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BUCKING THE TIGER


PZ100.10
COLLEQE
Copyright, 1917, by
ROBERT J. SHORES, PUBLISHER
New York


·
.
.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
I BROKE . . . . . . . . . . . 9
II "Seven MEN FROM ALL THE WORLD" . . 24
III THE PLAN . . . . . . . . . . 47
IV THE TURN OF A CARD . . . . . . 63
V Mac's JACKPOT ...
VI ALL IN . . . . ..
104
VII THE MIDas Touch . . . . . . . 120
VIII Mac HIRES AN OFFICE . . . . . . 138
IX THE DEPUTATION . . . . . . : 160
X THE BOOMING OF THE WESTERN CROWN . 181
XI AN OPTION . . . . . . . . . 198
XII EMILY STEEVES . . . . . . . . 21
XIII A GLEAM OF LIGHT . . . . . . . 241
XIV WASTRALS, REGENERATE . . . . . . 257
XV ANDY's Coup . . . . . . . . . 275
·





BUCKING THE TIGER


Bucking the Tiger
CHAPTER I
BROKE
ITCHIE MACDONALD was
broke for the second time that year,
for the fifteenth time since he had
left Princeton seven years ago; and this time
he was broke for keeps.
There was no doubt of it in his mind.
He had worked all summer and right into
the winter in a coal prospect beyond the border,
near Fernie, British Columbia, in the heart of
the Kootenais. Four dollars a day, five a
week for board, and no liquor allowed in camp!
So he had saved practically all his pay and had


BROKE
The first thing to do would be to raise some
money, the second to procure a job. It was
characteristic of Ritchie Macdonald that he
thought of the former before considering the
possibility of the latter.
Rapidly he ran over the list of what he called
his “pawnable acquaintances.” All of them
were working for wages, and spending as fast
as they made, after the manner of the North-
west. There was only Marshall Houghton,
who was in business with his father, real-estate,
insurance and promoting.
So he walked up to the Peyton Building
and a minute later he sat facing his old college
mate in the latter's simple but luxurious pri-
vate office.
"What's on your mind?” Marshall Hough-
ton asked smilingly.
Macdonald stated his demand with brey-
ity.
“Stake me to a hundred.”
Marshall Houghton usually was the embodi-
11


BUCKING THE TIGER
ment of warm, massive solidity. But sud-
denly a thin, cold, bland atmosphere seemed to
settle over him, to envelop him from his
neatly parted, honey-coloured hair to his well-
polished boots.
“Awfully sorry, old man, but I can't do it.
My own account at the Old National is over-
drawn, and the bank is raising Cain, ...
and father's taken a run up to Victoria on
business. I don't know when he'll be back.”
“Drop him a line.”
“No use, old man. You know my father's
motto.”
He pointed at the wall, where, above father's
desk a large bit of pasteboard was fastened.
On it was printed in heavy Gothic letters:
WE DON'T LEND MONEY; WE BORROW.
Macdonald read. He flushed under his tan,
but he proceeded.
“What about a job?"
The other hemmed and hawed.
12


BROKE
“Out with it!” Macdonald commanded; then,
as the other did not speak. “What's the mat-
ter with you? You've got half a dozen jobs
kicking round loose.” He pointed at a map
which showed the new Houghton Residential
Addition in blushing rose and hopeful green.
“Turn me loose on this. Let me sell some lots
for you. You know I can work like the devil
when I have to. I've held more than one
job. ..."
“That's exactly it,” the other replied, and his
voice was cold. “You've held more than one
job. You've held too many jobs. You've
ranched and surveyed and railroaded and God
knows what else. You've held too many jobs.
That's the whole trouble.” He wagged his
finger in a didactic manner. “Friendship is
friendship, and business is business, and I can-
not-"
"You can't let friendship interfere with busi-
ness. I got you, and I guess you're right.”
The other opened his mouth. He was going
13


BUCKING THE TIGER
to say something else. But Macdonald inter-
rupted him with a loud laugh.
“You're on the right track, my boy—the
right track for business with a large, fat capi-
tal B. Stick to it, and you'll be as rich as
that famous King Solomon of whom the Bible
says—I forgot the words. But, for the love
of Mike, don't try to sugar the pill. Keep
that mouth of yours shut tight. You look like
a sea-bass with the mumps.”
He left the office.
Of course, the other was perfectly right, he
said to himself. He had never made good in
anything. And he was a college graduate.
All his father's fault, he decided. For that
staunch old capitalist had given him three
thousand dollars a year while he was in college,
and as soon as he had got his degree he had
expected him to make a living. He had tried,
and he had failed. That three thousand dol-
lars a year had spoiled him. He had failed
14


