Joan and Co.
“Some day,” he said,—“some day I’ll make the men who did this suffer.”
She took the packet from him and opened it. Forsythe, his eyes
squinting, watched her. He saw the color spring to the girl’s cheeks;
saw her breath come faster; saw her, as he thought, cringe. And yet her
fingers remained steady. He did not like that. When she finished, she
raised her eyes first to him—then to Devons who had half turned away
from her.
“This is all of it?” she asked.
“Good Lord! Isn’t that enough?” choked Devons.
“It’s sort of a silly thing,” she said.
Devons snatched it from her fingers. He tore it across and then into
little bits.
“Now let me have the contract,” he ordered. “I want to get this done
with.”
“That was only a copy,” Forsythe reminded him.
“I have your word that the original will be destroyed, too?”
“I will do my best.”
“Then—” began Devons, reaching again for the contract she still held in
her hand.
She moved a little back and, as he had torn the manuscript, tore the
contract—once across and then into little bits. She did it quite
unemotionally and facing the two men. Forsythe was the first to
recover. He stepped toward her.
“You did that in ignorance—just plain fool ignorance,” he growled. “It
will cost you big.”
“I doubt it,” she answered. “But if it’s necessary to pay, I will pay,
Mr. Forsythe.”
“You mustn’t listen to her,” cut in Devons. “She—she doesn’t know. This
is between you and me, Forsythe. You will make out another contract and
I’ll sign it.”
“If you do I shall consult my father’s lawyer,” she answered. “Surely
I must have some interest in the business. If so my signature is
necessary, too. Remember we are partners, Mark.”
“You have partnership papers?” demanded Forsythe, paling a little.
“That is our affair,” she replied.
“If true, it would add interest to the news story,” suggested Forsythe.
The phrase served its purpose in arousing Devons once more.
“We have no agreement in writing,” he answered.
“Then,” smiled Forsythe, recovering some of his former assurance,—“then
I don’t see why we can’t finish our business without the help of Miss
Fairburne. I can write out a little memorandum that will serve until we
replace the formal contract which the young lady destroyed.”
He stepped to the desk in the corner—her desk. Devons followed.
“Mark,” she called.
He turned.
“You are letting him make a great deal out of nothing,” she said. “I do
not see that any great harm would be done if the story were printed. I
don’t like to allow him to think I stand in fear of any such trifle.
But—it won’t be printed.”
“What!” exclaimed Devons.
“Before I came down here I had a telephone from the man who wrote the
article. He promised that if any attempt were made to use it unjustly
he would tear it up himself.”
Forsythe struggled to his feet. “I don’t believe you,” he choked.
Devons made for him with a lunging blow. But before he could follow it
with a second, Joan had reached him.
“He isn’t worth it,” she pleaded.
Devons held himself with difficulty. Joan turned to Forsythe. “Perhaps
you had better leave at once,” she suggested.
“It isn’t true,” repeated Forsythe. “You’ll make a mistake if you
believe her, Devons.”
But at the same moment he began to edge toward the door. As he reached
it he paused.
“It’s your last chance,” he trembled.
“Not his but yours,” she answered. “I—I can’t hold him much longer.”
Then Devons made for him once again and Forsythe disappeared.
CHAPTER XXX
BANKRUPT
Dicky led his father through the outer office of Toole & Co. and out
to the street. The man bore heavily on his arm. In spite of that Dicky
said, “I guess we’d better walk a little.” So he led him for the matter
of a block or so in the noonday sunshine before calling a taxi.
“It’s a good day for golf,” said Dicky. “If it’s like this to-morrow I
guess we’ll have to take our first lesson.”
Burnett senior lifted his heavy head a moment. “Son,” he said, “did you
understand what I told you?”
“Sure,” answered Dicky. “You said they had done you up.”
“I’ve lost everything—everything and more.”
“Well, forget it,” replied Dicky cheerfully. “It was only a question
of time, anyway. Just as well to have it done quickly and over with.
I’ll bet Toole has a sore spot in the neighborhood of the pit of his
stomach.”
“But, Dicky—you don’t understand yet,” faltered Burnett.
“You played and lost—isn’t that all there is to it?”
“I drew all I had from the bank, I tell you. And I’m short two hundred
thousand.”
“Just so. We’ll have to raise that on the house and business. I’ll
attend to that later. The thing for you to do now is to come home and
see mother. You’ve done enough for one day.”
Burnett cringed.
“What can I say to her!” he exclaimed.
“Tell her the truth, that’s all,” answered Dicky. “You don’t need to
worry about her.”
Burnett stumbled.
“Put your weight on my arm,” said Dicky. But at the same time he raised
his finger to a passing taxi, and as it drew up to the walk helped his
father in. The man slumped into the corner like some lifeless thing.
“Come,” warned Dicky, “this won’t do. We can’t let mother see us like
this. She’ll think something really serious has happened.”
Burnett groaned.
“It—it will kill her.”
“What will kill her?” demanded Dicky.
“Good Lord!” snapped Burnett, “don’t you understand yet? I’m bankrupt,
I tell you.”
Dicky placed his hand gently on his father’s shoulder.
“That’s the stuff,” he encouraged. “You got some of the old ring in
your voice that time. Buck up and keep it there. There’s a good old
sport down deep in you and that’s the man we’ve got to show mother.
I’ll miss my guess if she cares two straws whether you’ve lost your
money or not, but if she finds you’ve lost your nerve—she’ll take that
hard. She’s come sort of to depend on that.”
