Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  Ever since Mr. Longhurst’s useless intervention, Bellairs had seemed uneasy; and at this new attack, he began (in his turn) to scribble a note between the bids. I imagined naturally enough that it would go to Captain Trent; but when it was done, and the writer turned and looked behind him in the crowd, to my unspeakable amazement, he did not seem to remark the captain’s presence.

  “Messenger boy, messenger boy!” I heard him say. “Somebody call me a messenger boy.”

  At last somebody did, but it was not the captain.

  “He’s sending for instructions,” I wrote to Pinkerton.

  “For money,” he wrote back. “Shall I strike out? I think this is the time.”

  I nodded.

  “Thirty thousand,” said Pinkerton, making a leap of close upon three thousand dollars.

  I could see doubt in Bellairs’s eye; then, sudden resolution. “Thirty-five thousand,” said he.

  “Forty thousand,” said Pinkerton.

  There was a long pause, during which Bellairs’s countenance was as a book; and then, not much too soon for the impending hammer, “Forty thousand and five dollars,” said he.

  Pinkerton and I exchanged eloquent glances. We were of one mind. Bellairs had tried a bluff; now he perceived his mistake, and was bidding against time; he was trying to spin out the sale until the messenger boy returned.

  “Forty-five thousand dollars,” said Pinkerton: his voice was like a ghost’s and tottered with emotion.

  “Forty-five thousand and five dollars,” said Bellairs.

  “Fifty thousand,” said Pinkerton.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Pinkerton. Did I hear you make an advance, sir?” asked the auctioneer.

  “I — I have a difficulty in speaking,” gasped Jim. “It’s fifty thousand, Mr. Borden.”

  Bellairs was on his feet in a moment. “Auctioneer,” he said, “I have to beg the favour of three moments at the telephone. In this matter, I am acting on behalf of a certain party to whom I have just written — —”

  “I have nothing to do with any of this,” said the auctioneer, brutally. “I am here to sell this wreck. Do you make any advance on fifty thousand?”

  “I have the honour to explain to you, sir,” returned Bellairs, with a miserable assumption of dignity. “Fifty thousand was the figure named by my principal; but if you will give me the small favour of two moments at the telephone—”

  “O, nonsense!” said the auctioneer. “If you make no advance, I’ll knock it down to Mr. Pinkerton.”

  “I warn you,” cried the attorney, with sudden shrillness. “Have a care what you’re about. You are here to sell for the underwriters, let me tell you — not to act for Mr. Douglas Longhurst. This sale has been already disgracefully interrupted to allow that person to hold a consultation with his minions. It has been much commented on.”

  “There was no complaint at the time,” said the auctioneer, manifestly discountenanced. “You should have complained at the time.”

  “I am not here to conduct this sale,” replied Bellairs; “I am not paid for that.”

  “Well, I am, you see,” retorted the auctioneer, his impudence quite restored; and he resumed his sing-song. “Any advance on fifty thousand dollars? No advance on fifty thousand? No advance, gentlemen? Going at fifty thousand, the wreck of the brig Flying Scud — going — going — gone!”

  “My God, Jim, can we pay the money?” I cried, as the stroke of the hammer seemed to recall me from a dream.

  “It’s got to be raised,” said he, white as a sheet. “It’ll be a hell of a strain, Loudon. The credit’s good for it, I think; but I shall have to get around. Write me a cheque for your stuff. Meet me at the Occidental in an hour.”

  I wrote my cheque at a desk, and I declare I could never have recognised my signature. Jim was gone in a moment; Trent had vanished even earlier; only Bellairs remained exchanging insults with the auctioneer; and, behold! as I pushed my way out of the exchange, who should run full tilt into my arms, but the messenger boy?

  It was by so near a margin that we became the owners of the Flying Scud.

  CHAPTER X. IN WHICH THE CREW VANISH.

  At the door of the exchange I found myself along-side of the short, middle-aged gentleman who had made an appearance, so vigorous and so brief, in the great battle.

  “Congratulate you, Mr. Dodd,” he said. “You and your friend stuck to your guns nobly.”

