by Talbot Mundy
That is the true, inside history of their engagement.
THE END
MAKING £10,000
I
“I HAVE!” said the Honorable William Allison. And he closed his lips so tightly when he had said it, and his merry face looked so comically sorry, that Gladys Powers had no need to guess what the answer was.
“Tell me all about it!” she said promptly. She smiled back at him, but there was concern in her big dark eyes. “First of all, what did you say?”
“Me? Oh, I told him I’d like the deuce to marry you, don’t you know, and all that kind of thing — said you were dashed charming girl and so on, and that I thought we’d hit it off together.”
“And did you say it offhandedly like that?”
“Why, of course! You didn’t expect me to go down on my knees to him, did you?”
She was trembling on the very verge of laughter, and drew out her handkerchief to hide it from him.
“No,” she bubbled. “Go on. What did he say?”
“Said he’d no time for hereditary boneheads — dashed if I know what a bonehead is, exactly, but I’ll bet it’s something rude — and that he wouldn’t let his daughter marry one on any terms! Said there were boneheads enough in the States, without coming across the water to find one! He added a lot of tommy-nonsense about the idea of an aristocracy being all wrong anyhow. So I asked him whether he’d have liked me any better if I’d been a brick-layer!”
The dimples began to dance again. She loved this lean, clean-looking Englishman very dearly; but love had not killed her sense of humor.
“Most extraordinary thing, but the mention of bricks seemed to make him positively savage!”
“He made his money building, you know. He’s been fighting the brick-layers’ union all his life; he says that, from first to last, they’ve cost him fifteen million!”
“He must be most uncommon oofy, to spend that much money fightin’ a lot of brick-layers!”
“Father’s not exactly a pauper, you know!”
“Confound him — he called me one!”
“That’s exactly what you called yourself when you proposed to me!”
“I know I did. But I didn’t mean it as literally as all that! I’ve got fifteen hundred a year of my own. I said that as his son-in-law I supposed I might amount to something financially some day! But he got awfully red in the face, and said he wouldn’t have me for a son-in-law at any price. I asked him whether we couldn’t come to some sort of terms. He said no! So I reminded him that as a business man — which he seemed so infernally proud of calling himself — he must realize that there’s a way of compromising everything. He thought a little after that. Then he said suddenly that if I’d prove to him that I’m not a bonehead, he’d consider it. By the way, what the deuce is a bonehead?”
“A fool. Go on — what then?”
“I invited him to be a little more explicit. He said, ‘Go and make some money, and bring it here and show it to me!’ I asked him how much money, and he thought for a minute, and then snapped out, ‘Ten thousand!’ ‘Dollars?’ I asked him. You see, I could have borrowed that much, at a pinch, and have brought it round to him this afternoon! But he said: ‘No; pounds! Go and make ten thousand pounds within the next six months, and show it to me. Then I’ll let Gladys do as she likes about it!’ So I bowed myself out.”
“And can you do it?” asked Gladys Powers eagerly.
“Not if I want to keep out of jail, I’m afraid! You see, I’ve had no business training.”
Gladys Powers dug the point of her umbrella into the frozen February grass, and frowned.
“I call it mean of father,” she exclaimed, “to talk to you that way! He’s forever preaching against what he calls ‘bucking the other fellow’s game,’ and now he tells you to go and do it! He knows perfectly well that you’re not a business man! Besides, he’s bucking somebody else’s game himself, and he’s seen how futile it is!”
“Whose game’s he buckin’?”
“Yours. He’s perfectly crazy to get into society over here, “and he hasn’t been able to do it.”
“He’d find himself in society in a minute, if he’d let you marry me!”
Gladys smiled, in spite of herself. She knew that her father would either get what he wanted on his own merits and by his own efforts, or do without.
“Oh, if you could only get the better of him!” she exclaimed. “He’d think the world of you! Won’t you try? Do try! It isn’t that you’re poor — he doesn’t mind that; he wants me to marry a man with brains. Beat him! Then he’ll have to admit that you’ve got brains. Try! Won’t you?”
