Young Wallingford

They were holding this conversation three days after the sign went up, and Mr. Squinch, entering the office briskly to report a new agent that he had secured, frowned at finding Mr. Wallingford there. Business was business with Mr. Squinch, and social calls should be discouraged. Before he could frame his objection in words, however, another man entered the office, a stranger, a black-haired, black-eyed, black-mustached young man, of quite ministerial appearance indeed, as to mere clothing, who introduced himself to Doc Turner as one Mr. Clifford, and laid down before that gentleman a neatly folded parchment, at the same time displaying a beautiful little gold-plated badge.

“I am the state inspector of corporations,” said Mr. Clifford, “and this paper contains my credentials. I have come to inspect your plan of operation, and to examine all printed forms, books and minutes.”

Mr. Wallingford rose to go, but a very natural curiosity apparently led him to remain standing, while Doc Turner, with a troubled glance at Ebenezer Squinch, rose to collect samples of all the company’s printed forms for the representative of the law.

Mr. Wallingford sat down again.

“I might just as well stay,” he observed to Doc Turner, “because my interests are the same as yours.”

Mr. Clifford looked up at him with a very sharp glance, as both Mr. Turner and Mr. Squinch took note. At once, however, Mr. Clifford went to work. In a remarkably short space of time, seeming, indeed, to have known just where to look for the flaw, he pointed out a phrase in the “bond,” the phrase pertaining to the plan of redemption.

“Gentlemen,” said he gravely, “I am very sorry to say that the state department can not permit you to do business with this bond, and that any attempt to do so will result in the revoking of your charter. I note that this is bond number one, and assume from this fact that you have not yet sold any of them. You are very lucky indeed not to have done so.”

A total paralysis settled upon Messrs. Turner and Squinch, a paralysis which was only relieved by the counter-irritant of Wallingford’s presence. To him Mr. Squinch made his first observation, and it was almost with a snarl.

“Seems to me this rather puts a spoke in your wheel, too, Wallingford,” he observed.

“Is this Mr. Wallingford?” asked Mr. Clifford, suddenly rising with a cordial smile. “I am very glad indeed to meet you, Mr. Wallingford,” he said as he shook hands with that gentleman. “They told me about you at the state department. As soon as I’ve finished here I’ll drop in to look at your papers, just as a matter of form, you know.”

“If you refuse to let us operate,” interposed Mr. Squinch in his most severely legal tone, “you will be compelled to refuse Mr. Wallingford permission to operate also!”

“I am not so sure about that,” replied Mr. Clifford suavely. “The slightest variation in forms of this sort can sometimes make a very great difference, and I have no doubt that I shall find such a divergence; no doubt whatever! By the way, Wallingford,” he said, turning again to that highly pleased gentleman, “Jerrold sent his respects to you. He was telling me a good story about you that I’ll have to go over with you by and by. I want you to take dinner with me to-night, anyhow.”

Jerrold was the state auditor.

“I shall be very much pleased,” said Wallingford. “I’ll just drop into the office and get my papers laid out for you.”

“All right,” agreed Mr. Clifford carelessly. “I don’t want to spend much time over them.”

Other fatal flaws Mr. Clifford found in the Turner and Company plan of operation, and when he left the office of The People’s Coöperative Bond and Loan Company, the gentlemen present representing that concern felt dismally sure that their doom was sealed.

“We’re up against a pull again,” said Doc Turner despondently. “It’s the building-loan company experience all over again. You can’t do anything any more in this country without a pull.”

“And it won’t do any good for us to go up to Trenton and try to get one,” concluded Mr. Squinch with equal despondency. “We tried that with the building-loan company and failed.”

In the office of The People’s Mutual Bond and Loan Company there was no despondency whatever, for Mr. Wallingford and the dark-haired gentleman who had given his name as Mr. Clifford were shaking hands with much glee.

“They fell for it like kids for a hoky-poky cart, Blackie,” exulted Wallingford. “They’re in there right this minute talking about the cash value of a pull. That was the real ready-money tip of all the information I got from old Colonel Fox.”

They had lit cigars and were still gleeful when a serious thought came to Mr. Clifford, erstwhile Mr. Daw.

“This is a dangerous proposition, though, J. Rufus,” he objected. “Suppose they actually take this matter up with the state department? Suppose they even go there?”