  “No thanks to you, sir,” I replied, “running us up a thousand at a time, and tempting all the speculators in San Francisco to come and have a try.”

  “O, that was temporary insanity,” said he; “and I thank the higher powers I am still a free man. Walking this way, Mr. Dodd? I’ll walk along with you. It’s pleasant for an old fogy like myself to see the young bloods in the ring; I’ve done some pretty wild gambles in my time in this very city, when it was a smaller place and I was a younger man. Yes, I know you, Mr. Dodd. By sight, I may say I know you extremely well, you and your followers, the fellows in the kilts, eh? Pardon me. But I have the misfortune to own a little box on the Saucelito shore. I’ll be glad to see you there any Sunday — without the fellows in kilts, you know; and I can give you a bottle of wine, and show you the best collection of Arctic voyages in the States. Morgan is my name — Judge Morgan — a Welshman and a forty-niner.”

  “O, if you’re a pioneer,” cried I, “come to me and I’ll provide you with an axe.”

  “You’ll want your axes for yourself, I fancy,” he returned, with one of his quick looks. “Unless you have private knowledge, there will be a good deal of rather violent wrecking to do before you find that — opium, do you call it?”

  “Well, it’s either opium, or we are stark, staring mad,” I replied. “But I assure you we have no private information. We went in (as I suppose you did yourself) on observation.”

  “An observer, sir?” inquired the judge.

  “I may say it is my trade — or, rather, was,” said I.

  “Well now, and what did you think of Bellairs?” he asked.

  “Very little indeed,” said I.

  “I may tell you,” continued the judge, “that to me, the employment of a fellow like that appears inexplicable. I knew him; he knows me, too; he has often heard from me in court; and I assure you the man is utterly blown upon; it is not safe to trust him with a dollar; and here we find him dealing up to fifty thousand. I can’t think who can have so trusted him, but I am very sure it was a stranger in San Francisco.”

  “Some one for the owners, I suppose,” said I.

  “Surely not!” exclaimed the judge. “Owners in London can have nothing to say to opium smuggled between Hong Kong and San Francisco. I should rather fancy they would be the last to hear of it — until the ship was seized. No; I was thinking of the captain. But where would he get the money? above all, after having laid out so much to buy the stuff in China? Unless, indeed, he were acting for some one in ‘Frisco; and in that case — here we go round again in the vicious circle — Bellairs would not have been employed.”

  “I think I can assure you it was not the captain,” said I; “for he and Bellairs are not acquainted.”

  “Wasn’t that the captain with the red face and coloured handkerchief? He seemed to me to follow Bellairs’s game with the most thrilling interest,” objected Mr. Morgan.

  “Perfectly true,” said I; “Trent is deeply interested; he very likely knew Bellairs, and he certainly knew what he was there for; but I can put my hand in the fire that Bellairs didn’t know Trent.”

  “Another singularity,” observed the judge. “Well, we have had a capital forenoon. But you take an old lawyer’s advice, and get to Midway Island as fast as you can. There’s a pot of money on the table, and Bellairs and Co. are not the men to stick at trifles.”

  With this parting counsel Judge Morgan shook hands and made off along Montgomery Street, while I entered the Occidental Hotel, on the steps of which we had finished our conversation. I was well known to the clerks, and as s
oon as it was understood that I was there to wait for Pinkerton and lunch, I was invited to a seat inside the counter. Here, then, in a retired corner, I was beginning to come a little to myself after these so violent experiences, when who should come hurrying in, and (after a moment with a clerk) fly to one of the telephone boxes but Mr. Henry D. Bellairs in person? Call it what you will, but the impulse was irresistible, and I rose and took a place immediately at the man’s back. It may be some excuse that I had often practised this very innocent form of eavesdropping upon strangers, and for fun. Indeed, I scarce know anything that gives a lower view of man’s intelligence than to overhear (as you thus do) one side of a communication.

