Blow The Man Down: A Romance Of The Coast
not trouble his conscience because the narratives he imparted to this
wide-eyed youth were largely apocryphal.
“You see,” he put in at the end of the first tale, “what a flying start
will do for a man. Suppose that chap I've just told you about sat back
and refused to jump when the road was all open to him! You don't hear
anybody knocking that man nowadays, do you? And yet that's the trick he
pulled to get his start.”
With a similar snapper did Mr. Fogg touch up each one of his stories of
success.
“I--I didn't have any idea--I thought they managed it some other way,”
murmured David Boyne.
“Your horizon has been limited; you haven't been out in the world
enough to know, my son.”
“I have heard of all those men, of course. They're big men to-day.”
“You didn't think they got to be millionaires by saving the money out of
clerks' salaries, did you? Of course, Boyne, I admit that in this
affair you'll be up to a little sharp practice. But you're not stealing
anything. Nobody can lug off steamships in a vest pocket. It's only a
deal--and deals are being made every day.”
Fogg was a keen judge of his fellow-men. He knew weakness when he saw
it. He could determine from a man's lower lip and the set of his nose
whether that person were covetous. And he knew now what signified the
flush on Boyne's cheeks and the light in his eyes. However, there was
something else to reckon with.
“I will not betray Mr. Franklin's confidence in me. Positively, I will
not,” said the young man. “He's sick, and that would make it worse.”
“How sick is he?”
“He is very, very ill. It was an operation, and he has had a relapse.
But we hope he's coming out all right.”
“What hospital is he in?”
Boyne gave the name.
“I think I'll call up and ask when it is expected that he can see
visitors,” announced Fogg, with business briskness. “I wish Franklin had
been here on deck--Franklin, himself.”
“I don't believe Mr. Franklin would turn a trick of this sort,” asserted
the clerk. “I'd hate to face him, after doing it myself.”
“Franklin would be able to see further into a financial deal than a
young chap,” said Mr. Fogg, severely, and then he found his number and
made his call. “Good heavens!” he blurted, after a question. “I am in
his office. Yes, I'll tell Boyne.”
With a fine affectation of grief and surprise, he snapped the
transmitter upon the hook and whirled on Boyne. His back had been toward
the young man--he had spoken with hand across the receiver.
“He has just died--he's dead! Franklin has passed away.”
“I would have been notified,” gasped Boyne.
“They were just going to call you. You heard me say I'd inform you.”
“But I must call the hospital--offer my services. I must go up there.”
Mr. Fogg put out his hand and pressed the young man back into his chair.
“A lulu must be played quick and the pot raked sudden,” he reflected.
“Just a moment, my son. Now you're standing on your own bottom. You
won't have to explain to Mr. Franklin.”
He pointed to the clock. His stories had consumed time. The hour was
ten-thirty-five.
“That annual meeting of the Vose line was called for ten of the clock
to-day. Mr. Franklin was alive at that hour. He was the clerk of that
corporation. What happens now will not embarrass you so far as he's
concerned. Be sensible. Make a stroke for yourself. You're out of a job,
anyway. Go to it, now.”
Fogg spoke sharply, imperiously. He exerted over the young man all the
force of his personality.
“Five thousand dollars--protected by my interests--slipped out of sight
for a few months--it's easy. Sit down there and make up your records;
vote those proxies. Vote 'em, I say. This meeting was held at ten
o'clock. Make up your records.”
He stood over Boyne, arguing, promising, urging, and the young man,
at last, sweating, flushed, trembling, bent over his documents, sorted
them, and made up his records.
“We'll send on a copy to the office of the Vose line by registered
mail,” commanded Fogg. “Attest it as a copy of the true record by
notary. When it drops in on 'em I will be there, with my directors and
my little story--and the face of Uncle Vose will be worth looking at,
though his language may not be elevating. You come out with me, Boyne.
I'm going to the telegraph office.”
“But I must get in touch at once with Mr. Franklin's family--offer my
services,” pleaded the clerk.
“There isn't a thing you can do right now,” snapped the masterful
gentleman from New York. “I suggest that you close the office. Send the
girl home. You should do that much out of respect to your employer's
memory.”
Ten minutes later the record had been mailed and the flustered Boyne
was trotting around town with Mr. Fogg. The latter seemed to have a
tremendous amount of business on his hands. He hired a cab and was
hustled yon and thither, leaving the young man in the vehicle, with
instructions to stay there, whenever a stop was made. But at last Mr.
Fogg returned from an errand with some very tangible results. He put a
packet of bank-notes into Boyne's shaking hands.
“Did you ever see as much real money before, my son?” asked Fogg,
genially. “That's your five thousand. And here's five hundred toward
that expense money we promised. I'm suggesting that you leave town
to-night. Tuck that cash away on yourself and duck out of sight.”
Having secured the money and placed that powerful argument in the young
man's hands, Mr. Fogg's hurry and anxiety seemed to be over. When he had
seen the packet buttoned inside Boyne's coat he smiled.
“The trade is clinched and the job is done, son, and I feel sure that,
being a healthy young American citizen with plenty of cash to pay your
way, you're not going to let go that cash nor do any foolish squealing.”
“I've gone too far to back out,” admitted Boyne, patting the outside of
his coat. “But it seems like a dream.”
