CHAPTER XXIV
INTERRUPTED PLANS
Porter had wakened that morning with a pain-racked body and the hottaste of fever in his mouth. He dressed and went downstairs tobreakfast, but left the table and returned to his room to lie down.
"I'll be all right in an hour or so; I guess I've taken cold," he saidto Evelyn. At the end of an hour he was shaking with a chill.
Evelyn left him alone to telephone for the doctor and in her absence hetried to rise and fainted. He was still lying on the floor when shereturned. When the doctor came he found the household in a panic, andalmost before Porter realized it, he was hazily watching the white capof the trained nurse whom the doctor ordered with his medicines.
"Your father has a fever of some sort," he said to Evelyn. "It may beonly a severe attack of malaria; but it's probably typhoid. In anyevent, there's nothing to be alarmed about. Mr. Porter has one of theold-fashioned constitutions," he added, reassuringly, "and there'snothing to fear for him."
Porter protested all the morning that he would go to his office afterluncheon, but the temperature line on the nurse's chart climbed steadilyupward. He resented the tyranny of the nurse, who moved about the roomwith an air of having been there always, and he was impatient under theefforts of Evelyn to soothe him. The doctor came again at noon. He wasof Porter's age and an old friend; he dealt frankly with his patientnow. Evelyn stood by and listened, adding her own words of pleading andcheer; and while the doctor gave instructions to the nurse outside, herelaxed, and let her smooth his pillow and bathe his hot brow.
"This may be my turn--" he began.
"Not by any manner of means, father," she broke in with a lightness shedid not feel. It moved her greatly to see his weakness.
"It's an unfortunate time," he said, "and there's something you must dofor me. I've got to see Wheaton or Fenton. It's very important."
"But you mustn't, father; business can wait until you're well again. Itwill be only a few days--"
"You mustn't question what I ask," he went on very steadily. "It's ofgreat importance," and she knew that he meant it.
"Can't I see them for you?" she asked. He turned his slight lean bodyunder the covers, and shook his head helplessly on his pillow.
"You see you can't talk, father," she said very gently. "Is thereanything I can say to them for you?"
"Yes," he said weakly, "I want you to give the key to one of my boxes toWheaton. Tell him to take out a package--marked Traction--and give it toFenton."
Evelyn brought his key ring and he pointed out the key and watched herslip it from the ring.
"I'll send for Mr. Wheaton at once," she said. "Don't worry any moreabout it, father."
"Evelyn!" She had started for the door, but now hurried back to him.
"Don't tell him anything over the telephone; just ask him to come up."She went out at once that he might be assured, and he turned wearily onhis pillow and slept.
Porter's illness was proclaimed in the first editions of the afternoonpapers, which Wheaton saw at his desk. News gains force by publication,and when he read the printed statement that the president of theClarkson National Bank was confined to his house by illness, he feltthat Porter must really be very sick; and he naturally turned the factover in his mind to see how this might affect him. The directors came inand sat about in the directors' room with their hats on, and Wingate,the starch manufacturer, who had seen Porter's doctor, pronounced thepresident a very sick man and suggested that Thompson, the invalidvice-president, ought to be notified. The others acquiesced, and theyprepared a telegram to Thompson at Phoenix, suggesting his immediatereturn, if possible.
Wheaton sat with them and listened respectfully. When he was firstappointed to his position, he had waited with a kind of awe for thepronouncements of the directors; but he had acquired a low opinion ofthem. He certainly knew more about the affairs of the bank than any ofthem except Porter and he knew more than Porter of the details. Duringthis informal conference of the directors, Wheaton was called to thetelephone, and was cheered by the sound of Evelyn's voice. She asked himto come up as soon as convenient; she wished to give him a message fromher father, who was very comfortable, she said. After dinner would do;she knew that he must be very busy. He expressed his sympathy formally,and went back to the directors with a kindlier feeling toward the world.There was a consolation for him in the knowledge that Miss Porter mustsummon him to her in this way; her father's illness made another tiebetween them.
Wingate and the others came out of the directors' room as he put downthe telephone receiver, and they stood talking at his desk. He found asecret pleasure in being able to answer at once the questions whichWingate put to him, as to how the discounts were running, and what theywere carrying of county money, and how much government money they had onhand. Wingate knew no more of banking than he knew of Egyptianhieroglyphics; but he thought he did, because he had read the nationalbanking act through and had once met the comptroller of the currency atdinner. The other directors listened to Wheaton's answers withadmiration. When they got outside Wingate remarked, as they stood at thefront door before dispersing:
"I wish to thunder I could ask Jim Wheaton something just once that hedidn't know. That fellow knows every balance in the bank, and the dateof the maturity of every loan. He's almost too good to be true."
They laughed.
"I guess Jim's all right," said the wholesale dry goods merchant, whowas a good deal impressed with the fact of his directorship.
"Sure," said Wingate. "But you can bet Thompson's lungs will get a lotbetter when he gets our telegram." They had no great belief inThompson's invalidism. It is one of the drolleries of our American lifethat men, particularly in Western cities, never dare to be ill; it ismuch nobler and far more convenient to die than to be sick.
Fenton spent the afternoon in court. He intended to call at the Porters'on his way home, and stopped at the bank before going to his office,thinking that the banker might be there; but the president's desk wasclosed.
"How sick is Mr. Porter?" he asked Wheaton.
"He's pretty sick," said Wheaton. "It's typhoid fever."
Fenton whistled.
"That's what the doctor calls it. I spoke to Miss Porter over thetelephone a few minutes ago, and she did not seem to be alarmed abouther father. He's very strong, you know."
But Fenton was not listening. "See here, Wheaton," he said suddenly, "doyou know anything about Porter's private affairs?"
"Not very much," said Wheaton guardedly.
"I guess you don't and I guess nobody does, worse luck! You know howmorbidly secretive he is, and how he shies off from publicity,--Isuppose you do," he went on a little grimly. He did not like Wheatonparticularly. "Well, he has some Traction stock,--the annual meeting isheld to-morrow and he's got to be represented."
"He never told me of it," said Wheaton, truthfully.
"His shares are probably in his inside pocket, or hid under the bed athome; but we've got to get them if he has any, and get them quick. If hehas his wits he'll probably try and send word to me. I suppose Icouldn't see him if I went up."
"Miss Porter telephoned me to come,--on some business matter, she said,and no doubt that's what it is."
"Then I won't go just now, but I'll see you here as soon as you get downtown. I'll be at my office right after dinner." He paused, deliberating.Fenton was a careful man, who rose to emergencies.
"I'll come directly back here," said Wheaton. "No doubt the papers youwant are in one of Mr. Porter's private boxes."
"Can you get into it to-night?"
"Yes; it's in the vault where we keep the account books, and there's notime lock."
The Main Chance Page 24