“Well, they can’t prove any connection between you and me, and you will be out of the road,” said Wallingford. “I don’t mind confessing that it’s nearer an infraction of the law than I like, though, and hereafter I don’t intend to come so close. It isn’t necessary. But in this case there’s nothing to fear. These lead-pipe artists are scared so stiff by their fall-down on the building-loan game that they’ll take their medicine right here and now. They’ll come to me before to-morrow night, now that I’ve got them, to collect their money in a wad in the new company. They might even start work to-night.”

He rose from the table in his private office and went to the door.

“Oh, Billy!” he called.

A sharp-looking young fellow with a pen behind his ear came from the other room.

“Billy, here’s a hundred dollars for you,” said Wallingford.

“Thank you,” said Billy. “Who’s to be thugged?”

“Nobody,” replied Wallingford, laughing. “It’s just a good-will gift. By the way, if Doc Turner or any of that crowd back there makes any advances to you to buy your share of stock, sell it to them, and you’re a rank sucker if you take less than two hundred for it. Also tell them that you can get three other shares from the office force at the same price.”

Billy, with great deliberation, took a pin from the lapel of his coat and pinned his hundred-dollar bill inside his inside vest pocket, then he winked prodigiously, and without another word withdrew.

“He’s a smart kid,” said Blackie.

CHAPTER XII

WALLINGFORD IS FROZEN OUT OF THE MANAGEMENT OF HIS OWN COMPANY

In the old game of “pick or poe” one boy held out a pin, concealed between his fingers, and the other boy guessed whether the head or point was toward him. It was a great study in psychology. The boy who held the pin had to do as much guessing as the other one. Having held forward heads the first time, should he reverse the pin the second time, or repeat heads? In so far as one of the two boys correctly gaged the elaborateness of the other’s mental process he was winner. At the age when he played this game Wallingford usually had all the pins in school. Now he was out-guessing the Doc Turner crowd. He had foreseen every step in their mental process; he had foreseen that they would start an opposition company; he had foreseen their extravagant belief in his “pull,” knowing what he did of their previous experience, and he had foreseen that now they would offer to buy up the stock held by his office force, so as to secure control, before opening fresh negotiations for the stock he had offered them.

That very night Doc Turner called at the house of Billy Whipple to ask where he could get a good bird-dog, young Whipple being known as a gifted amateur in dogs. Billy, nothing loath, took Doc out to the kennel, where, by a fortunate coincidence, of which Mr. Turner had known nothing, of course, he happened to have a fine set of puppies. These Mr. Turner admired in a more or less perfunctory fashion.

“By the way, Billy,” he by and by inquired, “how do you like your position?”

“Oh, so-so,” replied Billy. “The job looks good to me. Wallingford has started a very successful business.”

“How much does he pay you?”

Billy reflected. It was easy enough to let a lie slip off his tongue, but Turner had access to the books.

“Twenty-five dollars a week,” he said.

“You owe a lot to Wallingford,” observed Mr. Turner. “It’s the best pay you ever drew.”

“Yes, it is pretty good,” admitted Billy; “but I don’t owe Wallingford any more than I owe myself.”

In the dark Mr. Turner slowly placed his palms together.

“You’re a bright boy,” said Mr. Turner. “Billy, I don’t like to see a stranger come in here and gobble up the community’s money. It ought to stay in the hands of home folks. I’d like to get control of that business. If you’ll sell me your share of stock I might be able to handle it, and if I can I’ll advance your wages to thirty-five dollars a week.”

“You’re a far pleasanter man than Wallingford,” said Billy amiably. “You’re a smarter man, a better man, a handsomer man! When do we start on that thirty-five?”

“Very quickly, Billy, if you feel that way about it.” And the friction of Mr. Turner’s palms was perfectly audible. “Then I can have your share of stock?”

“You most certainly can, and I’ll guarantee to buy up three other shares in the office if you want them.”

“Good!” exclaimed Turner, not having expected to accomplish so much of his object so easily. “The minute you lay me down those four shares I’ll hand you four hundred dollars.”

“Eight,” Billy calmly corrected him. “Those shares are worth a hundred dollars apiece any place now. Mine’s worth more than two hundred to me.”

“Nonsense,” protested the other. “Tell you what I’ll do, though. I’ll pay you two hundred dollars for your share and a hundred dollars apiece for the others.”

