The Fighter

Next morning, the Granite Star made known to the world at large that grievous wrong had been done to the city and to its taxpayers when their two foremost public buildings had been erected. These edifices, hitherto the pride of Granite, were constructed of cheap, inferior material: were ill-put together and were, in short, a disgrace, a byword and a hissing. The city and county had paid for first-class work. They had received fourth-rate value for their money.

And the miscreant on whom the sole and total blame rested was Caleb Conover, President of the revivified C. G & X. railroad. He, hiding behind the honorable name of a man since dead, had robbed the city with one hand and the county with the other. Now, through the cleverness of a Star reporter, his culpability was at last unearthed.

Further, the Star desired, editorially, to avoid needless exploitation of scandal and the bringing to light of misdemeanors for which there now appeared to be no legal penalty. But it owed a duty to its constituents, the thinking class of Granite. Perhaps Mr. Conover, having, since the regrettable transactions, reared upon such fraudulent foundations a fortune which was estimated as verging upon the two million mark, would see his way toward making restitution.

To which quip of Caine’s the Fighter retaliated by depressing Steeloid stock. This bit of practical repartee led to a second editorial to the effect that what was done was done, and that perhaps the wisest and most dignified course would be to let the unfortunate matter rest where it was. The lesser newspapers of the town, having bayed with incredible loudness and ferocity the moment the Star gave voice, now showed inclination to follow the leader’s example in letting the scandal die out.

There were no further developments in the case to warrant continuous re-hashing of the story through their columns. Ex-Governor Parkman, finding himself and his crusade unceremoniously side-tracked by this more interesting turn affairs had taken, sulked in his tent. Caleb, after that first momentous interview, would see no reporter. A new sensation was thoughtfully provided by the assistant cashier of the Aaron Burr National Bank who wandered one day from his post of duty and neglected to return; taking with him, in equal absent-mindedness, $18,000 of the bank’s funds.

Caleb and his inspired confession, for all these excellent reasons, were not even a nine-day wonder. Within a week the volcano had subsided. The incident, apparently, was closed. Whether or not the Grand Jury would take steps toward criminal prosecution remained to be seen.

At the end of the week, Caleb, in answer to a peremptory summons, called on Desirée.

“Where have you been?” she catechised with the air of an Angora kitten enacting the role of Rhadamanthus.

“I’ve been busy,” he evaded, “Workin’ on a new deal we’re puttin’ through, an’—”

“Do you know it is eight whole days since you have been near me?” she demanded.

“Nine,” he corrected humbly. “I—I been busy, an’—”

“And you haven’t called anywhere else?”

“Where else could I?” he asked in amaze. “There’s only one place I expected to call. That’s at the Standishes’. An’ they’ve got mumps, there. Besides, I kind of thought I’d wait until some of this noospaper talk quieted down before I went anywheres. That’s—that’s why I didn’t come here, either,” he went on, shamefacedly.

“I knew it!” she declared. “I knew that was it. I wondered if you could be so utterly silly. So I waited. And it seems you could. Aren’t you ashamed? It would have served you right if I hadn’t sent for you at all. Why didn’t you come, Caleb? You surely don’t suppose all that newspaper nonsense made any difference to me, do you? Now stop looking at me as if I’d slapped you and promise not to be so bad any more. Promise!”

“Look here!” blurted Caleb, at once relieved and puzzled, “How was I to know you wouldn’t just about hate me when you heard how I’d acted about those measly public buildin’s? An’ your father’s comp’ny too. Why, I—”

“You don’t mean to say you thought I believed any of the absurd story?” she cried, incredulous. “Why, Caleb Conover, I—”

“It was true!” he protested vehemently, “All of it was true. It was me, an’ not your father that—”

“It was neither of you, if there was anything wrong about the matter,” she decided with calm finality, “I don’t know business and I don’t know politics. But I do know you and I knew Dad. And neither of you could have done a low or dishonest thing if you had tried all day. If the papers choose to twist your business dealings upside down and try to make people think either of you defrauded anybody,—why, so much the worse for people who are stupid enough to believe such falsehoods. That’s all there is about it. I’ve seen cartoons of you garroting the city of Granite, and I’ve read editorials that called you ‘Brute’ Conover and I’ve waded through columns of articles abusing you. And it all made me angry enough to cry. But not at you, you old chum of mine. At the people who wrote such vile things and tried to make the public believe them. Now let’s talk about me. Are you glad I’m going away? Please be.”

“Am I glad I’m not goin’ to see you for more’n two months?” corrected Caleb, “Not much I’m not. It gives me the blues ev’ry time I think of it.”

“But you are going to see me. I’ve thought it all out, and I’ve got your orders ready for you.”

“You don’t mean to say you’re not goin’?” queried Caleb in dismay. “But you’ve got to, Dey. Just think how much you’ve wanted to, an’—”

“Oh, I’m going,” she replied serenely. “I’ve promised Mrs. Hawarden. And, besides, I wouldn’t miss it for worlds. But you’re coming, too. Isn’t that nice?”

