The Son of his Father

by Ridgwell Cullum

CASHING IN

Gordon's eyes were alight with a wonder that somehow lacked reality as he dropped into the chair beside the table.

"You? You?" he murmured. Then aloud: "It—it's incredible!" Then, with an impulsive gesture. "In the name of all that's crazy what's—what's the meaning of it? How in the world have you got into the hands of these ruffians?"

His father selected one of the two remaining cigars in his case, and passed the other across.

"Try again," he said quietly, as he bit the end off his.

But Gordon did not "try again." He took the proffered cigar, and sat devouring the silent figure and sphinx-like face of the other, while he felt like one who had received a douche of ice-cold water from a pail. His acting had missed fire, and he knew it. He wondered how much else of his efforts had missed fire with this abnormally acute man. He had intended this to be the moment of his triumph. He had intended to lay before his father his talent of silver, doubled and redoubled an hundredfold. He had intended, with all the enthusiasm of youthful vanity, to display the triumph of his understanding of the modern methods of dealing with the affairs of finance. He was going to prove his theories up to the hilt.

Now, somehow, he felt that whatever victory he had achieved the clear, keen brain behind his father's steady gray eyes saw through him completely, right down into the deepest secrets which he had believed to be securely hidden. Face to face with this man, who had spent all the long years of his life studying how best to beat his fellow man, his acting became but a paltry mask which obscured nothing. "Try again." Such simple words, but so significant. No, it was useless to "try again" with this dear, shrewd creature he was so futilely endeavoring to deceive.

The cold of the gray eyes had changed. It was only a slight change, but to Gordon, who understood his father so well, it was clearly perceptible and indicative of the mood behind. There was a suggestion of a smile in them, an ironical, half-humorous smile that scattered all his carefully made plans.

The millionaire struck a match and held it out to light his son's cigar, and, as Gordon leaned forward, their eyes met in a steady regard.

"Nothing doing?" inquired the father, as he carefully lit his own cigar from the same match.

Gordon shook his head, and his eyes smiled whimsically.

"Then I best do first talk." The millionaire leaned back in his chair and breathed out a thin spiral of smoke. Then he sighed. "Good smokes these. Mallinsbee's a man of taste."

"Mallinsbee?"

"Sure."

"Go on."

"He's kept me well supplied. Also with good wine. I owe him quite a debt—that way. Say——" The millionaire paused reflectively. Then he went on in the manner of a man who has arrived at a complete and definite decision: "Guess it would take hours asking questions and getting answers. It's not my way, and I don't guess I'm a lawyer anyway, and you aren't a shady witness. We know just how to talk out straight. I've had over seven weeks to think in—and thinking with me is—a disease. Let's go back. I had a neat land scoop working up here. Slosson was working it. He's been a secret agent of mine for years. I've no reason to distrust him. He fixes things right for us and sends word for me to come along. That's happened many times before. It's not new, or—unusual. When I get here I'm met by a very charming young girl with a rig and team. Her excuse for meeting me is reasonable. The rest is easy. We are both held up, and brought here—captives. Then I start in to think a lot. Argument don't carry me more than a mile till that same charming girl, who's just done all she knew to make things right for me, makes her first break. When I found out she was the daughter of Mallinsbee I did all the thinking needed in half an hour. I knew I was to be rolled on this land deal by Mallinsbee's crowd, and, judging by the methods adopted, to be rolled good. You see we'd had negotiations with Mallinsbee about his land at Buffalo Point before. See?"

Gordon silently nodded.

His father breathed heavily, and, with a wry twist of his lips, rolled his cigar firmly into the corner of his mouth.

"Now, when I'd done thinking it just left me guessing in two directions. One of 'em I answered more or less satisfactorily. This was the one I answered. What had become of Slosson? Had he been handled by these folk, or had he doubled? The latter I counted out. I've always had him where I wanted him. He wouldn't dare. So I said he'd been 'handled.' The other was how could they hope to deal with the Union Grayling without my authority? That's still unanswered, though I see a gleam of daylight—since meeting you here. However, Gordon boy, you've certainly given me the surprise of my life—finding you associated with Mallinsbee—and taken to play-acting. That was a pretty piece outside with guns. I allow it got me fine. But you overdid it showing in here. That also told me another thing. It told me that a feller can spend a lifetime making a bright man of himself, while it only takes a pretty gal five seconds yanking out one of the key-stones to the edifice he's built. I guess I've been mighty sorry for your lady friend. I guessed she was pining to death for her folks, and was scared to death of that darnation Chink. However, I'm relieved to find she's just a bunch of bright wits, and don't lack in natural female ability for play-acting. Maybe you can hand me some about those directions I'm still guessing in. I'll smoke while you say some."