BROKE
from New York to Winnipeg, and thence to the
Coast, and now he was broke again.
He strolled down Riverside Avenue, turned
into Sprague Street, and walked into the office
of the M. and P. S.
“Mr. Robertson in?" he inquired.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Don't announce me.”
He walked into the private office of Gordon
Robertson, the division freight superintendent
of the line. He had lost two hundred dollars
to that short, black-haired Scotchman during
the memorable three days' poker session at
the club.
Robertson seemed to be blessed with a full,
working portion of that second-sight for which
his race is famed.
“I cannot give ye any money, Mac,” he
greeted his visitor. “I am a very poor man.
Have ye a cigar about ye?”
"No." He smiled at the other's naïveté,
15


BUCKING THE TIGER
then he continued. "How did you guess I was
going to strike you for a loan?"
Robertson looked perfectly serious.
“It's uncommon cold outside—and ye're not
wearing an overcoat, hey?”
“Go to the head of the class, Robertson.
What about a job?"
“I cannot give ye a job, Mac,” the Scotch-
man replied and turned to the papers on his
desk. “I have made it a principle never to
give jobs to people who”.
"Play poker?" Macdonald interrupted.
"No, my lad ... who lose at poker," the
other said, with a dry chuckle. “And I wish
you a very good morning. I am a busy man.”
Macdonald walked out into the street. A
wind had sprung high in the west, trailing
with it the frosty pine scent of the Coast Range.
He shivered. He regretted having parted
with his overcoat. After all, there wasn't
much difference between three dollars and
nothing. He turned up his coat collar.
16


BUCKING THE TIGER
dow-panes, at storms and tornadoes and fires
and a dozen other calamities which would bring
a right-minded house to the verge of despair.
· Macdonald stopped in front of the hotel.
He thought of the promise his past had held,
of the shabby present, the bleak, barren, hope-
less future. He felt weary and utterly de-
spondent.
Then he smiled as he looked at a pine tree
which was raising its gaunt, black arms to
heaven on the edge of the pavement.
For a little bird was fluttering from branch
to branch like a loose autumn leaf, its brown
plumage brushed by the evening sun with ruby
and old-gold. It was vainly picking at the
bark of the tree for a worm or another bit of
food.
“Wrong, old top," Macdonald addressed
the bird. "It's the early bird that catches the
worm; not the late. I know."
He opened the door.
The large, round lobby was thick with smoke.
18


BUCKING THE TIGER
They mumbled greetings at Macdonald's
entry.
"Hullo, Mac.”
"Hullo, yourself.”
He knew them all. He had only met them
a short time ago, but he knew them well; he
was familiar with every chapter in their lives.
For they were broke, just as he was, and pov-
erty is both sociable and garrulous.
Two of the men had drawn up a box close
to the stove and were playing cards. The
third, a good-looking, elderly man with pointed
moustache and an eyeglass hanging from a
broad silk ribbon, which added a mocking note
to his shabby coat and grease-stained sweater,
was watching the game.
One of the card-players looked up. .
“Care to take a hand, Mac?” he asked.
“We're playing pitch, and I'm trying to teach
this Dutchman to bid even if he hasn't got a
cinch high, low, jack, and the game.”
Macdonald shook his head.
20


BROKE
SS
“Thanks, Andy,” he said. “I'm broke.”
Andy Walsh looked up, pained surprise in
his honest, brown eyes.
“That ain't no reason why you can't sit in
and play. We can owe each other, can't we?
Broke, hell! Ain't I broke too? Ain't
Traube broke?” He pointed at the tall, thin
German with whom he was playing cards.
“Ain't Frenchie broke too? ... Hey, there,
Frenchie,” he repeated with a loud voice and
turned to the man who was watching the game.
"Ain't yer broke-busted—no mon', savvy?"
“Yes. I am,” the other replied in careful,
beautifully modulated English with the faint-
est trace of an accent. “I am-ah-broke.
I am so broke that every morning I have to
collect the tiny little pieces of myself and tie
them together so that I can leave the room,
hein? But I have told you often, oh, so often
that my name is not Frenchie. I am the
Comte Jean de Salle La Terriere.”
“Not on your life! You can't sport them
21


