. But he had lost a considerable number ofprecious years.
* * * * *
When it became known that the English and Continental structuralshops were so full of work that they could not figure on the mammothfive-million-dollar steel structure designed to span the Barrata Riverin Africa, and when the Royal Commission in London finally advertisedbroadcast that time was the essence of this contract, Mr. JacksonWylie, Sr., realized that his plant was equipped to handle the job inmagnificent shape, with large profit to himself and with great renownto the Wylie name. He therefore sent his son, Jackson Wylie, theSecond, now a full-fledged partner, to London armed with letters toalmost everybody in England from almost everybody in America.
Two weeks later--the Patterson Bridge Company was not so aggressiveas its more pretentious rival--Henry Hanford went abroad on the samemission, but he carried no letters of introduction for the very goodreason that he possessed neither commercial influence nor socialprestige. Bradstreets had never rated him, and _Who's Who_ containedno names with which he was familiar.
Jackson Wylie, the Second had been to London frequently, and he wasaccustomed to English life. He had friends with headquarters atPrince's and at Romano's, friends who were delighted to entertain soprominent an American; his letters gave him the entree to many of thebest clubs and paved his way socially wherever he chose to go.
It was Hanford's first trip across, and he arrived on British soilwithout so much as a knowledge of English coins, with nothing inthe way of baggage except a grip full of blue-prints, and with nodestination except the Parliament buildings, where he had been ledto believe the Royal Barrata Bridge Commission was eagerly andimpatiently awaiting his coming. But when he called at the Parliamentbuildings he failed not only to find the Commission, but even toencounter anybody who knew anything about it. He did manage to locatethe office, after some patient effort, but learned that it was nothingmore than a forwarding address, and that no member of the Commissionhad been there for several weeks. He was informed that the Commissionhad convened once, and therefore was not entirely an imaginary body;beyond that he could discover nothing. On his second visit to theoffice he was told that Sir Thomas Drummond, the chairman, was inside,having run down from his shooting-lodge in Scotland for the day. ButSir Thomas's clerk, with whom Hanford had become acquainted at thetime of his first call, informed him that Mr. Jackson Wylie, theSecond, from America, was closeted with his lordship, and inconsequence his lordship could not be disturbed. Later, when Hanfordgot more thoroughly in touch with the general situation, he began torealize that introductions, influence, social prestige would in allprobability go farther toward landing the Barrata Bridge than mereengineering, ability or close figuring--facts with which the youngerWylie was already familiar, and against which he had provided. It alsobecame plain to Hanford as time went on that the contract would ofnecessity go to America, for none of the European shops were inposition to complete it on time.
Owing to government needs, this huge, eleven-span structure had to beon the ground within ninety days from the date of the signing of thecontract, and erected within eight months thereafter. The Commission'sclerk, a big, red-faced, jovial fellow, informed Hanford that pricewas not nearly so essential as time of delivery; that although thecontract glittered with alluring bonuses and was heavily weightedwith forfeits, neither bonuses nor forfeitures could in the slightestmanner compensate for a delay in time. It was due to this very fact,to the peculiar urgency of the occasion, that the Commissioners wereinclined to look askance at prospective bidders who might in any wayfail to complete the task as specified.
"If all that is true, tell me why Wylie gets the call?" Hanfordinquired.
"I understand he has the very highest references," said theEnglishman.
"No doubt. But you can't build bridges with letters of introduction,even in Africa."
"Probably not. But Sir Thomas is a big man; Mr. Wylie is one of hissort. They meet on common ground, don't you see?"
"Well, if I can't arrange an interview with any member of theCommission, I can at least take you to lunch. Will you go?"
The clerk declared that he would, indeed, and in the days thatfollowed the two saw much of each other. This fellow, Lowe by name,interested Hanford. He was a cosmopolite; he was polished to thehardness of agate by a life spent in many lands. He possessed a coldeye and a firm chin; he was a complex mixture of daredeviltry andmeekness. He had fought in a war or two, and he had led hopes quiteas forlorn as the one Hanford was now engaged upon. It was this bond,perhaps, which drew the two together.
In spite of Lowe's assistance Hanford found it extremely difficult,nay, almost impossible, to obtain any real inside informationconcerning the Barrata Bridge; wherever he turned he brought upagainst a blank wall of English impassiveness: he even experienceddifficulty in securing the blue-prints he wanted.
"It looks pretty tough for you," Lowe told him one day. "I'm afraidyou're going to come a cropper, old man. This chap Wylie has the railand he's running well. He has opened an office, I believe."
