CHAPTER XVI
Long before the sun came creeping up beyond Mt. Diablo, Dan Pritchard made the discovery that the man who has too many things to think about cannot devote constructive thought to any of them. After being the innocent cause of more discomfort than Dan had thought it possible for any man to experience in a single evening, Tamea had swept from his heart in a moment a feeling of resentment, or irritation, that had been developing there. Her tender little speech, evidencing as it did the essential nobility of her primitive soul, had surrounded the girl, in Dan’s eyes, with a newer, more distinctive charm, and rendered more distressing the prospect of the impending parting. For all the embarrassment she had caused him in Maisie’s presence, Dan realized that Tamea was not gauche, that she possessed in full measure a characteristic rather uncommon among her white sisters, and that was sportsmanship.
Tamea fought in the open; she was above a mean, small, underhanded action. Notwithstanding the fact that Tamea’s calm announcement to her rival that Dan was her man had caused him to yearn for a hole into which he might disappear, effectually dragging the aperture in after him, Dan had a hearty man’s hearty appreciation of her frankness, her simplicity, her utter lack of dissembling, of feminine guile. He entertained a similar feeling of admiration for Maisie, in whom the exigencies of this peculiar situation had developed similar characteristics. And lastly, he was sensible of a little titillation to his masculine vanity in the knowledge that two glorious women desired him, that they were engaged in a battle of wits and charm to win him.
He was, on the whole, however, very uncomfortable and apprehensive of unfortunate developments. Mellenger, beloved pal of his boyhood and steadfast friend of his mature years, had read him truthfully and then told him that which he had read. Dan was unwilling to believe that Mellenger had read him aright yet he had lacked the courage to deny it.
What a keen fellow Mark Mellenger was! How prudent, farseeing and fearless! And how charitable, how thoroughly understanding! Dear old Mel! He hadn’t gotten ahead in life. His one great ambition had failed dismally of realization, and he had had to content himself with second place; nevertheless he was not embittered. His life was taken up with doing well the task he could do so much better than others; no hint of the sadness of unfulfilled dreams ever escaped him, and until tonight Dan had never seen him excited or distressed about anything.
“The old boy has a tremendous affection for me,” Dan meditated as he got out of bed, donned dressing gown and slippers and sat by the window to watch the sun rise over San Francisco bay. “What a blow it would be to him were I to—but of course I shall not. The idea is unthinkable.”
Gradually his mind turned to thoughts of business, to the increasing annoyance of association with old John Casson, to the rice market. He would call upon Ridley, the rice broker, and put pressure behind the selling drive if Ridley failed to render an encouraging report by noon. Once in the clear on those rice deals, he was resolved to do one of two things—buy John Casson out or force Casson to buy him out.
And then there was the accursed question of what to do with Tamea. That also would have to be solved today.
At seven o’clock he heard Sooey Wan puttering about in the kitchen below, so he shaved, bathed, dressed and descended for an early breakfast. Sooey Wan served him in profound silence, but eyed him with a steady, speculative gaze; from time to time he shook his old head as if he, too, wrestled with problems hard to solve. When Dan left the house Sooey Wan accompanied him into the hall, helped him into his overcoat and handed him hat and stick. Then he voiced something of what was on his mind.
“Boss, how soon you mally Captain’s girl?”
“How dare you ask me such a question? Mind your own business, you grinning old idol, or I’ll fire you one of these bright days. I’m not going to marry the Captain’s girl.”
Sooey Wan did not seem to be impressed. “Helluva house you ketchum, boss, you fire Sooey Wan. Allee time you makee too much talkee-talk. Talk velly cheap, but ketchum money you likee buy whisky. You no mally Captain’s girl, eh? Well, when you mally Missie Maisie?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
Sooey Wan rubbed his corrugated brow and scowled in huge despair. “Go ’long, boy, go ’long,” he entreated wearily. “Allee time you makee Sooey Wan sick. Why I ask? Wha’s mallah? You no wanchee ketchum little baby—ketchum fi’, six son?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” Dan growled.
“Hully up. Thinkee quick!” Sooey Wan entreated. “Pitty soon if you no thinkee, evelything go blooey-blooey. Sooey Wan talkee Captain’s girl, she tellee me pitty soon ketchum my boss for mally. Now you say no ketchum. Wha’s mallah? You thinkee make fool of Sooey Wan? Listen, boy. When Captain’s girl say ketchum boss, then Sooey Wan bettee bankroll on Captain’s girl. She ketch you, sure. Oh-h-h, velly nice!”
Dan slammed the door in Sooey Wan’s face and hastened down the street. It was an hour’s walk to his office and his head ached from too much thinking. The exercise would do him good.
He purchased the morning papers and looked through them for Tamea’s picture and the story of her arrival, of her father’s dramatic death. Mellenger, for some unknown reason, had not featured his story as Dan had expected. It was a short straight news story, on the second page, with a very good picture of Tamea, and Dan noted that Mellenger had said nothing of the fact that he was to be Tamea’s guardian, that she was a guest at his home. The other paper had handled the story more flamboyantly and featured it on the first page, but with an eye single to local color the editor had run the photograph of Tamea in the Mother Hubbard dress.