BUCKING THE TIGER
double-barrelled names round this common-
wealth. You're Frenchie, and you're broke!”
He turned again to Macdonald. “Say, Mac,
we're all broke. Even our two festive British-
ers. They're in the barroom now, I guess,
telling each other what a swell time they useter
have before their dads stopped sending them
remittances. Say, even Hayes is broke. He
tried to borrow two bits off'n the Chink bar-
keeper this morning."
“What did the Chink say?"
Walsh smiled.
"Wait and see.” He turned in his chair and
roared. “Chung—oh, Chung!” .
The door at the farther end of the lobby
which connected with the bar opened on a slant.
"You call, Andy?” a high-pitched, sing-song
voice inquired.
“Yes—you overfattened Yellow peril.”
The door opened a little wider.
“What you want, eh?”
“Stake me to two bits.”
22


BROKE
The reply came low-voiced, passionless, but
decisive.
"Me bloke too!”
And the Chinaman shut the door with a
bang.
28


SEVEN MEN
tyrs to their principles. Therein they differed
from him.
Andy Walsh had been a cowpuncher. Born
and bred in Wyoming, he had ridden the range
from Arizona to Montana; and, when cattle
gave way to sheep and farms, he had crossed
the border in the wake of the stamping steers
and had worked for Peter Burns, the Canadian
cattle king.
Then ambition had taken him by the forelock
and he had followed the gold lure and had gone
prospecting into the Hoodoo mountains of
Idaho.
He had come away from there broke, and
he couldn't go back to the Burns outfit in Al-
berta, whom he had left with riotous tales of
the wealth he was going to annex. He refused
to return broke, a thing to be jeered at and
joshed.
Traube, the tall, thin German, was another
illustration of ambition defeating its own ends.
He had been a waiter. Steady, sober, con-
25


BUCKING THE TIGER
scientious, he had worked his way up from
scullery-boy to "captain” at the Savoy Grill
in Seattle.
Then, last year, a tall Alaskan had drifted
into Seattle on the Irene, the first boat on the
south-run after the ice had gone out of the
Bering Straits. He had looked ruffianly and
unkempt, but his buckskin pouch had been
filled with nuggets.
He had entered the Savoy, and had shouted
for food, lots of it, done up in style, and damn
the expense! Traube had looked at the Alas-
kan, and somehow he had imagined that the
latter was of German origin, antecedents, and
therefore culinary longings. He had sped to
the kitchen himself and, fifteen minutes later,
he had served the Alaskan with a meal worthy
of a homesick Teutonic stomach.
There was sauerkraut, succulent and pale-
yellow, pathetic little sausages smothered ca-
ressingly in a' sour-cream gravy, a Bismarck
herring which had once lived a carefree life in
26


BUCKING THE TIGER
for he had an ambition, and it kept him in the
Northwest where he was blacklisted. He
wanted a café of his own, in Seattle or Spokane,
and he had sworn by Thor and Wotan that
he would get it.
The Frenchman's case was slightly different,
although even he was in a way a martyr. A
scion of the oldest nobility of France, a
dreamer and an enthusiast, he had come to
America in search of liberty and democracy.
He had found it, had loved it, and had pro-
ceeded to write a book about it. He had been
writing this book for the last twenty years.
It was only half-finished, but meanwhile
his money had given out. He earned a
stray dollar now and then, but he refused
to take a steady job. He said it inter-
fered with his style and his clearness of per-
ception.
Macdonald got up and walked over to the
card-players. Traube was playing carefully,
slowly, and was winning game after game from
28


SEVEN MEN
Walsh. He knew that the cowpuncher could
not play, and Walsh knew that the German
could not pay if he would lose. Yet they
played intently. Gold-lust was stamped in
every lineament of their faces. Macdonald
smiled as he noticed it. Somehow he felt that
this very characteristic would fit in well with his
half-shaped scheme.
Even the Frenchman, who was only look-
ing on, was intent on the changing chances
of the cards. Macdonald saw. Again he
smiled.
There was a rush of frosty, pine-scented air
as the outer door opened and shut again. A
short, stoutish, pasty-faced young man came
into the lobby. He was dressed in vaguely
sporting clothes of an audacious cut, and his
pockets were pulled out of shape by masses of
booklets and papers. There was about him
that indefinable something which stamped him
as an insurance agent-not a successful one
and the golden bear in his buttonhole pro-
29


