The Banker and the Bear

by Henry Kitchell Webste

  Dick dropped back upon the sofa from which she had half arisen. The situation was going from bad to worse.

  “ I must own up at last to something that I’ve known for months and haven’t been willing to admit to myself. I’ve been trying to con- vince myself that it wasn’t so; but it’s no use for me to pretend any longer. I’m making myself ridiculous by plugging away down there at the bank.”

  Dick gasped. She was glad the room was dark, for she could feel her face burning.

  “ Please don’t think,” Jack went on, quite innocently, “ that it’s the work I don’t like ; I really enjoy the drudgery. It’s the doing it so badly that’s discouraging. I’m just a regular fool down there. Why, I come up here even- ings and laugh over Hillsmead, but I’ll wager it isn’t a circumstance to the way Hillsmead laughs over me. It isn’t as though I shirked my work and didn’t care. I’ve been doing the best I know, and worrying myself gray-headed over it; I’m kept back by sheer mental inca- pacity.”

  “ That’s nonsense.”

  “Oh, I thought so myself at first,” he an- swered, with a laugh, “ and I went on telling myself so, long after I knew it wasn’t.”

  There was a short pause, and then he went on :

  “ I went into the bank partly because it was an amusing novelty, and partly with the insane idea that I was rather more intelligent than the average born-and-bred bank clerk, and that I could do his work unusually well. But the main reason why I did it was that I wanted to con- vince you that I was really some good after all. It was a sort of gallery play when you come to look at it.”

  “ I think that’s about the unfairest thing you ever said : unfair to both of us.”

  “ I don’t mean it just as it sounds. It wasn’t your fault that you never took me seriously. You couldn’t, because I didn’t myself. I was contented with amusing myself at the expense of people who took things seriously.

  “ I’ve learned other things in the last six months besides the fact that I’ll never be worth more than fifteen dollars a week in a bank.”

  His words halted there. They had been com- ing easily enough until now, for they had put off a little the declaration that he knew he must make. They had meant nothing, but this next sentence yes, it must be the next might sweep away the hope that had grown to be the dearest thing he owned.

  The words were there, but he could not force them from his lips. If he had but known it, there was small need of them. Her hand was resting on the sofa right beside him. He knew, because his own had touched it a moment ago ; she had not taken it away. Yes, he could have told her the story without words. But at last he went on again, speaking very slowly :

  “ Do you remember I fancy you’ve not for- gotten long ago it was the second summer vacation you spent with us, the summer after I graduated one August evening I told you “

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “ And you told me I was mistaken ; that you were perfectly sure that I didn’t have the least idea of what it meant that I had told you. You remember it, don’t you, Dick ? “

  She nodded. He was not looking at her, but he took her silence for assent.

  “ I’ve learned these last few months that you were right ; that I was mistaken “

  It was not at all remarkable that neither of them heard John Bagsbury’s steps as he neared the library door, nor that when he opened it they both started violently. John peered about in the dark, groped his way to the switch, and turned on the light. Then he saw who were sitting on the sofa.

  “ Excuse me,” he said. “I Alice told me you were here “ He looked at them doubt- fully’for a moment, and then repeating, “ Excuse me,” he turned to leave the room.

  “ Oh, don’t go ! “ Dick exclaimed, somewhat breathlessly, “ we were waiting for you to come home. We wanted to talk with you we turned out the light because “

  Here the words seemed to stick. She turned sharply away, toward the window, as it hap- pened, and started to rise. John followed the glance. “ Don’t get up,” he said quickly. “I’ll draw the curtain.”

  As John turned his back, Dick looked squarely at Jack Dorlin as though challenging him to read whatever he could in her flushed face.

  “ Talk,” she commanded under her breath.

  “ I’ve been telling Miss Haselridge,” he said when John had returned and seated himself near them, “ that I thought I’d quit the bank.”

  “ I’m glad of that,” said the Banker.