“Brainless apes,” Dan growled. “Makes her look like a colored mammy. I hate them.”
Arrived at his office, he had scarcely read his mail before Ridley, the rice broker, called him up.
“I can unload that four thousand tons at Shanghai for cash,” he announced, “but the price I can get will not leave you much of a profit.”
“How much?”
“Fourteen cents, at ships’ tackles, Shanghai.”
Dan figured rapidly while Ridley held the wire. The price quoted would net his firm a profit of about eight thousand dollars. “Sold!” he cried triumphantly.
By noon the deal had been definitely closed with Ridley’s client, the space contracted for on the Malayan transferred to the new owner of the rice, and the check in payment deposited in bank. Dan’s mental thermometer commenced to rise, so he decided to accord himself the delight of breaking the news to old Casson.
The senior partner’s face darkened with fury. “You’ve cost us a potential profit of a quarter of a million dollars, Pritchard. I suppose you realize that this confounded interference of yours means the end of our business association.”
“I hope so. Thank you, I wouldn’t care for another helping of the mustard. Do you propose buying me out or selling out to me?”
“I would prefer to buy you out—today—and carry those rice deals myself.”
“Unfortunately, the sale of my interest here will not invalidate my signature on some of this firm’s paper, Mr. Casson.”
“That might be arranged somehow. What do you want for your interest?”
Dan named a figure and old Casson nodded approval.
“Terms?” he queried.
“Cash.”
“Impossible.”
“Well, then, fifty thousand in cash and the balance on secured notes.”
“Impossible.”
“I had a suspicion you have dissipated in crazy deals most of your share of the money we made during the war. Well, it appears you cannot buy me out, and until our rice deals have been safely disposed of, if not at a profit at least without loss, I do not yearn to take over your share. It might prove a very bad investment. However, for reasons which would never occur to you, I am willing, once the rice deals have been disposed of, to buy you out on a basis of the actual value of our assets, but with nothing additional for good-will. All the good-will value of Casson and Pritchard has been created by my father and myself.”
“I shall not sell on that basis.”
“Very well. The day on which our last note is paid I am relieved of all contingent liability as a partner in Casson and Pritchard. We will dissolve partnership. That will kill your credit with our bankers and I shall sit calmly by and watch you go to smash. When you’ve had your beating, sir, you will be glad to sell—at my terms. I am generous now. You may be sure I shall not be generous then.”
Old Casson glowered, puffed at his cigar and then studied the ash reflectively.
“While you were busy this morning unloading that Shanghai rice at a paltry eight thousand dollars profit—just because you lack the courage of a jack-rabbit—I disposed of the Manila rice at the market.”
“To whom?”
“Katsuma and Company.”
“Japs, eh?”
“They’re good.”
“Financial rating is unquestionably splendid. Know anything about the moral rating of a Japanese business firm?”
“They’ve always met their business obligations.”
“Any Jap will—until the meeting of them becomes burdensome or unprofitable. Ninety day paper, I suppose.”
Casson smiled triumphantly. “No, not with Katsuma and Company. Sight draft against bill of lading, payable at the Philippine National Bank.”
“Well, that’s better than I had expected. Unfortunately the cargo has to be loaded aboard ship before that draft will be cashable. That means thirty days of suspense—and I do not like the financial aspect in the East. Prices must come down—and once they start downward they may develop into an economic avalanche. It’s an unhealthy situation and I don’t like it. Where’s your contract with Katsuma and Company?”
Casson handed it to him and Dan scanned it carefully, nodded his approval, rang for the chief clerk and gave the contract to him to be placed in the safe.
“Well, on the face of things, we’re out of the rice market,” he said as he rose to return to his own office. “I feel much relieved.”
In his private office he found Mark Mellenger waiting for him. “Well, you bird of ill omen,” Dan greeted him cheerily, “what brings you here?”
“Had an hour to kill and thought I’d kill it here. I do not go on duty until one thirty. Dan, I’ve been thinking. What, if anything, have you decided in the matter of the girl, Tamea?”
“Nothing, Mel. I’ve been too busy on something else.”
“It would be well to make Tamea’s matter a special order of business. Have you thought of anything to do?”
“Not a thing.”
“I suspected that might be the case. The fact is that you are being ruled by your subconscious mind. You do not wish to do anything. However, you shall. I have a plan.”
“Indeed?”
“None of your sarcasm. Not that it will avail you anything. It’s just futile—wasted energy—on me. You must induce Maisie Morrison to take Tamea to Del Monte for a couple of weeks.”
“My dear man, why should I ask Maisie to burden herself with such a responsibility?”
“Well, it is selfish, I admit, but then if one would make an omelette one must break eggs. Maisie will regard it as a burden and she will appreciate to the fullest your cussedness in asking her, but she will accept the nomination gracefully—indeed, I am moved to add—gratefully.”