SEVEN MEN
“Well, Count Whatdyemadoodle,” he said,
"studying another one of our great American
games?”
The other looked up with a charming smile.
“Yes. I shall put it all in my book.”.
Hayes laughed good-humouredly.
"Say, old cock, don't forget to push in a little
chapter or two about my line of graft. It's
also strictly and uncompromisingly American.”
“Life insurance ?” the Frenchman inquired.
Macdonald looked up quickly, but relapsed
at once. He said to himself that he couldn't
afford to show his hand too soon.
“You're on, kid,” the Californian replied.
The Frenchman winced at this appellation, but
Hayes continued in his usual, loud-piping
tenor. “Yes—life insurance—the greatest
little old bunco game west of the Divide.” He
laughed.
“Speaking about bunco-games,” he went on;
“where's Hillyer, Spokane's prize book-agent?
Where's that haw-hawing little specimen of
31


BUCKING THE TIGER
arrogant British humanity? And where's his
noble running-mate, Captain the Honourable
Ralph Vavassour-and-then-something Gra-
ham?”
The next moment a furious commotion
which drifted into the lobby from the adjacent
bar-room answered Hayes's question.
At first came the faint sounds of a low voice,
evidently British and probably drunk. It
went on for a while in an argumentative solo,
steadily crescendo, and emphasising a point
now and then with the clink of a glass against
the bar. Then another voice, of the same insu-
lar origin and the same probable state of alco-
holic inflation, chimed in.
The two voices rose to a very loud duet; and
then a third joined in, very suddenly. This
third voice was Mongolian, sing-song, bitter,
excited, and vituperative in every word and
inflection. Finally it won out over the other
two. It became louder and louder, bounding
up with fantastic kangaroo leaps and bursts of
32


SEVEN MEN
breathless speech, of which it was not always
easy for the men in the lobby to pick up the
thread.
But even the few words they heard distinctly
were descriptive of the scene which was being
enacted in the bar-room.
“You getta hell out!” sing-songed the voice.
“You bloke, bloke, you no damn good!” A
short pause; again the rumbling British duet;
then a shriek of the Mongolian which rose into
an ear-splitting yell. “You getta hell out
pletty quick! ... I no care who you are, you
no good, I savvy that!” The last word with
thudding emphasis; a confused answer from
the duet; and again the Mongol solo.
“Wot you mean talkee like dat, hey? You
no like Amelica, you get out! You bloke
Amelica, you bloke evelywhere, savvy? All
you do is kick, kick, kick-and dlinkee, dlinkee,
dlinkee! You no dlinkee for dlinkee--you
dlinkee for dlunkee!”
There was a splintering sound as of glasses
33


BUCKING THE TIGER
being smashed. The next moment the bar-
room door opened. A flash-like vision of two
yellow fists, of a substantial Chinese foot cov-
ered with a padded slipper, a final shriek of
victory and triumph—and two figures were
precipitated out of the bar. After them came
hurtling a couple of glasses and a tall brass
cuspidor which luckily missed their aim. Then
the door shut with a slam.
The two men who had been kicked out in
such ignominious fashion slowly picked them-
selves up.
The first took the form of a tall, slight, yel-
low-haired man with a hooked Norman nose,
sharp-blue eyes, and a boldly receding chin.
His clothes, of a violent and very hairy green
tweed, still spoke of Savile Row through their
tatters and stains, while his necktie, a chaste
silken blending of cerise and rose, fairly
shouted of the Burlington Arcade.
The other was younger, very short and ex-
ceedingly broad. He had close-curling, chest-
34


SEVEN MEN
nut-brown hair, and the face of a cherub who
for years has been dieting on underdone chops,
Cumberland pie and Scotch whisky. His
clothes were of the hand-me-down variety;
his hat was a Stetson. But still it was
not hard to classify him as one of Brit-
ain's younger sons, the sort who receives a
quarterly remittance on the understanding
that the tight little isle shall know him no
more.
The two men looked at each other. They
were suddenly quite sober
“My word!” said the shorter one, William
Hillyer by name, with a little pathetic catch in
his voice.
And his friend, Captain the Honourable
Ralph Vavassour Graham-drummed out of
the Cape Mounted Rifles because he had played
cards too well-replied in kind:
“My word! I am blessed!”
Then, on Macdonald's polite inquiry as to
what had seemed to be the trouble, he added:
35