  Jack had never learned how not to be discon- certed by John Bagsbury’s brief, unequivocal way of putting things. He had no wish to con- tinue this conversation ; but feeling that he owed it to Dick to keep things going somehow, he managed to give reasons for his decision.

  “ Understand,” said John, “ it’s largely on your account that I’m glad you have decided to try something else. Your work, so far as I know, has been satisfactory. The trouble is you started out too late to do much at this sort of business, and you aren’t naturally cut out for it, anyway. I think you’re right, that you can do better at something else. But you’ve done a hundred per cent better than I thought you could; and if you’ll let me say so, you’ve in- creased my respect for you in about the same ratio. I’ll be glad of the change on my own account, too, because I’d rather know you as a friend from the outside than as one of my employees.”

  John could hardly have given them a better opportunity to tell him whatthey had been planning to tell him of their suspicions regard- ing Sponley and Curtin; but perhaps because each was waiting for the other, or because neither could think of the right words to intro- duce so delicate a subject, it was John, very red and uncomfortable over the compliment he had just paid Jack, who broke the silence.

  “ Do you want to leave the bank at once ? “ “ N no,” said Jack. “ If you’re willing to keep me, I’d like to stay until I can decide what to do next.”

  “ Will Mr. Pickering’s failure hurt the bank ? “ Dick asked the question rather nervously. It was an approach to what she wished to say about Curtin.

  “ Pickering hasn’t failed,” said John, in sur- prise ; “ what made you think he had ? “

  Between them they told him what they had seen on the Board of Trade ; but they said noth- ing it seemed impossible to say anything of their encounter with Curtin.

  “ Pickering didn’t tell me what he meant to do,” said John, thoughtfully, “ but I understood what the object of his move was. He’s in bet- ter shape than he was this morning. He busted the market himself, turned right around and sold to himself through other brokers.”

  “What did he want to do that for?” she asked.

  “Don’t you see?” said John; “he wants to buy all the lard there is. That puts the price up. Well, as soon as it was known that he was buying heavily, a lot of other fellows some of them regular traders on the board, but more outsiders, who thought they saw a chance to get rich in ten minutes came around and began to buy, too. Of course, as long as they’re buy- ing, Pickering can’t get it all ; so he busted the market, knocked the bottom right out of it, so as to shake out the little fellows who were get- ting in his way. He did it uncommon well, too. I don’t think I ever saw anything in provisions take a quicker tumble than lard did this after- noon. He must have caught a lot of small traders. He’s got more lard than ever, and he’s got the price hammered down, too, though that’ll get right back in a day or two. He may have to do the trick two or three times before they learn to leave him alone.”

  “ I suppose, from his point of view, that’s all right,” said Jack. “To me, who’ve never got the idea of it, it seems very much like run- ning a knife into another fellow’s back. The business disgusted me this afternoon, when I couldn’t understand it; and now that I do, it seems worse.”

  “ I wonder how the little ones who were caught feel about it?” said Dick.

  “ Oh, it’s all business,” answered the Banker, slowly. “ They know, or at least they ought to know, just what chance they run. What Pick- ering did was
what they might have expected him to do ; there wasn’t anything irregular about it. Though I admit,” he went on, “ that, personally, I don’t like the idea of it. I’m glad it isn’t my business.”

  “ But do you think it’s honest ? “ she asked.

  “ Commercially honest,” he answered. “ In any sort of business a man finds out before long that that’s a pretty complicated question. To people who live as you do, honesty must come pretty easily. But it takes a lot more than good intentions to make an honest banker, for instance.”

  “ That’s the first time I thought of honesty as an accomplishment,” laughed Dick.

  “ Well,” said John Bagsbury, with a smile, “ I mean all right ; but if it came to a pinch, I don’t know how far I could bet on my own.”

  The door-bell had rung while they were talk- ing, and John glanced into the hall to see who the visitors were.

  “ Hello ! “ he exclaimed, “ there are the Spon- leys. Come in ! “ He hurried from the room to welcome them.

