_ CHAPTER VIII
There were few things that Brockton enjoyed more than a game of bridge. So long as the cards went his way, he was dead to the world. Having routed his opponents and carried everything before him for the last half hour, he was feeling in particularly good humor, and it was only with a mock grimace that he protested at being disturbed.
"Say, Laura, it's a shame to lure me away from that mad speculation in there. I thought I might make my fare back to New York, if I played until next summer." Dropping his jesting tone, he inquired interrogatively: "What's up?"
"Mr. Madison wants to talk to you, or rather I do, and I want him to listen."
The broker gave her one keen look. She did not have to explain what the talk was to be about. He understood instinctively. Instantly, his manner changed. The easy jocularity vanished. Once more he was the shrewd, hard, calculating business man. Coldly he said:
"Very well--what is it about?"
Descending the steps, he came down the terrace to where Laura and Madison were seated. The girl began:
"Say, Will----"
"Yes," he answered icily.
"I'm going home day after to-morrow, on the Overland Limited."
He nodded.
"I know."
Awkwardly and glancing nervously at Madison, as if to gain courage, she went on:
"It was awfully kind of you to come out here and offer to escort me back to New York, but--under the circumstances--I'd rather you'd take an earlier--or a later train."
The broker looked from one to the other. Coolly he asked:
"May I ask what circumstances you refer to?"
Timidly she went on:
"Mr. Madison and I are going to be married." She paused for a moment, as if in a dilemma how best to put it. Finally she said: "He knows of your former friendship for me, and he thinks it must end."
The broker gave a grunt. He was raging within, but what was the use of being unpleasant over it? He could not alter matters. Trying to appear unconcerned, he said:
"Hum! Then the Riverside Drive proposition, with Burgess's show thrown in, is off, eh?"
"Yes," she replied firmly, "everything is absolutely declared off."
Brockton shrugged his shoulders. With an inward chuckle he said ironically:
"Can't even be friends any more, eh?"
Madison, who had listened without interfering, now rose and stepped forward. Fixing the broker with a cold stare, he said:
"You could hardly expect Miss Murdock to be friendly with you--under the circumstances." Assisting Laura to put a scarf across her shoulders, he added: "You could hardly expect me to sanction any such friendship."
Brockton gave a careless nod. Patronizingly he said:
"I think I understand your position, young man, and I agree with you perfectly, that is--if your plans turn out successful."
"Thank you," said Madison stiffly.
Going up to the broker, Laura held out her hand. With a smile she said:
"Then everything is settled, just the way it ought to be--frankly and above board?"
Brockton took her hand, and held it in his for a minute. With a visible effort to conceal his feelings, he said:
"Why, I guess so. If I was perfectly confident that this new arrangement was going to result happily for you both, I think it would be great, only I'm somewhat doubtful, for when people become serious and then fail, I know how hard these things hit, having been hit once myself."
Madison looked at him as if trying to gauge his full meaning. Then quietly he said:
"So you think we're making a wrong move, and there isn't a chance of success, eh?"
"No, I don't make any such gloomy prophecy. If you make Laura a good husband, and she makes you a good wife, and together you win out, I'll be mighty glad. As far as I am concerned, I shall absolutely forget every thought of Laura's friendship for me."
The girl looked grateful.
"I thought you'd be just that way," she said.
The broker rose and advancing, took both her hands. There was more than a suspicion of emotion in his voice as he said:
"Good-bye, girlie--be happy." Turning to the newspaper man, he said: "Madison, good luck." Shaking him cordially by the hand he added: "I think you've got the stuff in you to succeed, if your foot don't slip."
The newspaper man looked at him inquiringly. Curtly he demanded:
"What do you mean by my foot slipping, Mr. Brockton?"
The broker returned his gaze steadily.
"Do you want me to tell you?"
"I sure do."
Brockton turned to Laura, who stood listening, rather uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking.
"Laura," he said quietly, "run into the house and see if Mrs. Williams has won another quarter. Madison and I are going to smoke a cigar and have a friendly chat. When we get through, I think we'll both feel better."
She looked at him anxiously. Fearfully she asked:
"You are sure that everything will be all right?"
"Sure," he said smilingly.
She looked at Madison, as if for reassurance. He nodded and she went towards the house. When she had disappeared, Brockton held out a handsomely engraved gold cigar case.
"Have a cigar?" he said cordially, as if to make things as amicable as possible.
"No--I'll smoke my own," replied Madison coldly.