And she said “Won’t you?” in a way that went straight to the heart of the Honorable William Allison. He stood in front of her for a moment stock-still, gazing straight ahead beyond her.
“I’ll have a try!” he said in a low voice. “Tell me — is he really keen on this idea of gettin’ into society?”
“He’s crazy about it! He’s crazy because he’s failed! He hates failure, and he means to keep on at it until he’s won!”
Bill Allison reflected again for about a minute; he was beginning to look singularly gloomy.
“I don’t see how that’s goin’ to help much,” he said, more to himself than to Gladys Powers. “Still,” — and he looked straight into her eyes, and she read resource there, and believed in him and took courage,— “I can but try! We’ll see!”
II
AN HOUR later the Honorable William Allison strolled into one of the most exclusive clubs, and subsided gloomily into a deep arm-chair. It was one thing to say that he would try, but quite another thing to think out a feasible plan on which to act.
“Confound the man!” he muttered savagely.
“Hullo, Bill!” said a pleasant voice beside him; and he started and looked round.
“You, Galloway? Why the deuce didn’t you speak before? How long have you been here? Were you here when I came in?”
“Thought I’d watch you, Bill! Dashed interestin’, believe me! First time in my life that I ever saw you lookin’ gloomy! Been busy wonderin’ what’s up! Money-lender naggin’ you?”
“No. Nothin’ to speak of.”
“Liver out of order?”
“Never better in my life.”
“Some female woman been unkind to you?”
“No.”
“Bill — you’re in love!”
“Nonsense.”
“You can’t deceive me, Bill! So she won’t have you, eh? Well, you’ll get over that all right. There are heaps more women, Bill, and they’re all of ’em too good for you and me! Your troubles don’t amount to anything — listen to my tale of woe! Trainin’ stable all gone to the deuce — eight rotten gee-gees all eatin’ their useless heads off — three of ’em lame — two of ’em crocks that couldn’t win a sellin’ plate to save their lives — an’ that brute Souffrière so savage that nobody can do a thing with him! He half killed an unfortunate stable-boy the day before yesterday. The boy’s in hospital — at my expense! Takes a sight of the whip to induce any of the other boys to go near the brute. Pity of it is that he’s entered for the Grand National — and he could win it, if only I could find a man to ride him!”
“He certainly could win it!” said Bill Allison, with an air of absolute conviction.
“I know he could, Bill! But I’ve got to sell him; there’s nothin’ else for it! My stable’s been losin’ me money for so long that I simply can’t stave off my creditors for another week!”
“But why sell the best horse you’ve got? Why not keep him, and sell the rest?”
“Seen the others?”
“Yes, I’ve seen ’em.”
“Would you buy ’em?”
“Well, speakin’ personally, no! Still—”
“Shut up talkin’ rot, then! Souffrière’s got to go: I’m goin’ to sell him next week.”
“Is he fit?” asked Allison. An idea seemed to have risen new-born behind his eyes, f
or they positively blazed as he leaned forward and looked at Galloway.
“He’s fit as a fiddle — now. He won’t be, though, in a week’s time. All he needs is gallopin’, and, I tell you, I can’t get a man to ride him.”
Bill Allison lay back in his chair again, with his tall hat tipped forward over his eyes. His long lean leg, crossed over the other, moved up and down rhythmically, and the fingers of his right hand drummed gently on the arm of the chair.
“Tell me, Sammy.” he said suddenly, “are you keen on sellin’ Souffrière? D’you want to get out of the racin’ game for good?”
“Want to? I should say not! If I could think of any way out of quittin’—”
“I’ve thought of one!”
“Out with it, then, as you love me! I’d give ten years of my ill-spent life for the right idea!”
“Ten years won’t do, Sammy, my boy! We’ll have to do this on half shares and hold our respective tongues. Also, we’ll have to be singularly — most uncommon — careful!”
I’m the carefulest young fellow you ever knew, Bill. There’s not even a woman can make me talk, when I don’t want to!”