  “Well, we haven’t told him,” said Jack. “Come on, let’s escape somewhere.”

  Alice Bagsbury had heard the voices and was coming down the stairs, so that there was a momentary delay in the hall.

  “ If you don’t hurry, we’ll surely get cut off,” Jack continued eagerly. “ Where shall we go ? Into the dining room ? “

  But instead of answering him, Dick bowed, smiling to some one behind him, and he heard a voice saying, “ Good evening, Miss Haselridge.”

  He turned around and bowed to Mrs. Spon- ley with what appearance of cordiality he could muster. He was puzzled rather than annoyed. He had never known Dick to be slow before. Yet certainly they should have been able to escape easily.

  “ I came to talk over a little business with John,” said Sponley. “ I don’t know why Harriet came.”

  “ And I came to to hear Mr. Dorlin play ; I had an intuition that he’d be here.” Harriet laughed as she spoke and turned to Jack. “Will you?” she asked. “Come, let’s go into the drawing-room.”

  Musically, Jack was something of a classicist; but to-night, after he had dug his fingers into one or two vicious arpeggios, he began playing some very modern Russian music music which suggests to the untutored ear the frightful pos- sibility that the pianist is playing in the wrong key with his left hand. Jack enjoyed it; it served admirably as a vent to his irritation. What an evening he had had of it ! Interrupted by John Bagsbury just as he was telling Dick well, the most important thing one could tell a girl, and then interrupted by the Sponleys, just as he thought he had it on the tip of his tongue to tell John about Curtin. Mrs. Spon- ley was the worst offender : by her unseemly haste into the library she had cut off his re- treat with Dick ; then she had stranded him at the piano ; and now, instead of talking to Mrs. Bagsbury, she was monopolizing Dick at the far side of the room. As he thought of his griev- ances, his interpretation of the very modern Russian music grew more and more enthusi- astic, until it seemed fairly inspired. When he finished, there was a request for more ; but it was faint.

  He looked helplessly about the room for an instant; no, there was nothing else for it. “ I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must be going.” He shook hands with Alice, bowed to Mrs. Spon- ley, and then looked hard at Dick. But she returned his unspoken message with only a nod of farewell. “ Come again, as soon as you can,” she said.

  Jack strode down the front steps, for once in his life thoroughly angry. Whatever Dick might think of him, however tired she might be of having him tell her that he loved her, he at least deserved a hearing. He knew that she could have escaped from the library; that just now she might easily have excused herself and followed him into the hall, as she had done a dozen times before. She had chosen that way of telling him that she did not wish him to finish what he had begun to tell her ; what he had kept himself from telling her all these last six months.

  So through the still pouring rain, up this street and down that, without rain-coat or um- brella, splashed Jack Dorlin, angry, miserable, promising himself a vengeance, and calling himself a cad for thinking of such a thing ; making new resolves, good and bad, at every street corner, and rejoicing only in the water which drained from the brim of his straw hat and drenched his thin-clad shoulders.

  Truly it is a madness, though not confined to midsummer.

  CHAPTER XI

  COMMON HONESTY

  IN the library the two men watched the door until it clicked shut behind those who were going into the drawing-room to hear Jack Dor- lin play. Then, after adjusting his easy-chair so that the light would not fall on his face, John Bagsbury seated himself.

  “ I’m tired to-night. This has been a big day. You say you have some business to talk over. It’s against your rule, isn’t it, to talk business after dinner ? “

  Sponley nodded. “ This is rather important ; and I couldn’t be sure of catching you the first thing in the morning, so I broke over, for once.

  “ I came around,” he continued, “ to ask you what you mean to do with Pickering ? “

  If John had any movement at all, it was like that of a man who had just lighted a good cigar, a relaxing of the muscles, a sinking 1 66

  Common Honesty 167

  somewhat deeper into the big arm-chair. Spon- ley glanced at him, expecting a reply, but it was near a minute before John spoke.