  “Central,” said the attorney, “2241 and 584 B” (or some such numbers)— “Who’s that? — All right — Mr. Bellairs — Occidental; the wires are fouled in the other place — Yes, about three minutes — Yes — Yes — Your figure, I am sorry to say — No — I had no authority — Neither more nor less — I have every reason to suppose so — O, Pinkerton, Montana Block — Yes — Yes — Very good, sir — As you will, sir — Disconnect 584 B.”

  Bellairs turned to leave; at sight of me behind him, up flew his hands, and he winced and cringed, as though in fear of bodily attack. “O, it’s you!” he cried; and then, somewhat recovered, “Mr. Pinkerton’s partner, I believe? I am pleased to see you, sir — to congratulate you on your late success.” And with that he was gone, obsequiously bowing as he passed.

  And now a madcap humour came upon me. It was plain Bellairs had been communicating with his principal; I knew the number, if not the name; should I ring up at once, it was more than likely he would return in person to the telephone; why should not I dash (vocally) into the presence of this mysterious person, and have some fun for my money. I pressed the bell.

  “Central,” said I, “connect again 2241 and 584 B.”

  A phantom central repeated the numbers; there was a pause, and then “Two two four one,” came in a tiny voice into my ear — a voice with the English sing-song — the voice plainly of a gentleman. “Is that you again, Mr. Bellairs?” it trilled. “I tell you it’s no use. Is that you, Mr. Bellairs? Who is that?”

  “I only want to put a single question,” said I, civilly. “Why do you want to buy the Flying Scud?”

  No answer came. The telephone vibrated and hummed in miniature with all the numerous talk of a great city; but the voice of 2241 was silent. Once and twice I put my question; but the tiny, sing-song English voice, I heard no more. The man, then, had fled? fled from an impertinent question? It scarce seemed natural to me; unless on the principle that the wicked fleeth when no man pursueth. I took the telephone list and turned the number up: “2241, Mrs. Keane, res. 942 Mission Street.” And that, short of driving to the house and renewing my impertinence in person, was all that I could do.

  Yet, as I resumed my seat in the corner of the office, I was conscious of a new element of the uncertain, the underhand, perhaps even the dangerous, in our adventure; and there was now a new picture in my mental gallery, to hang beside that of the wreck under its canopy of sea-birds and of Captain Trent mopping his red brow — the picture of a man with a telephone dice-box to his ear, and at the small voice of a single question, struck suddenly as white as ashes.

  From these considerations I was awakened by the striking of the clock. An hour and nearly twenty minutes had elapsed since Pinkerton departed for the money: he was twenty minutes behind time; and to me who knew so well his gluttonous despatch of business and had so frequently admired his iron punctuality, the fact spoke volumes. The twenty minutes slowly stretched into an hour; the hour had nearly extended to a second; and I still sat in my corner of the office, or paced the marble pavement of the hall, a prey to the most wretched anxiety and penitence. The hour for lunch was nearly over before I remembered that I had not eaten. Heaven knows I had no appetite; but there might still be much to do — it was needful I should keep myself in proper trim, if it were only to digest the now too probable bad news; and leaving word at the office for Pinkerton, I sat down to table and called for soup, oysters, and a pint of champagne.

  I was not long set, before my friend returned. He looked pale and rather old, refused to hear of food, and called for tea.

  “I suppose all’s up?” said I, with an incredible sinking.

  “No,” he replied; “I’ve pulled it through, Loudon; just pulled it through. I couldn’t have raised another cent in all ‘Frisco. People don’t like it; Longhurst even went back on me; said he wasn’t a three-card-monte man.”

  “Well, what’s the odds?” said I. “That’s all we wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Loudon, I tell you I’ve had to pay blood for that money,” cried my friend, with almost savage energy and gloom. “It’s all on ninety days, too; I couldn’t get another day — not another day. If we go ahead with this affair, Loudon, you’ll have to go yourself and make the fur fly. I’ll stay of course — I’ve got to stay and face the trouble in this city; though, I tell you, I just long to go. I would show these fat brutes of sailors what work was; I would be all through that wreck and out at the other end, before they had boosted themselves upon the deck! But you’ll do your level best, Loudon; I depend on you for that. You must be all fire and grit and dash from the word ‘go.’ That schooner and the boodle on board of her are bound to be here before three months, or it’s B. U. S. T. — bust.”