Father and son smiled into each other's faces as the elder finished speaking. But while Gordon's smile was one of genuine admiration, his father's still savored of that irony which warned the younger that all was by no means plain sailing yet.

"I'm glad you feel that way about Hazel, Dad," cried Gordon, his face flushing with genuine pleasure. "She's some girl. I guess I'm the luckiest feller alive winning her for a wife, eh?"

"You're going to—marry her?"

"Why, yes. She's the greatest, the best, the——"

"Just so. But we're not both going to marry her."

Gordon flung back in his chair with a great laugh. But his father's eyes still maintained their irony.

"Say, I'm sort of sorry talking that way now. There's other things." Gordon fumbled in his pocket while he went on. "Slosson? Why Slosson's trying to stave off pneumonia in a disused, perforated shack way up on Mallinsbee's ranch. He's a skunk of a man anyway, and I had to let him know I thought that way. I haven't heard about the pneumonia yet, but if he got it I don't guess it would give me nightmare." Then he handed across a small volume in morocco binding which he had taken from his pocket. "I don't seem to think you'll need much explanation about the other. That's your code book, which I forgot to return in the hurry of quitting New York."

The millionaire turned the cover, closed it again, and quietly bestowed it in his pocket.

"Guess I'll keep this," he said without emotion. "Yes, it tells me a lot. It tells me I've credited Mallinsbee and his crowd with the work of my son. It tells me that my own son is solely responsible for the idea, and execution, of rolling his father on this land deal. It tells me that the principles of big finance must have a fertile resting place somewhere in my son. Well, there's quite a lot of time before daylight."

It had been an anxious moment for Gordon when he handed back the private code book, and he had watched his father closely. He was seeking any sign of anger, or regret, or even pain, as his own actions became apparent to the other. There were no such signs. There was only that non-committal half smile, and it left him still uncertain.

His father's patience seemed inexhaustible. Had Gordon only realized it this was the very sign he should have looked for in such a man. James Carbhoy loved his son as few men regard their offspring, but he wanted his son to be something more than a mere object of his affection. He wanted him to be an object upon which he could bestow all the enormous pride of a self-made man. He wanted to feel that exquisite thrill of triumph resulting to his vanity, that Gordon was his son—the son of his father.

"Yes, there's quite a while before daylight, Dad, and I'm glad." Gordon ran his fingers through his hair. "So I'd better hand it you from the beginning. I want you to get a right understanding of my motives. It was opportunity. That thing you've always taught me fools most always try to dodge, and most good men generally miss."

His father nodded and Gordon settled himself afresh in his chair.

"Yes, I'm in this thing, Dad," he went on, after the briefest of pauses. "In it right up to my neck," he added, with a whimsical smile. "It was the opportunity I needed to make good. Being neither a fool nor a good man I took it, and now I sit with a wad of one hundred and five thousand dollars in good United States currency. It's here in my pocket, and I'm ready to hand it over to you in payment for those old debts. You will observe I have still eight weeks of my six months to run. I want to say, as you'll no doubt agree when you've heard my story, that I've made, or acquired it, through graft and piracy, such as I talked about to you awhile back, and, as far as I can see, my method has been as completely dishonest as an honest man could adopt. Dad, I've always regarded your sense of humor as one of your greatest attributes, but whether it'll stand for the way I've treated you, even with my intimate knowledge of you, I'm not prepared to guess. This is the yarn."

Gordon plunged into the story without further preamble while his father sat and smoked on with that half smile still fixed in his gray eyes. The younger man watched the still, inscrutable, sphinx-like figure with eyes of grave speculation. He missed no detail in the story of his irresponsibility and haphazard adventure. He started at the moment when he booked his passage for Seattle, and carried it on right down to the melodramatic moment when he burst into that parlor to rescue the girl he loved from a peril which he knew had never threatened her. He told it all with a detail that spared neither himself, nor the confidential agent Slosson, nor any one else concerned. He showed up the spirit of graft which actuated every step of his progress, and did not hesitate to apply the lash with merciless force upon the railroad organization his father controlled.

And right through, from beginning to end, the millionaire listened without sign or comment. He wanted to hear all this boy—his boy—had to say. And as he went on that pride, parental pride, in him grew and grew.