She leaned back to watch his delight in her revelation. But he eyed her without a ray of understanding.

“I mean,” she explained, “you’re going to take a nice, long vacation in August or September and coming up to the Antlers. I talked it over with Jack Hawarden and it’s all arranged. There won’t be room for you in the cottage, but you can get a tent or a lodge within a stone’s throw of it; and we’ll have the gloriousest time you ever dreamed of. Isn’t that splendid? Say it is!”

“But Dey,” he objected. “You don’t understand. I never took a vacation in my life. I ain’t got time to. This is goin’ to be the busiest summer yet, for me. I’ve a dozen irons in the fire. I’d like awful well to come an’ see you there, but—”

“I’ve settled it all,” she replied calmly, “And you’re coming. It will only be two weeks;—if you can’t get away for longer. But you’re coming for those two weeks.”

“I can’t, Dey. I’ve got—”

“Now, I suppose you expect me to be a lowly squidge, and sigh and say ‘Oh, very well!’” she retorted. “But I’m not going to do anything of the sort. Listen: You’ve never had a vacation. Then it’s time you took one. I’d be ashamed to be so inexperienced, if I were you. You’ve got a lot of irons in the fire. Very well then; you have two whole months to get enough of them out to let you take a fortnight’s rest. You’ve never gone anywhere with me, Caleb. You’ve just been with me for an afternoon or an evening when half your mind was on that wretched railroad. Think of our being together for two gorgeous outdoor weeks, with nothing to do but have all the good times there are. And in the Adirondacks, too. Caleb!”

“I’d—I’d love to, Dey, if—”

“So then it’s all arranged!” she cried, happily.

“Hold on!” he exclaimed, “I can’t. I—”

“Now, I shall have to discipline you,” she sighed. “I see that. I was afraid I’d have to. Look me in the eyes! Now, say after me: ‘I promise to come to the Antlers for a fortnight this summer.’ Say it!”

“I—Why, Dey, I—”

“That isn’t what I told you to say!” she broke in, sternly. “Say it now. Slowly. ‘I promise to—’—Say it!”

“I promise to—” he repeated in resignation.

“Come to the Antlers for a fortnight this summer. Say it!”

“Come to the Antlers for a fortnight this summer,” he groaned, “Lord! What’ll my work do, while I—?”

“Now see how nice you are!” exulted Desirée, “You’re being good at last. Don’t you feel happier now you’ve stopped being bad and obstinate? Say so!”

“Does it make you happier?” he evaded.

“Of course it does. But,” she added, paying truth its strict due, “of course I knew you were coming anyhow. Now let’s talk about it.”

“But say,” he protested, “S’pose you an’ your aunt run down to Coney Island or Atlantic City after you leave the Adirondacks; an’ let me come down there instead? There’s lots of fun to be had at those places. But what can I do up in the woods? Just measly trees an’ sky an’ water; an’ not even a Loop the Loop or a music hall, I s’pose. Gee! It’s too slow for my taste.”

“Then it is my mission to improve your taste,” she insisted, frowning down his amendment as unworthy of note, “Don’t you want to like the things I like?”

“Yes,” he answered, obediently.

“And when you know it will give me twice as much fun if you’re there with me, you’ll want to come to the Adirondacks, won’t you?”

“If it’d make any sort of a hit with you, Dey,” he answered in full honesty, “I’d spend those two weeks in a contagion ward. An’ you know it. But what in thunder is there to do, up in the wilderness?”

“We can go on camping trips, for one thing,” she said eagerly, “and cook our own meals out in the forest and sit around camp fires and—”

“I did all those things when I was workin’ on the section gang eighteen years ago,” interpolated Caleb, “An’ got one-eighty-five a day for doin’ it. It didn’t get much enthoosiasm out of me then. Maybe it’s better fun though when you have to pay hotel rates for the priv’lege. Any more aloorments?”

“A great many,” said she coldly. “But I shall punish you by not telling you any of them. You haven’t seen Miss Standish since the day we went to the Arareek Club?”

“No,” he answered, too accustomed to her quick changes of theme to see anything significant in the careless question, “But I hope to see quite a lot of her this summer. She’s stayin’ late in town. An’ it’ll be lonesome for me after you’re gone. I guess she an’ I’ll get better acquainted before fall.”

“You still have that—plan—you spoke of?” she answered, speaking low and hurriedly.

“Sure!” he answered, “I don’t let go of plans, once I’ve took the trouble to make ’em. I’ll let you know how I come out. But there ain’t much doubt.”

He checked himself, remembering all at once how a similar vaunt had been received by Desirée a few weeks earlier. But now, to his covert glance of apprehension, the girl’s delicate face showed no sign of resentment. He noticed, however, for the first time, that her aspect had but a shade of its usual fresh buoyancy; that the soft rounded cheek was paler than was its wont.

“You’re lookin’ all run down, Dey!” he cried, in quick concern, “This hot weather’s hurtin’ you. It’s high time you went away to—”

“Yes,” she interrupted wearily, “It’s time I went away.”