The banker and the bear

As Jack Dorlin drew near Bagsbury’s house that same Sunday afternoon, he felt a growing misgiving as to the wisdom of going in. He had not seen Dick since Wednesday night, when John Bagsbury and Mrs. Sponley and Dick herself had combined to bring about his utter defeat. Since then he had set out a dozen times with the determination to see her at once and come to some sort of understanding with her, and he had as often turned back, convinced that some other time would suit his purpose better. But Sunday afternoon itself came not more regularly to the Bagsburys than did Jack Dorlin, and having told himself that whatever else Dick thought of him she must not have a chance to think that he was sulky, he was now turning the Bagsburys’ corner just at his accustomed time. He could see clearly that he should have come when he would have had more chance of seeing Dick alone,—people were sure to be dropping in to-day,—and when he came opposite the steps he felt a boyish impulse to walk straight by. He hesitated a moment, in a pitiable state of indecision, then walked resolutely up the steps.

Simultaneously with his ringing the bell, Dick opened the door.

“I saw you coming,” she explained, and there was something so impossibly innocent in her smile that Jack wondered if she had not also seen him trying to make up his mind whether he would come or not.

“Come into the library,” she went on. “I’m all alone just now. The others will be back soon, though, I think.”

The library was cool and dim, a grateful relief after the burning glare of the street, and Dick dropped lazily on the big sofa where they had sat last Wednesday evening; there was also the same expectation of an interruption from John Bagsbury. Altogether no circumstances could have been more favorable to the immediate carrying out of Jack’s intention than these.

“I’ve come round, Dick, to say what I tried to say the other night. I fancy you have already answered me; but I want to tell you all there is to tell, and I want to be sure that we both understand. I think we owe each other that.”

Jack had composed that introduction on the way over, and had decided that it would do. It was clear and dignified, and there was an undercurrent of pathos which modified its admirable reserve. But now that the time had come, he did not say it. Sitting close beside Dick on the sofa, he wondered how he could have thought seriously of speaking such idiocy as that. What he really said was:—

“How do you keep this room so cool? It’s been witheringly hot outside for the last three days.”

Then he asked himself why he would be such an ass; Dick could see right through him, he knew, and she was laughing at him. He looked at her. Except for the tell-tale corner of her mouth, her face was intensely solemn; but that lurking dimple completely disconcerted Jack. He might be a great fool, but she ought not to make fun of him like this.

“How has it been going down at the bank?” she asked.

“Badly. They’ve been losing money.” This was going from bad to worse. Nothing was further from his intention than to say something facetious, but he went on: “They think that I’m worth fifteen dollars a week, and as I figure it, they’ve lost about six dollars and a quarter since Thursday morning by that arrangement.”

“I’m glad you came,” said Dick. “I wanted to talk with you about the bank. Poor John’s having a hard time. Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Meredith have just bought a lot of stock, and they were scared by the story in the paper this morning. John’s afraid they’ll make a great disturbance, and try to sell their stock. That would give people a rather unfavorable impression of the condition the bank was in, you see.”

So it seemed that, though the bodily presence of John Bagsbury could not interrupt him, the alert spirit of John Bagsbury was able to interfere quite as successfully. Dick went on to tell him what she knew, and all she had guessed, of John’s difficulties. At first Jack listened patiently, and waited for her to finish so that he could take the conversation back to where he wanted it; but never for long could he resist the spell of her enthusiasm,—he would take to mathematics to-morrow, if she should develop a sudden liking for cubic curves,—and soon he was asking eager questions, and hazarding wild speculations upon the probable course of events for the next two or three days.

While they were talking, there came to Jack an idea that almost amounted to inspiration. It struck him so suddenly as to suspend his speech right in the middle of a sentence, and he gloated over it in silence, wondering why he had not thought sooner of a thing so obvious, so easy, and so entirely satisfactory. He would carry it out before trying again to tell Dick the rest of his interrupted love story.