They talked together for the next three hours, mysteriously; and every now and then one or the other of them was emphatic.
At the end of that time the Honorable William Allison hurried to his chambers and superintended the packing of his portmanteaus. A little later he took a train into the country. But his friend Sammy Galloway, contrary to his original intentions, remained in town.
III
THERE was nobody in London with a more varied or extensive acquaintance than Sammy Galloway. He was popular for his sunny disposition and his thoroughly sportsmanlike qualities; and, although his comparative poverty precluded his returning hospitality to any great extent, his presence at all kinds of social functions was in very great demand. So he had no difficulty whatever in securing an introduction to Mr. Franklin Powers.
Sammy was ushered into the largest room of the most expensive private suite in the most up-to-date hotel in London; and he was kept waiting there for fully ten minutes before Mr. Powers appeared. To use his own expression, he was” sweatin’ like a horse” when his host finally arrived and demanded, rather brusquely, what he might want.
Mr. Powers had been just long enough in England to realize that letters of introduction from influential sources were seldom guileless when addressed to himself. He had made the discovery that society is as greedy of favors from millionaires as it is chary of extending them. So there was a note of challenge in his voice, and it acted as a tonic to Sammy Galloway. He left off feeling nervous, and displayed true genius by tackling his quarry in the one way that was at all likely to have effect. “I’ve come to talk business,” “he said, as he resumed his seat.
“Good!” said Franklin Powers. “I’m listening!”
“I’ve been told — and I won’t divulge the name of my informant on any terms — that you are anxious to get into the best society over here.”
Powers stood up as though a spring had been suddenly released inside him. “Go on!” he said non-committally.
“I can show you the way — on terms.”
Powers sat down again, and the two men looked at each other in tense silence for about a minute. Each liked the appearance of the other. There was no gainsaying the rugged strength of the millionaire; he looked like what he was — a born fighter, whom many victories had made self-confident. And Sammy Galloway, who looked the acme of good nature, also looked honest. His introductions, too, were unexceptionable.
“Let’s hear all about it!” said Mr. Powers.
“I’m not here for fun!” said Sammy. “There are a lot of things I’d rather do than this. But, as long as you understand, to begin with, that I’m playing my own game as well as yours, we ought to hit it off all right.”
Powers nodded. “I hope it’s not introductions!” he said. “I’ve tried ’em — had dozens of ’em. All they ever got me was invitations to charity bazaars, and a pink tea or so now and then!”
“Lord, no!” said Sammy. “You’ve got to do a thing like this off your own bat! Introductions are all right, of course, to begin with, provided they’re the right kind. But a man wants more than that. Nobody cares much where a man comes from; what he’s got to do is to be something or do something out of the ordinary. Millionaires are as common as stray dogs! What’s wanted is a millionaire who’s something else besides; and — and that’s where I come in!”
Powers nodded again. “Go on!” he said. “I’m interested!”
“You want to do something big in a social sort of way that’ll make the right crowd take notice of you.”
“I’ve given a couple of very expensive parties,” said the millionaire. “But that didn’t work. Half the people I invited didn’t come, and those that did come weren’t any good!”
“Exactly!” said Sammy. “Any fool can give a party! Now do something decent!”
The millionaire stared hard at him, not quite certain how to take that remark. “What would you do, for instance?” he asked after a moment.
“Win a classic race!”
“Win a what?”
“Be the owner of a horse that wins the Grand National, for instance.”
“The only horses I’ve ever owned were truck-horses. I don’t know a thing about race-horses. My daughter and I use autos. I wouldn’t know how to go about it.”
“Exactly!” repeated Sammy. “That’s where I come in! I own a horse that can win the National, and I’ve got to sell him. I’m broke, you understand.”
Powers got up again and began to pace the room. “How do you know he can win the National?” he demanded abruptly.
“How do you know in advance that you can put through one of your big business deals?” asked Sammy.
“That’s different. It’s my hand that puts them through. I succeed where another man would very likely fail. I know how!”