"So I understand. Well, the race isn't over yet, and I'm a goodstayer. This is the biggest thing I ever tackled and it means a lot tome--more than you imagine."
"How so?"
Hanford recited the story of his old wrong, to Lowe's frank amazement.
"What a rotten trick!" the latter remarked.
"Yes! And--I don't forget."
"You'd better forget this job. It takes pull to get consideration frompeople like Sir Thomas, and Wylie has more than he needs. A fellowwithout it hasn't a chance. Look at me, for instance, working at adesk! Bah!"
"Want to try something else?"
"I do! And you'd better follow suit."
Hanford shook his head. "I never quit--I can't. When my chance at thisbridge comes along--"
Lowe laughed.
"Oh, the chance will come. Chances always come; sometimes we don't seethem, that's all. When this one comes I want to be ready. Meanwhile, Ithink I'll reconnoiter Wylie's new office and find out what's doing."
Day after day Henry Hanford pursued his work doggedly, seeing much ofLowe, something of Wylie's clerk, and nothing whatever of Sir ThomasDrummond or the other members of the Royal Barrata Bridge Commission.He heard occasional rumors of the social triumphs of his rival,and met him once, to be treated with half-veiled amusement by thatpatronizing young man. Meanwhile, the time was growing short andHanford's firm was not well pleased with his progress.
Then the chance came, unexpectedly, as Hanford had declared chancesalways come. The remarkable thing in this instance was not that theveiled goddess showed her face, but that Hanford was quick enoughto recognize her and bold enough to act. He had taken Lowe to theTrocadero for dinner, and, finding no seats where they could watch thecrowd, he had selected a stall in a quiet corner. They had been therebut a short time when Hanford recognized a voice from the stalladjacent as belonging to the representative of the Atlantic BridgeCompany. From the sounds he could tell that Wylie was giving adinner-party, and with Lowe's aid he soon identified the guests asmembers of the Royal Barrata Bridge Commission. Hanford began tostrain his ears.
As the meal progressed this became less of an effort, for youngWylie's voice was strident. The Wylie conversation had ever beenlimited largely to the Wylies, their accomplishments, their purposes,and their prospects; and now having the floor as host, he talkedmainly about himself, his father, and their forthcoming Barrata Bridgecontract. It was his evident endeavor this evening to impress hi
sdistinguished guests with the tremendous importance of the AtlanticBridge Company and its unsurpassed facilities for handling big jobs.A large part of young Wylie's experience had been acquired bymanipulating municipal contracts and the aldermen connected therewith;he now worked along similar lines. Hanford soon learned that he wastrying in every way possible to induce Drummond and his associatesto accompany him back to America for the purpose of provingbeyond peradventure that the Atlantic could take care of afive-million-dollar contract with ease.
"As if they'd go!" Lowe said, softly. "And yet--by Jove! he talks asif he had the job buttoned up."
The Englishman was alert, his dramatic instinct was at play;recognizing the significance of Wylie's offer and its possible bearingupon Hanford's fortunes, he waved the waiter away, knowing better thanto permit the rattle of dishes to distract his host's attention.
Meanwhile, with clenched teeth and smoldering eyes Henry Hanford heardhis rival in the next compartment identify the State of New Jersey bythe fact that the works of the Atlantic Bridge Company were locatedtherein, and dignify it by the fact that the Jackson Wylies livedthere.
"You know, gentlemen," Wylie was saying, "I can arrange the tripwithout the least difficulty, and I assure you there will be nodiscomfort. I am in constant cipher communication with my father, andhe will be delighted to afford you every courtesy. I can fix it up bycable in a day."
Hanford arose with a silent gesture to his guest, then, although themeal was but half over, he paid the bill. He had closed his campaign.Right then and there he landed the great Barrata Bridge contract.
Lowe, mystified beyond measure by his friend's action, made no commentuntil they were outside. Then he exclaimed:
"I say, old top, what blew off?"
Hanford smiled at him queerly. "The whole top of young Wylie's headblew off, if he only knew it. It's my day to settle that score, andthe interest will be compounded."
"I must be extremely stupid."
"Not at all. You're damned intelligent, and that's why I'm going toneed your help." Hanford turned upon the adventurer suddenly. "Haveyou ever been an actor?"
Lowe made a comical grimace. "I say, old man, that's pretty rough. Mypeople raised me for a gentleman."