SEVEN MEN
rally, I asked the beggar to charge them up.
Then he got positively rough.”
“Very, very,” chimed in his cherub-faced
friend.
.
“And then,” Graham continued, "I ex-
plained to him. Wrong of me, I fancy-
always rotten faux-pas to get familiar with the
serving classes—but I explained to him the
reasons for our temporary pecuniary em-
barrassment. I imagine I rather talked a bit
above his head. I told him it's the fault of
this accurst country-I beg your pardon,
Mac—and he got very indignant. Told me
something about America . . . and getting
out ..."
Macdonald laughed.
“I heard that part."
Graham flushed.
“I couldn't very well argue the point with
him—”
Walsh looked up from his cards.
“You bet your sweet life you couldn't,” he
37


BUCKING THE TIGER
broke in, and pointed at the cuspidor which
the infuriated Chung had hurtled after the two
Englishmen.
Graham continued as if he had not heard
the interruption.
"You know I am right, Mac. Take me and
yourself and Hillyer. Take the count. All
of us chaps of ability, education, and personal-
ity. And not one of us able to make a living
here, in a new, rich country, by Jupiter! It's
a shame!"
“Right-oh, a blooming shame!” Hillyer em-
phasised.
Macdonald smiled. The situation was de-
veloping the way he wished it to. He thought
of a letter his father had written him after his
last demand for money, and he quoted more or
less unconsciously.
“There's a job and a future for every man
with energy and brain in this country. The
West is all right. Look at men, right in this
town, men like Houghton and Kenny. They
38


SEVEN MEN
started with nothing-see what they are
to-day.”
Graham looked annoyed. The idea of
others having money had always been distaste-
ful to him, something in the nature of a per-
sonal affront. He was about to speak, but
Macdonald continued:
"It's we who are at fault. Not the land.”
He was beginning to convince himself, and he
waxed enthusiastic. “We are broke because
we deserve it.”
"I fancy you ought to know,” Graham broke
in with sardonic mildness.
“You bet I know," Macdonald replied with
utter, ringing conviction. “I've had lots of
chances. I've held a dozen jobs since I left
Princeton and shed my blushing peg-top pants.
I made money, too, lots of money." He
laughed a little bitterly. “But I lost the dol-
lars as fast as I roped them in-blooie-bang-
whoop—gone to the devil and nothing to show
for them except a ruined liver, a bulbous con-
39


BUCKING THE TIGER
science and a taste for gin-fizzes in the morn-
ing. It's our fault, not the country's.”
Walsh suddenly threw down the cards. He
turned.
“Say, you fellows, what's all the row about?"
Macdonald explained, and the cowpuncher
snorted contemptuously.
“Well, why the hell don't you work if you
want money?"
Graham shrugged his shoulders. His lips
were twisted in a thin, unpleasant smile.
“Very democratic and very American, I am
sure!" Suddenly he was quite serious, and his
ordinary mannerisms were dropping away
from him. “I personally do not work because
the game isn't worth the candle. I can make
two dollars a day here, I fancy. We can all
do that. Well, tell me, what is two dollars a
day? Give me a few thousand dollars cash
down. Give me a stake worth while--and I'll
show you what I can do!”
40


BUCKING THE TIGER
what are we, eh? What have we accom-
plished?” He laughed. “I'll tell you what
you are.”
He jumped onto the box on which Walsh
and Traube had been playing cards and ad-
dressed them in the manner of a side-show
spieler.
"Exhibit Al” he shouted, pointing an ac-
cusing finger at the German. “Herr Traube,
curst with the prefix Gottlieb! Once you were
a slinger of high-class hash for the gentry and
nobility of Seattle! Once you used to coax
the merry dollars from the buckskin pouches
of furry Alaskans! Then you fell foul of an
Irishman! And what are you to-day? You're
broke! You're down-and-out!”
He paused for a moment, glancing round
the circle of laughing men. Then he singled
out Walsh.
“As Exhibit B we have Andy Walsh, for-
merly the terror of the Wyoming plains, the
champion bull-thrower of the grand and cocky
42