“How do you know she will?”
“Don’t know. I’m merely guessing. I guessed her right last night, did I not?. . . Yes, I’m not half bad at guessing things.”
“But something tells me there is mutual hostility between Maisie and Tamea. They disliked each other at sight.”
“Quite true. But then women who despise each other for a reason which may not be discussed will never admit that they despise each other. And Maisie will subjugate her very natural desire to spank Tamea if she realizes that by so doing she will be enabled to thwart Tamea in the latter’s campaign for your affection. It occurs to me, therefore——”
“You mean that Maisie will eagerly grasp the opportunity to take Tamea out of my presence and keep her out?”
“Dan, you poor moon-calf, you’re growing brilliant. You’re beginning to do some head-work. Answering your question, I would say that such is my interpretation of what will be her mental attitude.”
“Women are so queer,” Dan declared helplessly.
“Women study the essentials which most men overlook, to wit, cause and effect. The adverb why was invented for the use of women. They always want to know. When they have a battle on they use their heads to think continuously of the enemy. They do not forget him or ignore him or underestimate him—I mean her.”
“Old cynic!”
“Not at all. That’s sound argument based on observation. A smart woman never forgets that her opponent is extremely likely to act with discretion.”
“Well?”
“I think you ought to ask Maisie and her aunt to be your guests at Del Monte for a few weeks, and explain to Maisie that you will take it kindly of her to look after Tamea. Be sure to inform her that while you will drive down with them and spend the week-end, you will motor home on Monday—and stay at home thereafter. You see, Dan,” Mellenger continued, “there will be much to divert and interest Tamea down there. She can ride, and if she cannot ride she can spend her time learning. Same thing with golf. She can swim—and I dare say she’ll be the sensation of the beach. Lots of good looking, idle gents down there to take her mind off you, and with Maisie and her aunt to chaperon her, and Julia to help steer her straight, you stand a very fair chance of forgetting her, of having her forget you.”
“That is a very good plan. After a few weeks there I will have her school arrangements made. Then I’ll have a talk with her, tell her exactly what I want, and that I am going away on a trip to Europe and that she must be a very good, obedient girl while I am away.”
“But—are you really going to Europe?”
“I am. In about thirty days I’m going to sell out to old Casson, or buy him out. If the former, I’ll be free to go. If the latter, I’ll appoint a manager and go abroad anyway.”
“The day you get Tamea into a convent—and that’s where she belongs—you are to marry Maisie Morrison and take her to Europe with you. I’ll keep an eye on Tamea for you.
“No risk, I assure you. I have a pachydermous hide which her glances may not penetrate. Besides, I’ve always been singularly intrigued with the idea that one of these bright days I may marry some fine woman and father some blue-eyed, flaxen-haired children.”
“You old-fashioned devil!”
“Do not seek with specious compliments to swerve my single-track mind from your affaire de cœur. It is understood, then, that you are committed to my plan?”
“Absolutely.”
“Fine! Telephone Maisie at once.”
Dan hesitated, so Mellenger pressed the push-button that summoned Dan’s secretary. “Please get Miss Morrison on the telephone for Mr. Pritchard,” he requested.
Maisie was at home and to Dan’s suggestion she agreed—not with enthusiasm, but upon the ground of obliging him, of helping him out of a distressing situation. Mellenger, listening to Dan’s replies, managed to patch together a very fair résumé of their conversation, and grinned openly.
“Told you I was a good hand at guessing,” he bragged. “Ah, that’s a smart girl, that Maisie. She’s a diplomat. Got tact—rarest feminine gift. Before you hang up I should like to speak to her.”
There was a wait of a few minutes while Maisie urged her aunt to agree to chaperon the party. Presently Maisie called back to say that Mrs. Casson, having communicated by telephone with her husband, would be delighted to accept.
“Falls in with old Casson’s mood very nicely,” Dan soliloquized. “He’s morose and sulky and prefers to be alone.” To Maisie: “Mel is in my office, Maisie. He wishes to say a word to you.”
“Miss Maisie,” Mellenger announced, “I’ve taken on a new job.”
“Indeed?”
“I’m managing Dan Pritchard. The man is bewildered and doesn’t know how to manage himself. He’s afraid to act with force and decision at home, although down in the office he never hesitates to crack the whip.”
“I know. Dan is so tender-hearted. He’s afraid his passion-flower will droop and die if he exercises the least bit of authority. If his true friends do not organize——”
“Exactly, Miss Maisie, exactly. You start for Del Monte at two o’clock this afternoon, in Dan’s car. You will arrive in time for dinner. Your trunks will follow by express.”
“Are you giving orders, Mel?”
“I am.”
“I hear you and I obey. Good-by. Thank you.”
Mellenger hung up and faced Dan. “Go home and get ready, but before you leave this office, telephone Julia and start her packing.”
“You’re a fast worker.”
“I know a faster one,” Mellenger retorted significantly.