  “Why do you want to know? I mean, in what capacity do you ask me ? “

  “ Why as a director in Bagsbury and Com- pany’s Savings Bank, I suppose,” said Sponley, tolerantly.

  “ I have said nothing to my directors about any business dealings with Pickering.” The words were not said brusquely; they were the simple statement of a fact.

  “ Exactly, and therefore one of your directors is compelled to come and ask you about it in order to find out.”

  “ And as I have said nothing,” John con- tinued more slowly, “it is a fair inference that I have nothing to say.”

  Sponley laughed. “ That’s a bit radical ; in fact, it’s irregular. A director is generally sup- posed to have a right to know about a thing like that. But then I can understand that there are times when a banker doesn’t want his directors to bother him till afterward. But I don’t insist on my status as a director. I repeat the question as Melville Sponley.”

  “That’s somewhat different”

  Sponley eyed him alertly, expecting that he would go on. But John showed no sign of any such intention. He was sitting quite still in his chair lazily is perhaps a better word and his eyes were shut.

  “ Don’t you think,” the Bear asked evenly, “ that this fencing is a waste of time ? I have asked you what you mean to do about Pickering. I’d like to have you tell me.”

  After another moment of silence John replied, but with a question:

  “ What do you know about Pickering ? Or, rather, how do you know that there is anything for me to tell you ? “

  Not until that moment did Sponley realize that here was a man who could match him at his own game. He discovered the fact when he found himself sitting bolt upright, his muscles drawn taut, a sharp reply, on the end of his tongue. He dropped back into his chair and said patiently,

  “ I did just what every other man in the city who has the smallest interest in commercial matters did before ten o’clock this morning, I read the story in the Herald”

  “You accused me a minute ago of fencing with you,” John spoke quickly ; “ I was not fencing. I was a little in doubt as to just where we stood, and I asked questions to find out. But when you tell me that all you know about the Pickering deal is what you read in the Herald, you are evading. The story mentioned neither me nor my bank.”

  “ For the last twenty years, or thereabouts, we’ve called each other friends,” said Sponley, thoughtfully. “ Neither of us take much stock in gush, and I shan’t begin at it now. But we’ve found we can help each other, and that it has paid to hang together. How much more it means than that there’s no good discussing. I think the mere
question of self-interest ought to make it clear to you where we stand.

  “Regarding what I know about Pickering,” he went on, “ I tell you frankly that I know more than was in the paper. I know that you loaned him half a million dollars, and that you took his lard as security. I’m not at liberty to tell how I found that out.”

  “ There was a time to-day,” said John, quietly, “ when if I could have got hold of the man who had sold that information, I think I would have strangled him. I don’t feel that way now, though.”

  “ It wouldn’t help you if I were to tell you the name of my informant. You couldn’t trace it through him. Have you thought, I don’t like to say anything of this kind on just a guess, but this matter’s serious enough to war- rant it, have you thought of young Dorlin in that connection ? “

  John smiled. “No,” he said dryly; “it wasn’t Dorlin.”

  “ He seems,” Sponley went on slowly, “ to be pretty thoroughly in your niece’s confi- dence “

  “We’d better leave Miss Haselridge out of the discussion entirely,” said John.

  At that moment Sponley began to wonder whether he had not made a mistake in leaving Dick so completely out of his accounting. He had hardly so much as looked at her. He had thought himself familiar with every influence which had a bearing on John Bagsbury ; but certainly he had never considered her in such a connection this pretty girl, just out of college, who liked to pretend that she was interested in the banking business.

  “All right,” said Sponley, “that was just a chance idea of mine; take it for what it’s worth. But that isn’t what I’ve come to talk about. I want to advise you to let go of Pickering.”

  “You mean not to let him have any more money ? “

  “ No, I mean to get back what you’ve already loaned him, and get it back quick to-morrow, if possible.”

  He paused. “ Well, go on,” said the Banker ; “ let’s have the rest of it.”

  “ I say to-morrow, because to-morrow will be your last chance. Pickering’s as good as busted.”