The men sat down and there was a short silence, during which they lit and puffed at their cigars. It was now pitch dark outside, and the brilliant illuminations in the interior of the house only served to intensify the almost opaque blackness of the grounds. Nothing could be seen but the glow of each man's cigar, as he puffed it silently. The broker broke the long pause.
"What's your business?" he demanded curtly.
"What's yours?" retorted the Westerner quickly.
"I'm a broker."
"I'm a reporter."
"What kind?" inquired Brockton.
"General utility--dog fights, and dramatic criticisms."
"Pay you well?" asked Brockton carelessly.
The journalist started and looked up sharply at his interlocutor.
"That's a pretty fresh question!" he exclaimed. "What's the idea?"
"I'm interested--that's all," replied Brockton coolly. Knocking the ash off his cigar, he continued: "I'm a plain man, Mr. Madison, and I do business in a plain way. Now, if I ask you a few questions and discuss this matter with you in a frank way, don't get it in your head that I'm jealous or sore, but simply I don't want either of you people to make a move that's going to cost you a lot of pain and trouble. If you want me to talk sense to you, all right. If you don't we'll drop it now. What's the answer?"
Madison listened attentively until he stopped speaking. Then he looked up, his manner defiant and aggressive.
"I'll take a chance," he said contemptuously, "but before you start I want to tell you that the class of people you belong to, I have no use for--they don't speak my language. You are what they call a manipulator of stocks. That means that you are living on the weaknesses of other people, and it almost means that you get your daily bread--yes--and your cake and your wine, too, from the sweat and toil of others. You're a safe gambler, a 'gambler under cover.' Show me a man who's dealing bank; he's free and above board. But you--you can figure the percentage against you, and then if you buck the tiger and get stung, you do it with your eyes open. With you Wall Street men, the game is crooked twelve months of the year. From a business point of view, I think you're a crook!" He paused, as if to see the effect of his words. Then he added: "Now I guess we understand each other. If you've got anything to say, why--spill it."
Brockton rose impatiently. His voice rising in anger, he said:
"We're not talking business now, but women. How much money do you earn?"
For a moment Madison was taken aback by the very impudence of the question. He glared at his questioner, and half rose from his seat with a threatening gesture. But noting the cool and composed manner of the broker, he merely shrugged his shoulders. Clenching his teeth, he leaned forward and said warningly:
"Understand, I don't think it is any of your damned business! But I'm going through with you on this proposition, just to see how the land lays. Take my tip, however. Be mighty careful how you speak about the girl, if you're not looking for trouble."
Paying no attention to the covert threat, Brockton went on:
"How much did you say you made?"
"Thirty dollars a week."
The broker gave vent to a low, but expressive whistle. Elevating his eyebrows, he asked:
"Do you know how much Laura could make if she took a job just on her own merits?"
Madison shook his head. Impatiently he replied:
"As I don't intend to share in her salary, I never took the trouble to inquire."
"She'd get about forty dollars."
"That laps me ten," retorted the other.
Brockton persisted.
"But how are you going to support her?" he demanded. "Her cabs cost more than your salary, and she pays her week's salary for an every-day walking hat. She's always had a maid. Her simplest gown flirts with a hundred dollar note. Her manicurist and her hairdresser will eat up as much as you pay for your board. She never walks when it's stormy, and every afternoon there's her ride in the park. She dines in the best places in New York, and one meal costs her more than you make in a day. Do you imagine for a moment that she's going to sacrifice these luxuries for any great length of time?"
"I intend to give them to her," replied Madison promptly.
"On thirty dollars a week?"
"I propose to go out and make a lot of money."
"How?"
"I haven't decided yet, but you can bet your sweet life that if I ever try and make up my mind that it's got to be, it's got to be."
Brockton looked skeptical.
"Never have made it, have you?" he said.
"I have never tried," replied Madison doggedly.
"Then how do you know you can?"
"I'm honest and energetic, that's how I know!" retorted the journalist. With a sneer he added: "If you can get great wealth the way you go along, I don't see why I can't earn a little."
Puffing vigorously at his expensive perfecto, Brockton strode leisurely up and down the terrace. He spoke calmly and dispassionately, as if he personally were not in the least concerned with the subject under discussion. From his manner one might take him for an elderly brother advising a junior of life's many pitfalls.
"That's where you make a mistake," he said coolly. "Money doesn't always come with brilliancy. I know a lot of fellows in New York who can paint a fine picture, write a good play, and when it comes to oratory they've got me lashed to a pole. But, somehow, they never make money. They're always in debt. They never get anything for what they do. In other words, young man, they are like a sky rocket without a stick--plenty of brilliancy, but no direction. They blow up and fizzle all over the ground."