“I've heard a little piece of good news while I've been running
around--forgot to tell you,” said Fogg, in a matter-of-fact way.
“That fool attendant at the hospital must have misunderstood me, or I
misunderstood him. Franklin isn't dead.”
“He-isn't-dead?”
“No. Last report is that he's better this forenoon. But that's the way
some of these crazy attendants mix things up when anybody inquires at a
hospital. Now, of course, seeing that the registered copy is on its way
and Franklin is getting better, that's all the more reason why you don't
care to hang around these diggings and be annoyed. I've got a scheme. It
will take you out of town in a very quiet style. I have telephoned down
to the docks, and there's a Vose freighter in here discharging rails. Do
you live at home or at a boarding-place?”
“I board,” said Boyne, still wrestling with the sickening information
that he had betrayed an employer who was alive; somehow the sentiment
that it was equally base to betray a deceased employer had not impressed
itself on his benumbed conscience. He was now keenly aware that he
feared to meet up with a living and indignant Lawyer Franklin. Fogg
questioned, and Boyne gave his boarding-house address.
“We'll drive there, and I'll wait outside in the cab until you can
scratch together a gripful of your things. Don't load yourself down too
much. Remember, you've got plenty of cash in your pockets.”
A little later Fogg escorted the young man up the gang-plank of the
_Nequasset_, from whose hold the last of her load of clanging rails was
being derricked by panting windlass engines. To Captain Zoradus Wass,
who was lounging against the rail just outside the pilot-house, Mr. Fogg
marched with business promptitude, and spoke with assurance.
“Captain, my name is Fletcher Fogg. Within forty-eight hours the
directors of the Vose line will elect me president and general manager.
That news may be rather astonishing, but it's true.”
The veteran skipper did not reply. He shifted a certain bulge from one
cheek to the other.
“Well?” queried Fogg, a bit sharply.
“I ain't saying anything”
“You believe what I tell you, don't you?”
“I don't know you.”
“This young man is David Boyne, acting clerk of the Vose line
corporation. The annual meeting has just been held in this city. He made
the official records. He will tell you that a new board of directors has
been chosen--the old crowd is out.”
“That is so,” stated Boyne, obeying the prompting of Fogg's quick
glance.
“I don't know you, either.”
Mr. Fogg was not abashed. “It isn't especially necessary that you know
us. How soon do you leave?”
“We're going out light as soon as them rails are on the wharf.”
“I am sending Mr. Boyne with you on a tour of inspection, captain.
Please give him quarters and use him right.”
“Nothing doing till I get orders from the owners,” declared Captain
Wass.
“Haven't I told you that I shall be general manager of this line
to-morrow, or next day, at the latest?”
“When you're general manager come around and give off your orders, sir.”
“I'll do it. I'll come aboard in New York--”
“I'm ordered to Philadelphia,” prompted Captain Wass. “That's where
you'll find me.”
“Philadelphia, then! I'll come aboard and fire you.”
“Do just as you feel like doing.”
“You refuse to take along this young man?”
“This ain't a passenger-boat. I don't know you. Show orders from
owners--otherwise nothing doing.”
Mate Mayo had come out of his cabin, near at hand. With a young man's
quicker perception of possibilities and contingencies he realized that
his skipper might be letting an old man's obstinacy block common sense.
The first mate had an eye for men and their manners. He had been
listening to Mr. Fogg. That gentleman certainly seemed to know what he
was talking about. And young Mate Mayo, having a nose for news as well
as an eye for men, understood that the coast transportation business
was in a touchy state generally. He gave Mr. Fogg further inspection and
decided that a little skilful compromising was advisable.
“Captain Wass, will you step aside with me a moment?” asked the mate.
“What for?”
“I want to have a word with you.”
“Have it right here,” said the captain, tartly. “I never have any
business that's got to be whispered behind corners.” He scowled when his
mate gave him a wink, both suggestive and imploring. “Spit it out!”
“The law doesn't allow us to take passengers, as you suggest. And
naturally you don't like to act without orders from owners.” He looked
at Mr. Fogg as he spoke, plainly offering apology to that gentleman.
“But we need a second steward and--”
“We don't!” Captain Wass was blunt and tactless.
“I beg pardon--we really do. And we can sign this young man in a--a sort
of nominal way, and then when we get to Philadelphia we'll probably find
the matter all straightened out.”
“What's your name?” asked Mr. Fogg.
“Boyd Mayo, sir. First mate.”
“Mr. Mayo, you're a young man with a lot of common sense,” declared
Fogg.
To himself, staring at the young man, he said: “I'm going to play this
game out with two-spots, and here's one ready for the draw!”
“I'll see you in Philadelphia, Mr. Mayo,” he continued, aloud. “I am
exactly what I say I am. Captain Wass, you've got something coming to
you. Mr. Mayo, you've got something coming to you, also--and it's
good!” His assertiveness was compelling, and even the captain displayed
symptoms of being impressed. “It isn't at all necessary that my agent
make this trip with you, Captain Wass. Perhaps I had no distinct right
to bring him here. But I am a hustling sort of a business man and I want
to get at matters in short order. However, I ask no favors. Come on,
Boyne!”
“We'll sign him on as steward to cover the law,” proffered the captain,
as terse in consent as he was in refusal.
“Very well,” agreed Fogg. “You've got an able first mate, sir.” He