In the old days, when he had fancied that he loved her, the telling had been comparatively easy; but now that she had become a part of every breath he drew, he found the thought of telling her most formidable. He had hoped in these past few months that she was beginning to care in a way very different from her old friendly affection for him; but her behavior since Wednesday night had well-nigh swept that hope away. He must tell her, even though he was inviting certain defeat, and hazarding her friendship into the bargain. Yet, with the idea which had come to him a moment ago, there had arisen the hope that it might be, if he were to do something to prove himself of material assistance to John Bagsbury in his fight, that this might make a difference with Dick. It was worth a trial, anyway.

His sudden preoccupation caused Dick to glance at him curiously once or twice; but for a little while she did not break in upon it. Then she asked:—

“Are your plans taking shape at all? I mean, have you any idea what you’ll go into after you leave the bank?”

He roused himself sharply and said, with a laugh: “No, I think I’ll stay at the bank a while longer and collect material for a book. I mean to write a biography of Hillsmead, call it ‘Wit and Wisdom,’ or ‘The Hillsmead Joke Book.’”

“How immensely funny that will be,” she said.

Her tone was not encouraging to any further jocularity; but Jack had determined upon his course, and he held to it manfully; and, as best she could, Dick concealed her irritation. It was a relief to both of them when the Bagsburys came home.

John Bagsbury was excited, but he had done all that he could do, and he was going forward into the critical week with the same elation that some soldiers feel on the eve of battle. He insisted that Jack stay to tea, and afterward he talked for two solid hours, so that Alice fairly forgot to be sleepy, and Dick and Jack Dorlin laughed and then wondered, feeling that never before had they seen John Bagsbury fully awake.

“Can you allow me a holiday to-morrow?” asked Jack, as he rose to go. “I have some personal business that I feel I must attend to.”

Dick followed him into the hall, and, standing before the door, barred the way out. “What is it you’re going to do to-morrow?” she demanded.

“Just a little matter of business—”

“It isn’t curiosity. I really want to know.”

“Why, it’s nothing—” stammered Jack—“that is—well—I can’t tell you.”

She turned abruptly away from him and then he heard a low chuckle. “I know, I know,” she said triumphantly. “If it had been anything else, you would have told me, and then how cheap you’d have made me feel! But I knew it was that. I want to be in it, too. Come around here to-morrow morning before you do anything.”

After he had gone, as she turned from the door, she met John Bagsbury coming into the hall.

“I’m going up to bed,” he said. “I’ve got some big days coming, and to-morrow’ll be one of them. Wish me luck, Dick.”

“I do,” she said. “I know you’ll come out all right.”

She held out her hand and he took it with a grip that fairly hurt her.

“I mean to,” he answered. “Good night.”

“Did John say he was going to bed?” asked Alice, as Dick entered the library. “I thought from the way people have been flying around to-day that there might be something the matter with the bank; but John seemed to feel so cheerful to-night that I guess everything’s all right.”

“Yes,” said Dick. “I don’t believe you need worry.”

As John had prophesied, they were big days that followed—days that will be talked about down town for another five years. Lard had been a mystery ever since early in May; the wise ones had guessed about it, and those who wished to appear wise had repeated their guesses to others still less expert; but no one had really known anything. But by Monday morning everybody, even to the remotest office boy, understood that this operation was practically a duel between Pickering, the Bull, and Sponley, the Bear. The two men were about equally known; they were supposed to be nearly equal in resources and also in skill, and so it befell that all about the city, and in other cities, men fingered the ribbons of paper that rattled painfully out of the tickers, and wondered what would happen.

John Bagsbury spent the greater part of Monday in his office. On Sunday afternoon he had been to see Dawson, the former president of the Atlantic National. John trusted him thoroughly, so he had laid before him the whole situation; had told him that he thought a large block of the Bagsbury stock would be offered for sale next day, and that he wished to be in a position to buy it; and Dawson promptly told him that he might have all the money he needed to make the purchase. So John’s first move on Monday morning was to send a stockbroker around to Cartwright and Meredith to buy their stock before it should be offered in open market.