"Exactly. Come with me to my hotel. We're going to do each other agreat favor. With your help and the help of Mr. Jackson Wylie theSecond's London clerk, I'm going to land the Barrata Bridge."
Hanford had not read his friend Lowe awrong, and when, behind lockeddoors, he outlined his plan, the big fellow gazed at him withamazement, his blue eyes sparkling with admiration.
"Gad! That appeals to me. I--think I can do it." There was no timidityin Lowe's words, merely a careful consideration of the risks involved.
Hanford gripped his hand. "I'll attend to Wylie's clerk," he declared."Now we'd better begin to rehearse."
"But what makes you so positive you can handle his clerk?" queriedLowe.
"Oh, I've studied him the same way I've studied you! I've been doingnothing else for the last month."
"Bli' me, you're a corker!" said Mr. Lowe.
* * * * *
Back in Newark, New Jersey, Jackson Wylie, Sr., was growing impatient.In spite of his son's weekly reports he had begun to fret at theindefinite nature of results up to date. This dissatisfaction it wasthat had induced him to cable his invitation to the Royal Commissionto visit the Atlantic plant. Mr. Jackson Wylie, Sr., had a mysteriousway of closing contracts once he came in personal contact with theproper people. In the words of his envious competitors, he had "goodterminal facilities," and he felt sure in his own mind that he couldget this job if only he could meet some member of that Commission whopossessed the power to act. Business was bad, and in view of his son'spreliminary reports he had relied upon the certainty of securing thistremendous contract; he had even turned work away so that his plantmight be ready for the rush, with the result that many of his men nowwere idle and that he was running far below capacity. But he likewisehad his eye upon those English bonuses, and when his associates rathertimidly called his attention to the present state of affairs heassured them bitingly that he knew his business. Nevertheless, hecould not help chafing at delay nor longing for the time to come tosubmit the bid that had lain for a month upon his desk. The magnitudeof the figures contained therein was getting on Mr. Wylie's nerves.
On the tenth of May he received a cablegram in his own official cipherwhich, translated, read:
Meet Sir Thomas Drummond, Chairman Royal Barrata Bridge Commission,arriving Cunard Liner _Campania_, thirteenth, stopping Waldorf.Arrange personally Barrata contract. Caution.
The cablegram was unsigned, but its address, "Atwylie," betrayed notonly its destination, but also the identity of its sender. Mr. JacksonWylie, Sr., became tremendously excited. The last word conjured upbewildering possibilities. He was about to consult his associates whenit struck him that the greatest caution he could possibly observewould consist of holding his own tongue now and henceforth. They hadseen fit to criticize his handling of the matter thus far; he decidedhe would play safe and say nothing until he had first seen Sir ThomasDrummond and learned the lay of the land. He imagined he might thenhave something electrifying to tell them. He had "dealt from thebottom" too often, he had closed too many bridge contracts in histime, to mistake the meaning of this visit, or of that last word"caution."
During the next few days Mr. Jackson Wylie, Sr., had hard work to holdhimself in, and he was at a high state of nervous tension when, onthe morning of the fourteenth day of May, he strolled into theWaldorf-Astoria and inquired at the desk for Sir Thomas Drummond.
There was no Sir Thomas stopping at the hotel, although a Mr. T.Drummond from London had arrived on the _Campania_ the day before. Mr.Jackson Wylie placed the heel of his right shoe upon the favorite cornof his left foot and bore down upon it heavily. He must begetting into his dotage, he reflected, or else the idea of afive-million-dollar job had him rattled. Of course Sir Thomas wouldnot use his title.
At the rear desk he had his card blown up through the tube to "Mr. T.Drummond," and a few moments later was invited to take the elevator.
Arriving at the sixth floor, he needed no page to guide him; bootspointed his way to the apartment of the distinguished visitor as plainlyas a lettered sign-board; boots of all descriptions--hunting-boots,riding-boots, street shoes, lowshoes, pumps, sandals--black ones and tanones--all in a row outside the door. It was a typically English display.Evidently Sir Thomas Drummond was a personage of the most extremeimportance and traveled in befitting style, Mr. Wylie told himself.Nothing was missing from the collection, unless perhaps a pair of rubberhip-boots.
A stoop-shouldered old man with a marked accent and a port-wine noseshowed Mr. Wylie into a parlor where the first object upon whichhis active eyes alighted was a mass of blue-prints. He knew thesedrawings; he had figured on them himself. He likewise noted a hat-boxand a great, shapeless English bag, both plastered crazily with hoteland steamship labels hailing from every quarter of the world. It wasplain to be seen that Sir Thomas was a globe-trotter.