“Two,” insisted Billy. “We’ve talked it all over in the office, and we’ve agreed to pool our stock and stand out for two hundred apiece, if anybody wants it. As a matter of fact, I have all four shares in my possession at this moment,” and he displayed the certificates, holding up his lantern so that Turner could see them.

The sight of the actual stock, the three other shares which the astute Billy had secured on the promise of a hundred and fifty dollars per share immediately after Wallingford’s pointer, clenched the business.

It was scarcely as much a shock to Wallingford as the Turner crowd had expected it to be when those gentlemen, having purchased four hundred and ninety-nine shares of Wallingford’s stock at his own price, sat in the new stock-holders’ meeting, at the reorganization upon which they had insisted, with five hundred and three shares, and J. Rufus made but feeble protest when the five of them, voting themselves into the directorate, decided to put the founder of the company on an extremely meager salary as assistant manager, and Mr. Turner on a slightly larger salary as chief manager.

“There’s no use of saying anything,” he concluded philosophically. “You gentlemen have played a very clever game and I lose; that’s all there is to it.”

He thereupon took up the burden of the work and pushed through the matter of new memberships and of collections with a vigor and ability that could not but commend itself to his employers. The second week’s collections were now coming in, and it was during the following week that a large hollow wheel with a handle and crank, mounted on an axle like a patent churn, was brought into the now vacated room of the defunct People’s Coöperative Bond and Loan Company.

“What’s this thing for?” asked Wallingford, inspecting it curiously.

“The drawing,” whispered Doc Turner.

“What drawing?”

“The loans.”

“You don’t mean to say that you’re going to conduct this as a lottery?” protested Wallingford, shocked and even distressed.

“Sh! Don’t use that word,” cautioned Turner. “Not even among ourselves. You might use it in the wrong place some time.”

“Why not use the word?” Wallingford indignantly wanted to know. “That’s what you’re preparing to do! I told you in the first place that this was not by any means to be considered as a lottery; that it was not to have any of the features of a lottery. Moreover, I shall not permit it to be conducted as a lottery!”

Doc Turner leaned against the side of the big wooden wheel and stared at Wallingford in consternation.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Have you gone crazy, or what?”

“Sane enough that I don’t intend to be connected with a lottery! I have conscientious scruples about it.”

“May I ask, then, how you propose to decide these so-called loans?” inquired Turner, with palm-rubbing agitation.

“Examine the records of the men who have made application,” explained Wallingford; “find out their respective reputations for honesty, reliability and prompt payment, and place the different loans, according to that information, in as many different towns as possible.”

Doc Turner gazed at him in scorn for a full minute.

“You’re a damned fool!” he declared. “Why, you yourself intended to conduct this as a secret society, and I had intended to have representatives from at least three of the lodges attend each drawing.”

To this Wallingford made no reply, and Turner, to ease his mind, locked the door on the lottery-wheel and went in to open the mail. It always soothed him to take money from envelopes. A great many of the letters pertaining to the business of the company were addressed to Wallingford in person, and Turner slit open all such letters as a matter of course. Half-way down the pile he opened one, addressed to Wallingford, which made him gasp and re-read. The letter read:

Dear Jim:

They have found out your new name and where you are, and unless you get out of town on the first train they’ll arrest you sure. I don’t need to remind you that they don’t hold manslaughter as a light offense in Massachusetts.

Let me know your new name and address as soon as you have got safely away.

Your old pal.

Doc Turner’s own fingers were trembling as he passed this missive to Wallingford, whose expectant eyes had been furtively fixed upon the pile of letters for some time.

“Too bad, old man,” said Turner, tremulously aghast. “Couldn’t help reading it.”

“My God!” exclaimed Wallingford most dramatically. “It has come at last, just as I had settled down to lead a quiet, decent, respectable life, with every prospect in my favor!” He sprang up and looked at his watch. “I’ll have to move on again!” he dismally declared; “and I suppose they’ll chase me from one cover to another until they finally get me; but I’ll never give up! Please see what’s coming to me, Mr. Turner; you have the cash in the house to pay me, I know; and kindly get my stock certificates from the safe.”

Slowly and thoughtfully Turner took from the safe Wallingford’s four hundred and ninety-seven shares of stock, in four certificates of a hundred shares each, one of fifty and one of forty-seven. Wallingford hurried them into an envelope, sitting down to write the address upon it.

“What are you going to do with those?” asked Turner with a thoughtful frown.