“Buy it as cheap as you can,” he said. Then, mentioning a figure, “I think you can get it for that.”

Half an hour later the broker telephoned that Cartwright was claiming that they had a much better offer, and asked John if he cared to go any higher. John did not for a moment believe that any one was bidding against him for the stock. He reflected that probably the old trustees were not so badly frightened as he had thought, and were holding out for a good price. He told the broker how much higher he might go, but cautioned him to do all he could to get the stock for less.

Curtin came into the private office a little later and stayed about half an hour, telling some rather damaging things about Sponley, and making explanations which John half listened to and but half believed—that was about the proportion which Sponley had expected him to believe—and which he finally cut short. The episode irritated him more than did the visits from directors and stockholders, who kept steadily dropping in all day to offer him advice or remonstrance.

He had expected that, however; more of it, in fact, than he was forced to take, and he explained and answered questions with a patience that did him credit. To everybody he said that the bank was in excellent shape, that all the loans were amply secured, and that the success or failure of the Pickering deal would not make the slightest difference in the dividends. Upon the whole, his visitors accepted the situation with fairly good grace. There was this about John Bagsbury: when he told you anything, you knew he was telling you the truth.

Early in the afternoon the broker telephoned to him again. “I can’t get that stock, Mr. Bagsbury, even at your highest figure. There’s some one else after it. Do you want to offer any more?”

John told the broker to let it go and quit, and in his leisure moments during the rest of the afternoon he wondered a good deal over what this sharp competition could mean. He could in no way attribute it to Sponley; but he was equally at a loss to find any other explanation.

When the Bagsburys’ door-bell rang early that evening, John and Alice were surprised to see Dick move to answer it herself. They saw her walk through the library, and then heard her run the length of the hall.

“They’ve made up,” said Alice.

“Who?”

“Why Dick and Mr. Dorlin, of course.”

“I didn’t know they’d quarrelled,” said John. “Dick has seemed pretty cheerful, and she hasn’t said anything—”

“Said anything! She didn’t need to say anything. They quarrelled Wednesday evening, and he didn’t come around all the rest of the week. And yesterday they were still at it. I could tell, because they were both so glad to see us when we came in.”

“They’ve certainly made up all right now—”

He stopped as the two young people entered the library. The instant of silence told them that they had been the subjects of the conversation they had interrupted, and Dick blushed, first in embarrassment and then in vexation over having blushed. Jack returned the Bagsburys’ greeting nervously. He was asking himself why he would be such an ass as to try to do things theatrically. He ought to have told John down at the office, or written him a note. Well, there was nothing to do now but see the thing through.

Then suddenly he read in Alice’s expectant look and in John’s quizzical smile, and last of all in Dick’s flushed face, the interpretation that the Banker and his wife were putting upon this little scene. That fairly scattered him.

“I came around to tell you—” he began wildly—“to say that we—that is, Dick and I have—”

“We bought the stock in the bank to-day—what Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Meredith bought of Mr. Sponley.”

Dick spoke quickly, but not an instant too soon; another second and John would have been giving them his blessing.

At her words, however, he dropped back into his chair and looked blankly from her to Jack and back to her again.

“You did!” he exclaimed; then after a moment, “you did!” and then in spite of his best attempt to keep a straight face he began to laugh. “I beg your pardon,” he said, when he had his voice under control again. “I was—surprised. Tell me about it, please. How did you happen to do it?”

Without the smallest misgiving—for he attributed John’s laughter to the ridiculous mistake he had so nearly made—Jack told his tale. He said nothing about the motive which had led him and Dick to buy the stock, but he dwelt with a good deal of humor on the perplexities into which his ignorance of business had led him in the course of the negotiations. He could afford to laugh at them because he and Dick had succeeded, in spite of all, in effecting a sale of a large part of their own securities and, in the teeth of opposition, in buying the Cartwright-Meredith stock. They had spent the day profitably and had thoroughly enjoyed it. The encounter with the broker was what pleased Jack particularly.

