Joan and Co.
“It doesn’t always look as badly as it did last night.”
“I liked it as it was,” she insisted. “Except you _should_ have a
spoon, of course.”
Now it was Arkwright’s room—anybody’s room. Half the dramatic contrast
was gone. Even Devons himself, now that he was shaved and up, no longer
made the urgent claim upon her sympathy that had so roused her as he
lay prone and unkempt in his bed. Not that she analyzed her emotions to
this extent, but she was aware of a certain disappointment. It was as
though she were no longer needed quite as much as she had been needed
last night.
But that feeling passed when she saw the man totter a trifle as he
tried to keep his feet. She took his arm and led him to a chair.
“I had Henriette pack a basket with some things I thought you might
need,” she explained. “You might take them out, Henriette.”
Henriette brought forth from that basket a linen tablecloth with an
embroidered “F” in one corner; a collection of china with which Devons
was familiar; a monogrammed silver knife, fork, and spoon; a crystal
drinking-glass; several aluminum cooking-dishes which he was sure
the Fairburne chef would have to account for some day; and then a
cold chicken, some dainty biscuits, a box of fresh eggs, and several
different kinds of jellies and jams, and finally a bottle of milk.
“I didn’t know whether you could get fresh milk here or not,” she
explained. “Dad has this sent in every day from the country.”
“But why,” he exclaimed, “should you do this?”
He saw her cheeks color.
“Why shouldn’t I?” she challenged.
“It has put you to so much trouble.”
“It hasn’t done even that!” she exclaimed. “But if it had?”
Then she should not have undertaken it, is what he had meant, but he
did not say it. Instead he said:
“If Charles is still about he might take us down to the factory. The
machinery ought to be unpacked to-day.”
“Are you strong enough to go?”
“Certainly,” he answered steadily. “It’s only a matter of directing
the men. I arranged for two of them to come to-day. They are probably
waiting for me.”
She hesitated. But he rose and reached for his hat.
“I must go,” he said earnestly. “It will save a whole day. We—we could
come back here for lunch.”
“I told mother I should need Charles until evening.”
“Then come on,” he insisted, with something of his old-time spirit.
If she had been thinking of him alone, it would have been against her
best judgment to permit this, but she was thinking also a little bit of
herself. To spend part of the day with him there would be a beginning.
At the moment his thoughts were less upon her than the business in
hand, so that he would be scarcely conscious of whether she was about
or not.
So with a nod to Henriette to follow she went down the stairs with
him and to the machine. Five minutes later they were in the elevator
leading to the twelfth story and soon were standing before the
door to which he pointed proudly. She read the inscription “Devons
Manufacturing Company” with a glow of enthusiasm.
“It sounds very important,” she smiled.
But it looked decidedly more like a real business from the outside than
it did on the inside. Here she found herself in a large room containing
nothing but several large packing-cases and odds and ends of smaller
bundles. These, like the door, were all marked impressively, “Devons
Manufacturing Company.”
The sight of them seemed to inspire Devons. They brought back the color
to his cheeks and strength to his legs. He offered her a seat upon
one of the smaller cases and stepped into the next office to telephone
to his men. When he came back he took a jack-knife from his pocket and
began to cut the strings on the bundles. Instantly she jumped up.
“Please sit down and let me undo them,” she requested.
“You may help,” he condescended, “but be careful of the ones marked
‘glass’.”
Soon from the chaos of excelsior and brown paper, measuring-glasses
began to appear and large bottles containing mysterious liquids. Then,
when the men appeared, they attacked the big cases. Even Henriette
caught something of the enthusiasm and began to pick up the loose
papers and smooth them out and fold them.
But the fact Joan noticed was that within half an hour—as soon as
the big mixing-kettles began to emerge—Devons forgot she was there.
There was not much then left for her to do. She stood around rather
helplessly, spending most of her time trying to keep from underfoot.
Often he stood by her side as he gave his orders, but if she ventured
to speak to him then he only answered vaguely, “Eh?”
He was Devons of the Devons Manufacturing Company and none else. He
might almost have been stenciled like the boxes with that label. She
had planned not to allow him to do too much, but she found herself
powerless. He neither heard her nor saw her.
So he worked for two hours, and so he might have gone on working until
night if left to himself. It was clear enough to her now why at the end
of ten days he had been forced to his bed. With a smile of satisfaction
it was clear enough to her now in just what way she might be useful.
At twelve o’clock the men had stopped for lunch, but impatiently he had
urged them on.
“I’ll pay you double to put this through,” he promised.
At a little after one, one of the three big kettles was in place and
the men moved toward the second. It was then that Joan stepped forward
to Devons and insisted upon being heard.
“Come,” she said.
“Eh?”
She put her hand upon his arm.
“Come. We must go back to lunch now.”
“You and Henriette run along,” he said; “I’ll have something sent up.”
“No, you must come too.”
“But I can’t!” he broke out nervously. “If I get this done to-day I can
begin work to-morrow.”