SEVEN MEN
State of Arizona! And what is he now?
Broke! Down-and-out!”
He bowed, mock-ceremoniously.
"Captain the Honourable Ralph Vavassour
Fitzharries Mordaunt Graham! Have I got
it all straight? Take yourself. Formerly the
intrepid killer of many and hairy Boers! The
pride of Mayfair, the despair of Petticoat
Lane! What are you now? You're down-
and-out!”
Graham was about to give a sharp answer,
but Macdonald continued quickly, turning to
Hillyer:
"Step forward, friend Hillyer, from Hillyer-
super-Mer, Sussex, England! Step forward,
descendant of a thousand generations of fox-
hunting squires who died like gentlemen from
the gout! Once you carried tea-baskets to
ancient female villagers! Once you played
rustic games with the daughters of the vicar-
age! Then you got thirsty-oh, so very thirsty
-and what are you to-day? You sell the His-
43


BUCKING THE TIGER
tory of the United States in fifteen volumes,
ten cents down and three cents every five min-
utes! In other words, you're down-and-out!”
He addressed the Frenchman with a little
sigh.
“Cometh now the flower of the Faubourg St.
Germain, the monocled hero of the Inner Bou-
levards, the Count Jean de Salle La Terriere!
Think back, monsieur. Remember the dear
old days when you fought bloodless duels,
when you flirted with the wife of your best
friend, when you charmed feminine ears with
those lyrics which a poet in a happy moment of
inspiration compared to the scintillating mag-
netism of a steamed clam! Are you still ar-
rayed in white spats and a comical high hat?
No! You're bust. You're down-and-out!"
He continued after a short pause.
“Remains Donald Hayes, the Native Son,
the. Booster from Boosterville on the broad
Pacific, where the climate and the oranges and
the fleas come from; the son of wild Forty-
44


· BUCKING THE TIGER
of the Confederacy, and the Elks! When I
played football for Princeton, I killed two men
of Yale, and seriously crippled three others!
And what of that? What has remained of the
past glories? . . . Nothing, my friends! I'm
broke! I too am down-and-out!”
"What are you going to do about it?" It
was Walsh who spoke. “Are you going to
work?”
“No,” said Macdonald. “Not if I can avoid
it. I got a plan that's got work skinned a
dozen miles. Listen, you fellows!"
There was general commotion. A plan
which didn't imply work? That sounded
promising. They pulled up their chairs, and
gathered closely around Macdonald.
“Shoot!" commanded Walsh.


CHAPTER III
THE PLAN
ET us—” Macdonald began, and
was suddenly silent.
"Let's what?" asked Andy Walsh.
For several dragging seconds Macdonald
studied the eager faces about him. He said to
himself that it would be a good deed to put a
puppy with hydrophobia out of its pain, though
it would probably struggle for the miserable
tatters of its life while it was being killed, and
that it would be as deserving a deed to do away
with these rotten human failures around him.
Still, a great scientist might extract some life-
giving serum from the puppy's stark corpse, so
why not,
He smiled.
“Let's what?” Walsh asked again.


THE PLAN
hand over a pretty penny. And you got to
keep on coming across until you die; the longer
you live, the more you got to pay. It ain't the
right sort of insurance for a healthy man. Nor
can you borrow a single cent on it, and, of
course, if at any time you fall down on a single
premium, you don't get back a cent and you
lose your whole ante.”
“That doesn't matter. How much is the
first year's premium ?”
“What age?”
Macdonald glanced around the company,
quickly striking an average.
“About thirty years, I guess.”
“One hundred thousand bones, you said?”
“Yes.”
Hayes pointed at the book.
“There you are, Mac. Two thousand bones
premium the first year. What do you want
to know for?" He laughed. “You aren't
thinking of taking out any insurance, are
you?"
49


THE PLAN
ing clergyman come to console the widow and
the orphans. He smiled reflectively.
“That's just what I said. It's too bad that
there isn't a way by which a man can discount
his own death; collect the insurance while he is
still alive.”
Traube and the Frenchman looked at each
other. The century-old hatred of Continental
neighbours fell away before this transatlan-
tic madness. The two Englishmen looked
frankly bored.
But Hayes and Walsh, being Americans,
were even willing to discuss the impossible.
"Say,” it was the cowpuncher who spoke,
"that would be a hell of a fat proposition for
the company."
Macdonald replied in a low voice, and yet
violently.
"And what of that? If it's right for the
company to bet against your death, is it wrong
for me to bet against the company?"
"Sure it ain't,” laughed Walsh. “But the
51