"Mr. Drummond begs you to be seated," the valet announced, with whatseemed an unnecessary accent on the "mister," then moved silently out.
Mr. Wylie remarked to himself upon the value of discreet servants.They were very valuable; very hard to get in America. This must besome lifelong servitor in his lordship's family.
There was no occasion to inquire the identity of the tall, floridEnglishman in tweeds who entered a moment later, a bundle of estimatesin his hand. "Sir Thomas Drummond, Chairman of the Royal BarrataBridge Commission," was written all over him in large type.
His lordship did not go to the trouble of welcoming his visitor, butscanned him frigidly through his glasses.
"You are Mr. Jackson Wylie, Senior?" he demanded, abruptly.
"That is my name."
"President of the Atlantic Bridge Company, of Newark, New Jersey?"
"The same."
"Yo
u received a cablegram from your son in London?"
"Yes, your lordship."
Sir Thomas made a gesture as if to forego the title. "Let me see it,please."
Mr. Wylie produced the cablegram, and Drummond scanned it sharply.Evidently the identification was complete.
"Does any one besides your son and yourself know the contents of thismessage?"
"Not a soul."
"You have not told any one of my coming?"
"No, sir!"
"Very well." Sir Thomas appeared to breathe easier; he deliberatelytore the cablegram into small bits, then tossed the fragments intoa wastepaper basket before waving his caller to a chair. He stillremained very cold, very forceful, although his stiff formality hadvanished.
"Do you understand all about this bridge?" he inquired.
Wylie senior took the cue of brusqueness and nodded shortly.
"Can you build it in the time specified?"
"With ease."
"Have you submitted your bid?"
"Not yet. I--"
"What is the amount of your proposal?"
The president of the Atlantic Bridge Company gasped. This was theboldest, the coldest work he had ever experienced. Many times he hadwitnessed public officials like Sir Thomas Drummond approach thisdelicate point, but never with such composure, such matter-of-factcertainty and lack of moral scruple. Evidently, however, thisEnglishman had come to trade and wanted a direct answer. There was nofalse pose, no romance here. But Jackson Wylie, Sr., was too shrewd abusiness man to name a rock-bottom price to begin with. The trainingof a lifetime would not permit him to deny himself a liberal leewayfor hedging, therefore he replied, cautiously:
"My figures will be approximately L1,400,000 sterling." It was hislongest speech thus far.
For what seemed an hour to the bridge-builder Sir Thomas Drummondgazed at him with a cold, hard eye, then he folded his papers,rolled up his blue-prints, placed them in the big traveling-bag, andcarefully locked it. When he had finished he flung out this questionsuddenly:
"Does that include the Commissioners?"
Up to this point Mr. Jackson Wylie had spoken mainly in monosyllables;now he quit talking altogether; it was no longer necessary. He merelyshook his head in negation. He was smiling slightly.
"Then I shall ask you to add L200,000 sterling to your price," hislordship calmly announced. "Make your bid L1,600,000 sterling, andmail it in time for Wednesday's boat. I sail on the same ship.Proposals will be opened on the twenty-fifth. Arrange for an Englishindemnity bond for ten per cent. of your proposition. Do notcommunicate in any manner whatsoever with your son, except to forwardthe sealed bid to him. He is not to know of our arrangement. You willmeet me in London later; we will take care of that L200,000 out of thelast forty per cent. of the contract price, which is payable thirtydays after completion, inspection, and acceptance of the bridge. Youwill not consult your associates upon leaving here. Do I make myselfclear? Very well, sir. The figures are easy to remember: L1,600,000;L1,400,000 to you. I am pleased with the facilities your plant offersfor doing the work. I am confident you can complete the bridge ontime, and I beg leave to wish you a very pleasant good day."
Jackson Wylie, Sr., did not really come to until he had reachedthe street; even then he did not know whether he had come down theelevator or through the mail-chute. Of one thing only was he certain:he was due to retire in favor of his son. He told himself thathe needed a trip through the Holy Land with a guardian and anursing-bottle; then he paused on the curb and stamped on his corn fora second time.
"Oh, what an idiot I am!" he cried, savagely. "I could havegotten L1,600,000 to start with, but--by gad, Sir Thomas is thecoldest-blooded thing I ever went against! I--I can't help but admirehim."