  “I’ll swear I’ll do my best, Jim; I’ll work double tides,” said I. “It is my fault that you are in this thing, and I’ll get you out again or kill myself. But what is that you say? ‘If we go ahead?’ Have we any choice, then?”

  “I’m coming to that,” said Jim. “It isn’t that I doubt the investment. Don’t blame yourself for that; you showed a fine, sound business instinct: I always knew it was in you, but then it ripped right out. I guess that little beast of an attorney knew what he was doing; and he wanted nothing better than to go beyond. No, there’s profit in the deal; it’s not that; it’s these ninety-day bills, and the strain I’ve given the credit, for I’ve been up and down, borrowing, and begging and bribing to borrow. I don’t believe there’s another man but me in ‘Frisco,” he cried, with a sudden fervor of self admiration, “who could have raised that last ten thousand! — Then there’s another thing. I had hoped you might have peddled that opium through the islands, which is safer and more profitable. But with this three-month limit, you must make tracks for Honolulu straight, and communicate by steamer. I’ll try to put up something for you there; I’ll have a man spoken to who’s posted on that line of biz. Keep a bright lookout for him as soon’s you make the islands; for it’s on the cards he might pick you up at sea in a whaleboat or a steam-launch, and bring the dollars right on board.”

  It shows how much I had suffered morally during my sojourn in San Francisco, that even now when our fortunes trembled in the balance, I should have consented to become a smuggler and (of all things) a smuggler of opium. Yet I did, and that in silence; without a protest, not without a twinge.

  “And suppose,” said I, “suppose the opium is so securely hidden that I can’t get hands on it?”

  “Then you will stay there till that brig is kindling-wood, and stay and split that kindling-wood with your penknife,” cried Pinkerton. “The stuff is there; we know that; and it must be found. But all this is only the one string to our bow — though I tell you I’ve gone into it head-first, as if it was our bottom dollar. Why, the first thing I did before I’d raised a cent, and with this other notion in my head already — the first thing I did was to secure the schooner. The Nora Creina, she is, sixty-four tons, quite big enough for our purpose since the rice is spoiled, and the fastest thing of her tonnage out of San Francisco. For a bonus of two hundred, and a monthly charter of three, I have her for my own time; wages and provisions, say four hundred more: a drop in the bucket. They began firing the cargo out of her (she was part loaded) near two hours ago; and about the same time John Smith got the order for the stores. That’s what I ca
ll business.”

  “No doubt of that,” said I. “But the other notion?”

  “Well, here it is,” said Jim. “You agree with me that Bellairs was ready to go higher?”

  I saw where he was coming. “Yes — and why shouldn’t he?” said I. “Is that the line?”

  “That’s the line, Loudon Dodd,” assented Jim. “If Bellairs and his principal have any desire to go me better, I’m their man.”

  A sudden thought, a sudden fear, shot into my mind. What if I had been right? What if my childish pleasantry had frightened the principal away, and thus destroyed our chance? Shame closed my mouth; I began instinctively a long course of reticence; and it was without a word of my meeting with Bellairs, or my discovery of the address in Mission Street, that I continued the discussion.

  “Doubtless fifty thousand was originally mentioned as a round sum,” said I, “or at least, so Bellairs supposed. But at the same time it may be an outside sum; and to cover the expenses we have already incurred for the money and the schooner — I am far from blaming you; I see how needful it was to be ready for either event — but to cover them we shall want a rather large advance.”

  “Bellairs will go to sixty thousand; it’s my belief, if he were properly handled, he would take the hundred,” replied Pinkerton. “Look back on the way the sale ran at the end.”

  “That is my own impression as regards Bellairs,” I admitted. “The point I am trying to make is that Bellairs himself may be mistaken; that what he supposed to be a round sum was really an outside figure.”