At the end of the story Gordon added a final comment—

"I want to say, Dad, I haven't done this all myself. I've had the help of two of the most cheerful, lovable rascals I've ever met. Also the help of one honest man. But above all, through the whole thing, I've been supported by the smile of the sweetest and best woman in the world, the girl who's done her best to care for your comfort here. She's sacrificed all scruples to help me out, while her father, bless him, has never approved any of my dirty schemes. There you are, Dad, that's the yarn. I don't guess it'll make you shout for joy, but, anyway, you started me out to make good—anyway I chose—and I've made good. Furthermore, I've made good within the time limit, and, in making good, I'm bringing back a wife to our home city. I'm standing on my own legs now, as you always guessed you wanted me to, and if you don't just fancy the gait I travel—why, it's up to you. That's mine—now you say."

The fixity of his father's attitude had driven Gordon to say more than he had intended, but he meant it, every word, nor did he regard his parent with any less affection for it. But now, as he awaited a response, a certain unease was tugging at his heartstrings.

At last the millionaire rose from his seat and crossed to the curtained window. He drew the curtains aside, and, raising the sash, flung out his cigar stump. Then for a moment he gazed out at the moonless night. While he stood thus the smile in his thoughtful eyes deepened.

At last, however, he turned back, and the face that confronted the son he loved wore the sharp, hawk-like look which his opponents in the business world of New York were so familiar with.

"That's all right," he said sharply. "But—you've forgotten something."

Gordon became extremely alert.

"Have I?" Then he laughed. "It 'ud be a miracle if I hadn't."

"Sure. Most folks forget something. I forgot that code book."

"Yes."

Their eyes met.

"You've forgotten that I can stop the work at Buffalo Point. You've forgotten that you've passed out of the realms of simple graft and plunged into criminal proceedings, which brings you within the shadow of the law. You've forgotten that I can smash your schemes, break you, and send you to penitentiary—you and your entire gang."

The steady eyes were deadly as they coldly backed the sharp pronouncement of the words. Gordon was caught by the painful emotion which the harshness of them inspired. He knew that his father had spoken the simple truth. He knew that in the eyes of the world he was a plain criminal. The unpleasant feeling was instantly thrust aside, however. He had not embarked upon this affair without intending to carry it through to the end he desired.

"I haven't forgotten those things, Dad," he said, with a sharpness equal to the other's. "I thought of 'em all—and prepared for 'em. I'm not playing. You put this thing up to me. I'm here to see it through."

"And then?" There was a shade of sarcasm in the millionaire's tone.

"Then? Why, I could tell you lots of reasons why you can't do any of these things. There's arguments that I don't guess you've missed already. But, anyway, just one little fact 'll be sufficient to go on with. You're here a captive, and you can't get away till I give the word."

For one of the very few times in his life James Carbhoy was seriously disconcerted. Choler began to rise, and a hot flush tinged his cheeks and his eyes sparkled.

"You—would keep me here a prisoner—indefinitely?" he exploded.

"I'm not playing, Dad," Gordon warned.

Gordon had risen from his chair, and the two stood eye to eye. It was a tense moment, full of potent possibilities. One of them must give way, or a clash would inevitably follow, a clash which would probably destroy forever that perfect devotion which had always existed between them.

For Gordon it was a moment of extreme pain. But in him was no thought of yielding. From his father it was his invincible determination to force an acknowledgment of fitness in human affairs as he understood them.

At that moment there was no humor in the situation for him.

In the older man, however, humor was perhaps more matured. Parental affection, too, is perhaps a bigger, wider, deeper thing than the filial emotions of youth. He had only intended to test this son of his. His challenge had been intended to try him, to confound. But the confounding had been with him in the shock of his son's irrevocable determination.

That moment of natural resentment passed as swiftly as it had arisen. Gordon was all, and even more, he told himself dryly, than he had hoped. And so the moment passed, and the hard, gray eyes melted to a kindly, whimsical smile which had not one vestige of irony in it.

"You're a blamed young scamp," he said cordially; "but—I'm afraid I like you all the better for it. Say, do you think that little girl of yours and her father have gone to bed yet?"

Gordon reached across, holding out his hand.

"Dear old Dad," he cried, "I'm dead sure we'll find 'em both not a mile the other side of that door. The game's played out, and—we quit?"

The father caught his son's hand and wrung it.

"It's played out, boy; and God bless you!" They stood for a moment hand gripped in hand. Then the millionaire pointed at the door.

"I'd like to see 'em before—daylight."

With a delighted laugh Gordon turned away to the door and flung it open.

"Say," he called, "Hazel! Ho! Mr. Mallinsbee!"

In a moment Hazel had darted to her lover's side, and was followed more decorously by the burly rancher, with his patch well down over one eye. Gordon pointed at it.

"Guess you can do without that, Mr. Mallinsbee. You're not going to face an opponent; you're going to meet a—friend."

He slid his arm about the girl's waist and drew her gently forward towards his father standing waiting to receive her with humorously twinkling eyes.