“That’s my case again,” said Sammy triumphantly. “I could sell this horse for enough money, to get me out of debt; but the man who bought him couldn’t win the National with him. He needs riding, and I’ve got the only man in England who can do it. He’s a brute of a horse — savage as they make ’em; wants a real man on his back.”
“Then you want me to buy your horse? Is that what it all amounts to?”
“Not by a long way! I could sell him, as I told you. There are more than a dozen men I know who would take a chance on buying Souffrière. I’m offering you more than just a horse, and I’m asking more than just the price of him. I’m offering to win the National with him for you, and I’m willing to be paid by results. That horse is worth about three thousand guineas as he stands; they’d pay that price for him for the stud, and anyone you care to ask will confirm what I say. I’m asking you two thousand guineas for him — cash; and in return for that amount I’ll transfer him, engagements and all, into your name. If he doesn’t win the National, he’s yours anyhow, and you’ll be able to sell him again for enough to get back the two thousand — together with the expenses of my training-stable, which I’ll expect you to guarantee from now until the race comes off. If he wins, I get your check for ten thousand pounds immediately after the race.”
“But why do you come to me?” asked Powers suspiciously. “Why don’t you go with your offer to one of your own countrymen?”
“I thought I’d be able to make a quick deal with you, for one thing, and I knew you’d got the money. Besides, I’ve got ulterior motives. When the thing’s all over, I’ve a friend I want to introduce to you; possibly he can put something in your way, too. He’ll be able to help you socially better even than I can. But I want you to learn to have confidence in me first. One thing at a time.”
“But how is this business of winning the Grand National going to help me socially?”
“Believe me,” said Sammy darkly, “there’s positively nothing you could do that would help you more!”
Powers drew the stub of a
pencil from his pocket, and tossed it up and down on the palm of his hand in a movement that was characteristic of him when he was making up his mind.
“Supposing he wins, who gets the stake?” he asked.
“You do.”
“When is the Grand National run?”
“Latter part of March — six weeks from now.”
“And this jockey you speak of — are you sure of him?”
“Absolutely! If he doesn’t ride the horse, you can call the deal off, and I’ll pay you your money back!”
Powers looked hard at him through narrowed eyes. He was stil1 uncertain. The pencil-stub was still dancing on the palm of his hand. This man was certainly a gentleman — his introductions were beyond all question everything that they ought to be. He looked honest and spoke squarely. The proposition was unusual, but —
“Will you give me your word of honor that this proposition’s on the level?” he demanded.
“Certainly.”
Powers tossed the pencil up and caught it. His mind was made up. “I’ll go you, then! How much cash did you say? Two thousand guineas? Two thousand one hundred pounds, eh?”
And Mr. Franklin Powers produced his checkbook and made out a check in favor of Mr. Sammy Galloway for that amount.
IV
SIX weeks later the fashionable sporting crowd put in its annual appearance on Aintree racecourse. It was tall-hatted and fur-coated, and as different from a summer-season racing crowd as could easily be imagined. The people who brave the March winds at Aintree are those who go racing for the love of it, and not just because it happens to be the thing to do.
Galloway, most immaculately dressed, leaned against the paddock railing and talked through it to his friend Allison. Allison was overcoated from ears to heels; he looked thinner than when he and Sammy had talked together at the club, but the glow of health was on him, and he seemed happy as a school- boy.
“What odds are they laying?” demanded Allison.
“Twenty to one!”
“I don’t wonder!” said Allison, looking over his shoulder at Souffrière. The big red devil of a horse was being led round and round the paddock at what was intended to be a walk — blanketed until nothing of him was visible except his savage eye, which peeped out through a hole in his hood. As Allison spoke, the brute snorted and squealed and snatched at his leading-rein, and a pitched battle followed between him and the man who led him. Above the buzz and clamor of the crowd came the raucous bellowing of a book-maker: “Twenties, Souffrière! Twenty to one, Souffrière!” But no one seemed anxious to bet on him.