15
The Garrison “shanties,” near the river, were kept in as good condition as possible, but time and rats gnawed at their foundations. On one of these the passer could read, with some difficulty, the faded letters of an old sign, “Martin Steele and Son, Established 1830.”
Since Mr. Steele’s death, the business had been carried on by a Mr. Waldbridge, who knew and followed the old conservative methods of the defunct Steeles. Young Mr. Steele was expected to take his father’s place as head of the firm, but he stayed away, took what money he wanted, a ridiculously small amount for a man of his means, leaving the surplus in the business. Waldbridge had written several times asking him to come down and look over the books. Finally, he appeared. He was a mystery to Mr. Waldbridge; all the young business men of the day were eager speculators. He had expected new ideas, a business revolution; but no such things happened. He would sit about, watch closely the proceedings, but made no suggestions. His visits grew less and less frequent.
“What does he do with himself?” thought Mr. Waldbridge. “He doesn’t gamble. He’s never seen at the races or baseball games. His name has never been connected with women. What kind of a man is he?”
Martin sat opposite him in the private office, flung his soft hat on the floor, crossed his long legs; his hair was disarranged, his face a yellow pallor; his clothes hung loosely, he was very thin. His “appearance” struck Mr. Waldbridge as very un-American—he himself being an Erie Road commuter with all the proud consciousness of a one hundred per cent Nationalism.
He spoke cautiously of the hard times and unsatisfactory business conditions. They had advanced money on large stocks of merchandise; there was nothing to do but to hold on. If they forced the sale, it would mean enormous losses.
“Yes, I know,” interrupted Martin impatiently. “We couldn’t go on gorging money at that rate; we’d have to vomit it up sometime. No stomach could hold it; that’s what we’re doing now. Some people die suddenly from it; we’ll have a lingering end.”
Waldbridge laughed uneasily, really a very unpleasant young man.
“I hope we will weather it. I’ve been discounting—and—”
Martin interrupted again—discounting meant nothing to him—although he was flying some moral “kites” on his own account.
“Do whatever you like; I’m out of it.”
Waldbridge rose to his feet.
“What do you mean?”
“You can take my father’s name down.”
“If you liquidate the business now, it will mean disaster.”
“I have no interest in it. I am leaving New York.”
Then Waldbridge broke down. It was terrible, a long-established, respected firm—wreckage—pure wreckage; that word seemed to have a fatal significance in Martin’s life.
“Can I count on, say, ten thousand a year for ten years?”
Julie was luxuriously inclined, because her heart had been empty. He would take her away from cities; they would live somewhere quietly in the country.
Waldbridge smiled. “You can always have that and more if you want it.”
Then Martin did a wonderful thing, so wonderful it left Waldbridge speechless, staring at him. Was the man mad? There was a taint of insanity in the family.
Martin read his thoughts.
“I’m thirty-two years old, and I know what I am doing. I want you to turn this business into a company; every man in it, from the lowest to the highest, must have his share. You, of course, will be the head of the firm. Get a good lawyer and do it legally. You’ll have your work, every mother’s son of you, to get the old hulk out of the mud; if you do, you’re entitled to the spoils.”
“And the capital?” gasped Waldbridge.
“I told you what I want, the rest I’ll leave in business; you can’t go on without it, can you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the use of talking about it.”
He held out his hand; Waldbridge grasped it, trying to stammer out his gratitude, but Martin was gone. He dashed out of the place, threw himself into a taxi.
“Uptown.”
The New York chauffeur is accustomed to indefinite addresses. He looked back at the man with his hat pulled over his eyes, crouching in a corner. “A bloke who had lost his wad.” Then he wondered if it was a defaulter or a gunman—some of them looked like perfect gentlemen. He drove uptown, entered the Park. There he stopped. He was hungry; that guy in the corner could sleep all day.
“Where to?”
Martin, pitched forward by the sudden jolt, glared at him.
“The Waldorf.”
He sprang up the stairs three at a time, too nervous to wait for the elevator, looked around the room, which was in disorder; his man couldn’t keep it tidy. Martin flung everything about.
He would take nothing with him but a dress suit case. He caught sight in the corner of an old box covered with deerskin, tied together with a thick rope; he had taken it from the garret after his grandfather’s death, but had never opened it. He untwisted the knots, one after the other. It was a hard job. It hurt his fingers. He took out a pair of mountain boots, goat’s leather, with large nails in the soles. Martin looked down at his feet; they would fit him. He pulled out an old woollen shirt, a pair of corduroy trousers, a felt hat with a green feather, a bright colored vest, and red handkerchiefs. There was a small chamois bag with strange coins, Swiss money—Martin examined them curiously; a pack of old letters, a photograph of a young boy and girl, a cow, and a high mountain at the back. That mountain fascinated him; he looked at it long, intensely. The raw boy and girl in Swiss dress were his grandparents. Martin thought of his mother. On the back of the card there was something printed which he made out with difficulty: “Val Sinestra.” He had never heard the name. He put everything back in the trunk and roped it; the idea came suddenly: he would take it with him, to Switzerland.