“Send them to my friend in Boston and have him sell them for what he can get,” replied Wallingford with a sigh. “If the purchasers send any one here to find out about the business, you’ll, of course, give them every facility for investigation.”

“To be sure; to be sure,” returned Turner. “But, say – ”

He paused a moment, and Wallingford, in the act of writing a hasty note to go with the stock certificates, hesitated, his pen poised just above the paper.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You’ll probably have to sell those shares at a sacrifice, Wallingford.”

“I have no doubt,” he admitted.

Doc Turner’s palms rubbed out a slow decision while Wallingford scratched away at his letter.

“Um-m-m-m-m-m-m – I say!” began Turner gropingly. “Rather than have those shares fall into the hands of strangers we might possibly make you an offer for them ourselves. Wait till I see Squinch.”

He saw Squinch, he saw Tom Fester, he telephoned to Andy Grout, and the four of them gathered in solemn conclave. The consensus of the meeting was that if they could secure Wallingford’s shares at a low enough figure it was a good thing. Not one man among them but had regretted deeply the necessity of sharing any portion of the earnings of the company with Wallingford, or with one another, for that matter. Moreover, new stock-holders might “raise a rumpus” about their methods of conducting the business, as Wallingford had started to do. Gravely they called Wallingford in.

“Wallingford,” said Mr. Squinch, showing in his very tone his disrespect for a criminal, “Mr. Turner has acquainted us with the fact that you are compelled to leave us, and though we already have about as large a burden as we can conveniently carry, we’re willing to allow you five thousand dollars for your stock.”

“For four hundred and ninety-seven shares! Nearly fifty thousand dollars’ worth!” gasped Wallingford, “and worth par!”

“It is a debatable point,” said Mr. Squinch, placing his finger-tips together, and speaking with cold severity, “as to whether that stock is worth par or not at the present moment. I should say that it is not, particularly the stock that you hold.”

“Even at a sacrifice,” insisted Wallingford, “my friend ought to be able to get fifty dollars a share for me.”

“You must remember, Mr. Wallingford,” returned the severe voice, “that you are not so free to negotiate as you seemed to be an hour or so ago. In a word, you are a fugitive from justice, and I don’t know, myself, but what our duty, anyhow, would be to give you up.”

Not one man there but would have done it if it had been to his advantage.

“You wouldn’t do that!” pleaded Wallingford, most piteously indeed. “Why, gentlemen, the mere fact that I am in life-and-death need of every cent I can get ought to make you more liberal with me; particularly in view of the fact that I made this business, that I built it up, and that all its profits that you are to reap are due to me. Why, at twenty thousand the stock would be a fine bargain.”

This they thoroughly believed – but business is business!

“Utterly impossible,” said Mr. Squinch.

The slyly rubbing palms of Mr. Turner, the down-shot lines of Andy Grout’s face, the compressed lips of Tom Fester, all affirmed Mr. Squinch’s decided negative.

“Give me fifteen,” pleaded Wallingford. “Twelve – ten.”

They would not. To each of these proposals they shook emphatic heads.

“Very well,” said Wallingford, and quietly wrote an address on the envelope containing his certificates. He tossed the envelope on the postal scales, sealed it, took stamps from his drawer and pasted them on. “Then, gentlemen, good day.”

“Wait a minute,” hastily protested Mr. Squinch. “Gentlemen, suppose we confer a minute.”

Heads bent together, they conferred.

“We’ll give you eight thousand dollars,” said Squinch as a result of the conference. “We’ll go right down and draw it out of the bank in cash and give it to you.”

There was not a trace of hesitation in Wallingford.

“I’ve made my lowest offer,” he said. “Ten thousand or I’ll drop these in the mail box.”

They were quite certain that Wallingford meant business, as indeed he did. He had addressed the envelope to Blackie Daw and he was quite sure that he could make the shares worth at least ten thousand.

Once more they conferred.

“All right,” agreed Mr. Squinch reluctantly. “We’ll do it – out of charity.”

“I don’t care what it’s out of, so long as I get the money,” said Wallingford.

In New York, where Wallingford met Blackie Daw by appointment, the latter was eager to know the details.

“The letter did the business, I suppose, eh, Wallingford?”

“Fine and dandy,” assented Wallingford. “A great piece of work, and timed to the hour. I saw the envelope in that batch of mail before I made my play.”