"That's in New York," interrupted Madison scornfully. "I'm in Colorado. I guess you know there is a difference."
The broker shrugged his shoulders.
"I hope you'll make your money," he said carelessly, "because, I tell you frankly, that's the only way you can hold this girl. She's full of heroics now, self sacrifice, and all the things that go to make up the third act of a play, but the minute she comes to darn her stockings, wash out her own handkerchiefs and dry them on the windows and send out for a pail of coffee and a sandwich for lunch, take it from me--she'll change her tune!" Suddenly confronting his rival, he went on: "You're in Colorado writing her letters once a day with no cheques in them. That may be all right for some girl who hasn't tasted the joy of easy living, full of the good things of life, but one who for ten years has been doing very well in the way these women do, is not going to let up for any great length of time. So take my advice, if you want to hold her, get that money quick, and don't be so damned particular how you get it, either."
Madison started quickly to his feet, his fists clenched. Savagely he exclaimed:
"Of course, you know you've got the best of me----"
"How?" demanded Brockton coolly.
"We're guests. I have to control myself."
"No one's listening," said the broker.
"'Tisn't that," snapped the other impatiently. "If it was anywhere but here, if there was any way to avoid all the nasty scandal, I'd come a-shootin' for you and you know it----"
"You're a fighter, eh?" sneered Brockton.
"Perhaps," snapped the journalist. There was a dangerous gleam in his eye, as he went on: "Let me tell you this. I don't know how you make your money, but I know what you do with it. You buy yourself a small circle of sycophants; you pay them well for feeding your vanity, and then you pose with a certain frank admission of vice and degradation. And those who aren't quite as brazen as you call it manhood. Manhood?" he echoed contemptuously. "Why, you don't know what the word means! Yours is the attitude of a pup and a cur."
Brockton turned. His lips were compressed, his eyes flashed. Starting angrily forward he exclaimed:
"Wait a minute, young man, or I'll----"
Madison gave one stride towards him, and for a moment both men stood confronting each other, their fists clenched. Their primal instincts were aroused. Like wild beasts, full of savage hatred, they were hungry and ready to fly at each other's throats.
"You'll what?" demanded Madison, raising his fist.
"Lose my temper and make a damned fool of myself," retorted the broker retaining his
sang froid only by the greatest effort. With an attempt at jocularity he went on: "That's something I've not done for--let me see--why, it must be nearly twenty years--oh, yes--fully that----"
He smiled and Madison, disarmed, fell back. In a sulky undertone, the Westerner grumbled:
"Possibly it's been about that length of time since you were human, eh?"
"Possibly--but you see, Mr. Madison, after all, you're at fault----"
"Yes?"
"Yes, the very first thing you did was to lose your temper. Now people who always lose their temper will never make a lot of money, and you admit that that is a great necessity--I mean now--to you----"
Turning on his heel, Madison picked up a newspaper and slammed it down angrily on a seat.
"I can't stand for the brutal way you talk!" Leaning on the balustrade and looking into the dark depths below, he lapsed into a sullen silence.
Brockton approached him.
"But you've got to stand it," he said. "The truth is never gentle. Most conditions in life are unpleasant, and if you want to meet them squarely, you have got to realize the unpleasant point of view. That's the only way you can fight them and win!"
Madison turned around. The rage was gone out of his eyes, and his voice had regained its equanimity. Decisively he said:
"I believe Laura means what she says, in spite of all you say and the disagreeable logic of it. I think she loves me. If she should ever want to go back to the old way of getting along, I think she'd tell me so. So you see, Brockton, all your talk is wasted, and we'll drop the subject."
Crossing to the other side of the terrace, he dropped into a chair, and lit another cigar. Brockton followed him.
"And if she should ever go back and come to me," said the broker slowly and impressively, "I am going to insist that she let you know all about it. It'll be hard enough to lose her, caring for her the way you do, but it would hurt a lot more to be double crossed----"
Madison laughed scornfully.
"That's very kind. Thanks!"
"Don't get sore," said Brockton. "It's common sense, and it goes, does it not?"
"Just what goes?" demanded the journalist, turning sharply.
Brockton eyed him gravely for a second or two; then he said slowly:
"If she leaves you first, you are to tell me, and if she comes to me, I'll make her let you know just when and why----"
A fierce flame again blazed out from the big fellow's eyes. He half started from his chair, and he flung his fist out threateningly.
"Look out!" he cried.
"I said 'common sense,'" rejoined Brockton quietly.
"All right," replied his rival, more calmly.
"Agreed?" demanded the broker.
"You're on," muttered Madison. _