West Wind Drift

by George Barr McCutcheon

“This is the most outrageous, high-handed,—” began Landover, explosively, but stopped short as Percival levelled his unlovely forefinger at him.

“Cut it out, Mr. Landover,—cut it out,” he snapped, inelegantly. “Now, listen to me. For two days you and these boon companions of yours have been loafing on the job. While the rest of us have been working like dogs, you and your friends,—you needn't look insulted, because by the looks of things they are your friends,—you've been sitting up here talking to the ladies, smoking cigars, and telling every one how successfully you conduct a bank in New York. Now, Mr. Landover, you're not an old man. If you were, I'd be the first to suggest the easiest sort of work for you. You are under fifty and you're a strong, healthy man. You ride every morning in Central Park, you play golf in winter and summer, and you're one of the men who made Muldoon famous.

“You are able to work as the rest of us are working. Your hands are in a much better condition than mine. If we were in New York, I would take off my hat to you and admit that you are one of the greatest bankers in the world, and that you know your business. But we're not in New York. We're down here on a lonely island. You know how to build and conduct banks, I know how to build and conduct camps. We have no use for scientific bankers here, but we have considerable use for experienced camp builders. I have been put in charge of this work. I'm going to see it through. Up in the hills I got a full day's work out of my men,—and there were worse men among them than you will ever be. There were gunmen, knife slingers, cutthroats and bullies,—but they had to work, just the same. Just a minute, if you please. I'm not through. I think I appreciate your position, Mr. Landover.

“You regard me as a four-flusher, a tramp,—maybe a thief or worse. I am but little more than half your age and I am a person of absolutely no importance. That's neither here nor there. I have been selected to run this job because Captain Trigger, with Mr. Mott and virtually every other man on this ship, believes that I know how to handle it. But even that's neither here nor there. What I'm coming to is this. As long as I am in charge of this job, every man, woman and child has got to do something. Just at present there isn't much that the women and children can do, but there is work for every man who can stand on his feet. You needn't glare at me. I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Landover. You say you are going to stay on this ship. Well, I've come here to tell you that you are not going to do anything of the sort. The women and children are to remain on board until we've got houses built for them on shore, or until the time comes when there is work for them to do. If they choose to come ashore occasionally it will be to watch the men work and to cheer them up with their presence. But no man is to stay on this ship after we've once got the real job going out there. Now you've heard my statement, sir. I am willing to listen for a few minutes to your side of the question. Don't all speak at once,—and please be careful, there are ladies present.”

While Percival did not take his eyes from Landover's face during this speech, he was aware that Miss Clinton and her aunt had turned abruptly away and were leaning against the rail a few yards distant, their backs to him. Olga Obosky and Careni-Amori were regarding him with shining, approving eyes, while Mrs. Block,—gulping furiously,—clasped her husband's arm and kept up a constant muttering. Something told him that Ruth Clinton and Mrs. Spofford had turned against him.

“I have nothing to say to you,” said Landover, curtly. Turning on his heel, he joined the two ladies at the rail. He spoke a few words to them in a lowered tone, and then the three of them strode off without so much as a glance at the young man.

Percival flushed a dull red under his tan. His eyes followed them until they disappeared around a corner. Down in his heart he hoped that Ruth would not deny him a fleeting look of encouragement and approval.

Landover carried himself like a soldier. He was tall, well set-up, and almost offensively erect. He was a handsome man of perhaps forty-eight. His cleanshaven face was firm, aggressive, domineering. There was not a trace of grey in his dark hair. He typified strength, mentality, shrewdness and that most essential quality in the standards of wealth and power,—arrogance. In a word, he personified Finance.

“Now, see here, Percival,” began Nicklestick, in a most cavalier manner, greatly encouraged by the lofty conduct of the Money King, “you know you can't do this sort of thing. We won't stand for it, not for a minute. We object to this high-handed business. You got to realize that—”

“Object and be hanged!” snapped Percival. “The next thing, you'll be calling yourselves conscientious objectors. Well, it's no use, Nicklestick. There's no such animal on board this Ark. I see a couple of boats returning from shore. You've got about fifteen minutes to shed that Stein & Bloch suit and jump into something that will never need pressing again,—your working clothes. I'm doing you a kindness. That gang out there won't stand for slackers. If you're wise you'll take my word for it.”