“Manslaughter!” shrieked Blackie by and by. “On the level, J. Rufus, did you ever kill anything bigger than a mosquito?”

“I don’t know. I think I made quite a sizable killing down in Doc Turner’s little old town,” he said complacently.

“I don’t think so,” disputed Blackie thoughtfully. “I may be a cheese-head, but I don’t see why you sold your stock, anyhow. Seems to me you had a good graft there. Why didn’t you hold on to it? It was a money-maker.”

“No,” denied Wallingford with decision. “It’s an illegal business, Blackie, and I won’t have anything to do with an illegal business. The first thing you know that lottery will be in trouble with the federal government, and I’m on record as never having conducted any part of it after it became a lottery. Another thing, in less than a year that bunch of crooks will be figuring on how to land the capital prize for themselves under cover. No, Blackie, a quick turn and legal safety for mine, every time. It pays better. Why, I cleaned up thirty thousand dollars net profit on this in three months! Isn’t that good pay?”

“It makes a crook look like a fool,” admitted Blackie Daw.

CHAPTER XIII

BEAUTY PHILLIPS STEPS INTO THE SPOT-LIGHT FOR HER GRAND SPECIALTY

Of course Blackie got his “bit” out of the spoils and hurried away to pursue certain fortune-making plans of his own, while young Wallingford, stopping in New York, prepared as elaborately to spend one. It was some trouble at first to find the most expensive things in New York, but at last he located them in the race-track and in Beauty Phillips, the latter being the moderately talented but gorgeous “hit” of The Pink Canary; and the thoroughbreds and Beauty made a splendid combination, so perfect in their operations that one beautiful day Wallingford awoke to the fact that the time had almost arrived to go to work. At the moment he made this decision, the Beauty, as richly colored and as expressionless as a wax model, was sitting at his side in the grand-stand, with her eyes closed, jabbing a hole at random in the card of the fifth race.

“Bologna!” exclaimed Wallingford, noting where the fateful pin-hole had appeared. “It’s a nice comic-supplement name; but I’ll go down to the ring and burn another hundred or so on him.”

The band broke into a lively air, and the newest sensation of Broadway, all in exquisite violet from nodding plume to silken hose, looked out over the sunlit course in calm rumination. Her companion, older but not too old, less handsome but not too ill-favored, less richly dressed but not too plainly, nudged her.

“There goes your Money and Moonshine song again, dearie,” she observed.

Still calmly, as calmly as a digestive cow in pleasant shade, the star of The Pink Canary replied:

“Don’t you see I’m trying not to hear it, mother?”

The eyes of “Mrs. Phillips” narrowed a trifle, and sundry tiny but sharp lines, revealing much but concealing more, flashed upon her brow and were gone. J. Rufus glanced in perplexity at her as he had done a score of times, wondering at her self-repression, at her unrevealed depths of wisdom, at her clever acting of a most difficult rôle; for Beauty Phillips, being a wise young lady and having no convenient mother of her own, had hired one, and by this device was enabled to remain as placidly Platonic as a plate of ice-cream. Well, it was worth rich gifts merely to be seen in proprietorship of her at the supper places.

Wallingford rose without enthusiasm.

“Bologna won’t win!” he announced with resigned conviction.

“Sure not!” agreed Beauty Phillips. “Bologna will stop to think at the Barrier, and finish in the road of the next race.”

“Bologna has to win,” Wallingford rejoined, disputing both her and himself. “There’s only a little over a thousand left in your Uncle Jimmy’s bank-roll.”

“And you had over forty thousand when Sammy Harrison introduced us,” said the Beauty with a sigh. “Honest, Pinky, somebody has sure put a poison curse on you. You’re a grand little sport, but on the level, I’m afraid to trail around with you much longer. I’m afraid I’ll lose my voice or break a leg.”

“Old pal,” agreed J. Rufus, “the hex is sure on me, and if I don’t walk around my chair real quick, the only way I’ll get to see you will be to buy a gallery seat.”

“I was just going to talk with you about that, Jimmy,” stated the Beauty seriously. “You’ve been a perfect gentleman in every respect, and I will say I never met a party that was freer with his coin; but I’ve got to look out for my future. I won’t always be a hit, and I’ve got to pick out a good marrying proposition while the big bouquets grow with my name already on ’em. Of course, you know, I couldn’t marry you, because nothing less than a million goes. If you only had the money now – ”