Burnett pulled himself together and sat up. He met his son’s eyes.
“Forty years of labor gone in a forenoon. It’s a whole lot lost, son.”
“A whole lot of money,” nodded Dicky. “They certainly trimmed you good.
But after all, they didn’t get the best part of that forty years. Even
Toole couldn’t reach that. It’s up to you to save the rest.”
“The rest?”
“The fun you had piling it up—even the fun you had gambling with it.”
“Eh?”
“You had your hour,” grinned Dicky.
“It pulled the heart out of me.”
“I don’t believe it. Just now you’re feeling the reaction. But you’ll
get over that in a day or two, and it may be the making of you. You’ve
been working too hard for a year. The business has been taking out of
you little by little all that makes life worth living. It has been
eating into your health and your time. Now old Dr. Toole has remedied
all that. Sort of heroic treatment, but maybe that’s what you needed.
You wouldn’t listen to anything I said.”
“You—you mean about the pumpkin pie?”
“That’s one thing,” admitted Dicky. “Then about golf—”
“Damn golf!” growled Burnett.
“Steady there,” warned Dicky. “You’re going to have time now for
that—you and mother. I have a notion it would do her good too.”
“How do you figure I’m going to have time?” demanded Burnett.
“With no business to attend to—”
“Eh?” choked Burnett.
“If you’re in as bad as you say you are, you’ll have to cash in all
your assets, won’t you?”
“The business?” Burnett’s fists clenched. For a second his old fighting
face came back. “We’ll have to pull that out somehow,” he said, as
though to himself. “Good Lord! Why, Dicky, what would become of you? I
built that up for you. I—I tried to double what I had for you—for you
and for her.”
Dicky turned swiftly.
“You what?”
“It was for you and the princess,” said Burnett. “I—I wanted to make
you worth while for her.”
Dicky caught his breath.
“For me and the princess,” he repeated. Then in the cab he felt for
his father’s hand. “You took that chance for me and her?”
“You said you weren’t worth enough for her. So—”
Dicky had to gulp hard once or twice. Then his fingers closed over his
father’s fingers.
“You old brick,” he trembled. “But I—I didn’t mean it that way. If I
had forty million it would be just the same. But it’s worth to me what
you lost to know what you lost it for.”
“Only if I’d won!” exclaimed Burnett.
“We might all be worse off than we are now,” declared Dicky. “Anyhow,
that chance has gone and so—” The cab had stopped before the door. “The
thing for us both to do is to be good sports before mother. Are you
game?”
“Right,” nodded Burnett.
It was the clasp of the boy’s hand that had given him a new lease of
life. He had expected the latter to take it hard, but instead of that
he had seen a flash of something in his eyes he had never seen there
before. He went into the house still leaning heavily on Dicky’s arm,
but with his head up.
The mere fact that the two were returning home to lunch was in itself
enough to arouse Mrs. Burnett’s suspicions. But she did not need even
that clue. Her quick, tender eyes had studied her husband’s face too
many years to be fooled by any acting he might attempt, or any acting
Dicky might attempt either. She came down hurriedly from upstairs the
moment she heard their voices and confronted them at once with the
question, “What’s the matter?”
“Dad and I just thought we’d surprise you by coming home to lunch,”
replied Dicky.
“What’s the matter?” she repeated.
“Why—er—”
It was easier said than done, this telling her the truth. Dicky turned
to his father, but the latter only raised appealing eyes to him. She
looked very frail at that moment.
“Something has happened!” she exclaimed. “Tell me, Dicky.”
“Why, it isn’t anything to get frightened over.” Dicky stumbled on,
“Dad here—well, he took a shot at the market and lost.”
“Everything,” put in Burnett, as though anxious to make a clean sweep
of it at once.
Mrs. Burnett relaxed instantly.
“Is—is that all?” she answered. She stepped to her husband’s side. His
head was beginning to droop again. “Why,” she exclaimed, “I thought it
was something terrible. I thought you had had a shock.”
Dicky grinned as he slapped his father’s back. “What did I tell you?”
he demanded. “Isn’t she the old sport?”
“Mother,” said Burnett, “they cleaned me out.”
“Didn’t leave him a shoestring,” nodded Dicky. “Can you beat it?”
Shyly she tucked her hand within her husband’s.
“As long as they didn’t take you, Joshua,” she trembled.
“I guess it would have been better if they had,” he answered.
“Hush,” she whispered as she led him into the sitting-room.
And Dicky with a load off his shoulders backed her up now
enthusiastically.
“It’s going to leave him time to enjoy life a little, eh? As soon as
you begin to get out and exercise, you can eat all the pumpkin pie
you want, Dad. It’s the men who sit around in offices that have to be
careful of their diet. If you could have seen the way at Palm Beach
some of those old codgers fed up after a round of golf in the morning,
you’d have envied them. Got anything to eat in the house, Mother?”
“I guess we can find something,” she smiled.
“I’ve had a strenuous morning,” he explained. “You take care of dad
while I go upstairs a moment.”
He went up the stairs two at a time, and entering his room was careful
to close the door behind him. Then he sat down before the telephone and
called up the offices of the Burnett Manufacturing Company.
“I want to talk with Forsythe,” he announced. He scarcely recognized
the man’s voice as he answered. “I just wanted to tell you to hold off
on that new deal for a day or two,” he began.
“I wanted to talk that over with your father at once,” answered
Forsythe. “It didn’t go through the way I thought it would. Where is
Mr. Burnett?”