Having shown a deplorable lack of foresight, Mr. Wylie determined tomake up for it by an ample display of hindsight. If the profits on thejob were not to be so large as they might have been, he would atleast make certain of them by obeying instructions to the letter. Inaccordance with this determination, he made out the bid himself, andhe mailed it with his own hand that very afternoon. He put three bluestamps on the envelope, although it required but two. Then he calledup an automobile agency and ordered a foreign town-car his wife hadadmired. He decided that she and the girls might go to Paris for thefall shopping--he might even go with them, in view of that morning'sepisode.
For ten days he stood the pressure, then on the morning of thetwenty-fourth he called his _confreres_ into the directors' room, thatsame room in which young Hanford had made his talk a number of yearsbefore. Inasmuch as it was too late now for a disclosure to affect theopening of the bids in London, he felt absolved from his promise toSir Thomas.
"Gentlemen, I have the honor to inform you," he began, pompously,"that the Barrata Bridge is ours! We have the greatest structuralsteel job of the decade." His chest swelled with justifiable pride.
"How? When? What do you mean?" they cried.
He told them of his mysterious but fruitful interview at the Waldorften days previously, enjoying their expressions of amazement to thefull; then he explained in considerable detail the difficulties he hadsurmounted in securing such liberal figures from Sir Thomas.
"We were ready to take the contract for L1,300,000, as you willremember, but by the exercise of some diplomacy"--he coughedmodestly--"I may say, by the display of some firmness andindependence, I succeeded in securing a clean profit of $500,000 overwhat we had expected." He accepted, with becoming diffidence, thecongratulations which were showered upon him. Of course, the newscreated a sensation, but it was as nothing to the sensation thatfollowed upon the receipt of a cablegram the next day which read:
ATWYLIE,
Newark, New Jersey.
Terrible mistake somewhere. We lost. Am coming home to-day.
Mr. Jackson Wylie, Sr., also went home that day--by carriage, for,after raving wildly of treachery, after cursing the name of someEnglish nobleman, unknown to most of the office force, he collapsed,throwing his employees into much confusion. There were rumors ofan apoplectic stroke; some one telephoned for a physician; but thepresident of the Atlantic Bridge Company only howled at the latterwhen he arrived.
What hit the old man hardest was the fact that he could not explain tohis associates--that he could not even explain to himself, for thatmatter. He could make neither head nor tail of the affair; his son wason the high seas and could not be reached; the mystery of the wholetransaction threatened to unseat his reason. Even when his sorrowingheir arrived, a week after the shock, the father could gather nothingat first except the bare details.
All he could learn was that the Royal Barrata Bridge Commissionhad met on the twenty-fifth day of May, for the second time in itshistory, with Sir Thomas Drummond in the chair. In the midst of anultra-British solemnity the bids had been opened and read--nine ofthem--two Belgian, one German, two French, one English, one Scottish,and two American.
The only proposals that conformed to the specifications in everyrespect were the last named. They were perfect. The Atlantic BridgeCompany, of Newark, New Jersey, offered to do the work as specifiedfor L1,600,000 sterling. The Patterson Bridge Company, through itsauthorized agent, Mr. Henry Hanford, named a price of L1,550,000. Therest was but a matter of detail.
Having concluded this bald recital, Jackson Wylie, the Second, spreadhis hands in a gesture of despair. "I can't understand it," he said,dolefully. "I thought I had it cinched all the time."
"_You_ had it cinched!" bellowed his father. "_You_! Why, you ruinedit all! Why in hell did you send him over here?"
"I? Send who? What are you talking about?"
"That man with the boots! That lying, thieving scoundrel, Sir ThomasDrummond, of course."
The younger Wylie's face showed blank, uncomprehending amazement. "SirThomas Drummond was in London all the time I was there. I saw himdaily," said he.
Not until this very moment did the president of the Atlantic BridgeCompany comprehend the trap he had walked into, but now th
e wholehideous business became apparent. He had been fooled, swindled, and ina way to render recourse impossible; nay, in a manner to blacken hisreputation if the story became public. He fell actually ill from thepassion of his rage and not even a long rest from the worries ofbusiness completely cured him. The bitter taste of defeat would notdown. He might never have understood the matter thoroughly had it notbeen for a missive he received one day through the mail. It was a billfrom a London shoe-store for twelve pairs of boots, of varying styles,made out to Henry Hanford, and marked "paid."
Mr. Jackson Wylie, Sr., noted with unspeakable chagrin that the lastword was heavily under-scored in ink, as if by another hand. Hanford'sbill was indeed paid, and with interest to date.