She shook her head.
“If you keep on like this you won’t begin work for a month.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I do understand. Come.”
“I—”
“Come.”
She found his hat for him and placed it on his head, while he went on
giving instructions to cover the time he would be away. He glanced at
his watch.
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he told the men.
“I doubt if that is quite accurate,” she contradicted.
“But, Joan—” he began.
He had used the name often enough to himself, but as it slipped from
his lips so unconsciously the sound of it checked him. He met her eyes.
She was smiling.
“Yes?” she answered.
“There is so much still to be done,” he finished.
“I know, but there is to-morrow and after that another to-morrow and
after that—”
His lips tightened.
“It’s those to-morrows I want to do away with,” he replied. “I want to
get into the now.”
“Come,” she repeated.
Reluctantly he followed her into the elevator and to the machine and
let himself be whisked back to his room—back there in the middle of the
day. It was absurd. Yet the moment he was there he realized it was
well. He sank into a chair quite done up.
Arkwright came up and offered his apartment to the ladies as a
dressing-room, and as soon as they went out turned to Devons.
“You been at it again so soon?” he demanded.
“Got a bully start,” nodded Devons. “Machinery all unpacked and some of
it set up.”
“You’d better go slow.” Arkwright shrugged his shoulders. Then his eyes
caught the array upon the table.
“Some style,” he observed.
“She did it,” nodded Devons. “It’s an improvement on your darned old
beef cubes.”
“Right! The doctor came, by the way, while you were gone. He allowed
you were crazy.”
“Thank God, I was out. Tell him I’ll see him a month from now. Stay to
lunch with us?”
“Thanks,” answered Arkwright thoughtfully. “I don’t think I will.”
But he remained a few moments just to watch Joan as she helped to set
the table. Had it been possible for him to make himself invisible he
would have liked to stay longer, but as he weighed two hundred pounds
there seemed to be no practicable way for him to accomplish this, so he
backed out.
He should have remained and seen how deftly Henriette mastered the same
problem. To be sure, she had some advantage in the matter of size, but
this was partly offset by the fact that she served as waitress, though
there was not very much for her to do, except to make a cup of tea for
her mistress. Everything was so compact and convenient here that really
it would have been possible to do away with servants altogether.
It was no time before Devons forgot she was in the room. Only Joan was
here—opposite him. It might be said with equal truth that in no time
he forgot there was any one else in the world but Joan. Yet there were
quite a number of other persons in the world. In this city alone there
were some four million. One had only to refer to any book of statistics.
He was aware of her eyes and her smile and the dainty curves of her
fingers as she lifted the teacup to her lips, and looking at these it
was almost as though the to-morrows had really gone and the Now was
here. It was rather a dangerous delusion to labor under. To enjoy it
fully he was forced to watch himself carefully.
This was difficult because with her the temptation always was to speak
from within as one thought—to talk direct to the center of her big,
clear eyes. But if he had done that, there were moments when he would
have leaned across the table and said to her:
“I love you.”
He would have said no more. Just that—bluntly.
But he had no right to say that. It took away his breath every time he
thought of it and left him white about the lips. It was at one of these
moments, after they had finished their lunch and Henriette had cleared
away all the things and they were just sitting on, that she suddenly
rose.
“You must rest,” she said. “You look tired. I don’t think you had
better go back to the factory to-day.”
“But—”
“No,” she insisted firmly; “I will stop there with Henriette on my way
home and tell the men to go for the day. I shall lock the door and take
the key.”
“Then,” he asked helplessly, “how shall I get in to-morrow?”
“I will be there at nine and unlock the door for you,” she smiled.
And before he fully recovered, she went out and left him sitting alone
like a blind man who has had his cane removed.
CHAPTER XX
THE FASTER GAME
Burnett senior sat in his office leaning forward in his chair and
drumming nervously on the desk. Every now and then he glanced at his
watch, then uncertainly toward the hat-rack, and then with an effort
turned to the letters in front of him. But in the end he always found
himself again drumming nervously on his desk.
It was eleven o’clock and the Stock Exchange had been open for an hour.
Already he had twice rung up the office of Toole & Co. and received the
report that the market was strong and the trading brisk. Apparently it
was going as yesterday Toole had predicted it would. Already several
issues in which he was interested had advanced from a quarter to a
half. Figuring roughly it made a difference of four hundred dollars to
him in that first hour. This was not much compared to the profit he
had taken last week on steel of five thousand, but one never knew what
the next ten minutes might bring forth. That was what made the game
interesting. There was no waiting for monthly statements or semi-annual
balances. There was no sitting around for the maturing of carefully
thought-out plans. It was possible to do a year’s business in a week;
sometimes in a day; sometimes in an hour. Even if a man invested only
in a small way, as he was doing, it added zest to life.
Until a few weeks ago he had never been inside a broker’s office.
Forsythe had then introduced him to his friend Benton, and it was
through the latter that he had bought steel and through him had sold