“I all but had it fixed,” he said, “when this other fellow came around and began to bid up the price. But after that they gave me rather an exciting time. I’d make them an offer, and then they’d have a consultation with the mysterious stranger, and I’d have to raise it. We kept it going until the middle of the afternoon, and then he quit. I’d have been there yet if he hadn’t. The business roused my sporting blood somehow; I haven’t enjoyed anything so much in a long while.”

Dick had helped tell the first part of the tale, eagerly snatching the thread away from Jack, and then handing it back to him with, “Oh, I don’t understand it, you tell him.” But toward the end she became silent, watching with puzzled curiosity the quick changes of expression in John Bagsbury’s face. When Jack finished, she asked,—

“Have we done something awfully, absurdly stupid?”

“You have done one of the most thoughtful, generous things I ever heard of,” said John, “and it was a good move, too. Only we’ve all made a mistake in not telling each other just what we meant to do. You see, I was the man who sent around that broker.”

“Good Lord!” said Jack.

Dick began to laugh, and John Bagsbury’s smile gradually expanded into an indubitable grin; but Jack’s face remained as solemn as an old raven’s.

“Laugh!” Dick commanded. “The mistake doesn’t matter. The stock is all in the fam—”

She colored, and, correcting herself, proceeded to punish Jack for her slip.

“The stock I bought is all in the family. Jack, of course, will vote his as he pleases.”

“I’ve put in quite a day of it myself,” said John, quickly, in the interest of peace. “I would have been as busy as I care to be without any visitors, and there was a regular procession of them. And Curtin came in for a long talk, too. He had a story to tell, mostly about Sponley. Said he had known Sponley a long time, and that he had got him his job in the bank. Then, according to him, Sponley tried to make him pay for his place by giving away information about the bank. He bought Curtin’s stock, it seems, and then threatened to get him put out of the bank unless he did as he was told. Curtin says he told him of the loan to Pickering, thinking it was all right to do it; but he denies having known anything about the collateral. I suppose Sponley guessed at that.”

Dick gave her fellow-amateur detective a look which said, “We’re saved from doing anything foolish about that,” but Jack was still thinking about the outrageous injustice of her last remark, and he affected not to see.

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” she asked of John. “What are you going to do with him?”

“Oh, it was probably somewhere near true. I shall let him stay till the year’s out. I have all I want on my hands just now, without trying to get rid of my officers. If he had a little more spunk, he might make a pretty good rascal; but as he is, he can’t do much harm.”

“Do you know,” the Banker went on after a long pause, “you did a good thing for the bank by bidding up that stock and paying a big price for it? It got Cartwright and Meredith over their fright a lot better than if you’d bought it cheap. If they had got badly scared and talked around, there’s no telling where they’d have landed us. But I guess there’s no danger of that now.”

“No,” said Jack. “They were as pleased as possible, when the thing was finally fixed up. They seemed to be mighty glad to be well out of it.”

“I wonder—” began John. He rested his chin on his hands and stared intently at nothing for a minute, then he looked at his watch.

“I’m going to see them,” he said, rising.

“Now?” asked Dick.

“Yes, I’m going to suggest that they turn the whole estate over to me.”

Not a word was spoken in the library until they heard the door close behind John Bagsbury.

“I suppose I’d better go,” said Jack, without stirring in his big chair.

“Perhaps so,” said Dick; “we’ve knocked about together all day—”

That brought him to his feet like a flash. “You’re right,” he said. “Good night.”

He shook hands with admirable nonchalance, and marched—he could not help marching—into the hall.

“Stupid!” said Dick, just after he closed the door. A little later she said “Stupid” again, but with an entirely different inflection, and with something a little like a laugh on the end of it.

But by that time poor Jack was halfway down the block, walking at the rate of at least five miles an hour.