One—when a beggar he prepares to plunge;
One—when a prince he rises with his pearl?”
—Browning.
To the astonishment of his world, Win Shackleton announced his intention of retaining The Trumpet, and conducting it, himself, on the lines laid down by his father. There was a slight shifting of positions, in which some were advanced and one or two heads were unexpectedly lopped off and thrown in the basket. The new ruler took control with a decision that startled those who had regarded him as a typical millionaire’s son. The men on the paper, who had seen the time of their lives coming in the managership of a feeble and inexperienced boy, were awakened from their dreams by feeling a hand on the reins, as tight as that of Jake Shackleton himself. Win had ideas. Mrs. Willers was advanced to the managership of the Woman’s Page, into which she swept triumphant, with Miss Peebles, the young woman of the “Foibles and Fancies” column, in her wake. Barry Essex was lifted to a staff position, at a high salary, and had to himself one of the little cells that branch off the main passage.
Here he worked hard, for Win permitted no drones in his hive. The luck was with Essex, as it had been often before in his varied career. Things had fallen together exactly as they should for the furthering of his designs. It would take a long wooing to win over Mariposa. Now, he could save money against the day when he and she would leave together for the Europe where they were to conquer fame and fortune.
He had had other talks with Harney since the evening of his revelation. He was convinced that the man was telling the truth. He had known men before of Harney’s type and wondered why the drunkard had not made use of his knowledge for his own advancement. He had evidently kept his eye on both Shackleton and Moreau, and it was strange, that, as the two men rose to affluence, he had not used the ugly secret he held. The only explanation of it was that they held an even greater power over him. He had undoubtedly had reason to fear both men. Shackleton, once arrived at the pinnacle of his success, would have crushed like a beetle in his path this drunken threatener of his peace. Moreau, whose every movement he seemed to have followed, had evidently had a hold over him. Hold or no hold, Shackleton would have swept him aside by the power of his money and his position, into the oblivion that awaits the enemies of rich and unscrupulous men.
Now both were dead. But the day of Harney’s power was over. Enfeebled in mind and body by drink and disease, he had neither the force nor the brain to be dangerous. His uses were merely those of an instrument in daring hands. And those hands had found him. There were long talks in Essex’s room in the evenings, during which the story was threshed out. George Harney, drunk or sober, neither contradicted himself nor varied in his details. His mind, confused and addled on other matters, retained this memory with unblurred clearness.
So Essex deliberated, carefully and without haste, for there was plenty of time.
The bright days continued. On a radiant Saturday afternoon, Mariposa, tired with a morning’s teaching, started forth to spend an hour or two in the park. She had done this several times before, finding the green peace and solitude of that beautiful spot soothing to her harassed spirit. It was a long ride in those days, and this had its charm, the little steam dummy cresting the tops of sandy hills, clothed with lupins and tiny frightened oaks, crouching before the sea winds. On this occasion she had invited the escort of Benito, who had been hanging drearily about the house, thinking with mingled triumph and envy of Miguel, who had gone with his mother to have a tooth pulled out.
“Pulling the tooth’s bad, of course,” Benito had said to Mariposa, as he trotted by her side to the car, “but then afterward there’s candy. I dunno but what it’s worth while. And then you have the tooth.”