BUCKING THE TIGER
company dealsmalways; and the company
stacks the deck—always!"
Macdonald stuck to his position. He spoke
solidly.
"Well, suppose I show you a way of stacking
the cards against the company, of cutting the
deck and of dealing yourself? Suppose I show
you a way of making some money-real
money? Are you with me, all of you?”
Money? There was a sweet sound to the
word, sweet and soothing. Even the Euro-
peans showed interest once more. The six men
knew that Macdonald was no fool. They
could sense that he had a concrete idea in the
back of his brain. But they feared that the
idea had something to do with fraud. They
were not averse to fraud on any moral ground,
but they feared the legal consequences.
Hayes voiced their sentiments.
“Say, Mac, your little game has been tried.
The Walla-Walla jail's full of impetuous pro-
moters who've tried to stack the deck against
52


THE PLAN
life insurance people. Say, those companies
wouldn't believe you dead even if they saw you
buried in your grave. You got to die before
five notary publics and three witnesses—and
they appoint the witnesses !" :
Then he hedged.
"Still, if your scheme's really worth while, I
guess we'd all be willing to-to-” he paused,
and looked at the others. “Say, fellows,
wouldn't we?”
There was a feebly fluttering murmur of as-
sent. It was not very hearty. They did not
want to commit themselves. Yet Macdonald
had spoken of "real money"! Why, yes, they
declared, they were willing to be shown.
Macdonald congratulated himself. He saw
that they would not be reluctant if he could
show them how to break the law without rude
interference on the part of the district attorney.
And he had no intention of breaking the law at
all.
He spoke very slowly.
53


BUCKING THE TIGER
“Suppose we all chip in together. Suppose
we buy a heavy insurance—say a hundred thou-
sand dollars—for one of our number?”
"Vell, wot good would dat do?" inquired
Traube. “De fellow wot's insured ain't going
to die chust to oblige de oders, iss he?”
“Why not?” Macdonald asked casually, and
was silent.
The others looked at him aghast. They
drew a little away from him as if he was a
dangerous maniac. Macdonald continued in a
quiet, but ugly voice.
“Why shouldn't you die, Traube? Why
shouldn't Graham die, or the count, or I myself
-or any one of us, for that matter? Will
there be any one to regret us, to mourn
us, our nasty, lounging ways, our ineffective
kicking and snarling, our rotten little failures,
our filthy little joys?"
He stopped. He had the look of something
isolated and hostile amid the subdued excite-
ment of the others.
54


THE PLAN
Subconsciously they knew what Macdonald
meant; subconsciously they were afraid of it.
So there was little surprise at Macdonald's next
words.
“The man whose life we insure will have to
commit suicide. That's all.” There was a
great gust of awed silence; but Macdonald con-
tinued without giving them breathing space,
turning loose his whole forcible personality like
a cyclone.
"I am perfectly serious," he shouted.
“We're broke! We are down-and-outers!
Nobody gives a damn for us, and we don't give
a damn for each other or for ourselves! We're
sick of being broke. We're sick of earning a
measly little three or four bones now and again.
We want real money-three, four, five thou-
sand dollars-enough to give us a chance;
enough to give us a new start!”
"You bet yer life,” Walsh chimed in, and
the others agreed in a rumbling chorus.
"You see you agree with me,” Macdonald
55


THE PLAN
donald cut him short impatiently. “Good
heavens, man, can't you see? It's as clear as
pea-soup. We got to stump up enough money
to pay the first year's premium. That's the
main proposition. But it appears that our sui-
cidal appointee has to live a year before he can
make the grand kick-off which allows us to
collect his insurance.
"All right. So all we've got to do is to chip
in a little more cash. The man has to live a
year before we can realise on our investment.
Don't you see? If a fellow's kind enough to
cut his throat so as to line our pockets, we got
to be sports and make that last year one grand
little spree for him. We got to chip in more.
We got to make that last year worth while for
him. No work for him, eh? No worry. Just
a continuous alcoholic bliss, and then--at the
end of the year—the kick-off!”
Again awed silence swept through the room.
Only Hillyer, at the thought of a whole year's
alcoholic bliss, ejaculated a loud “Hurrah”; but.
57


BUCKING THE TIGER
was instantaneously quiet when he noticed the
rather tragic expressions of the others.
But the silence lasted only a few moments.
There were excited whispers and exclamations.
Gold, gold! they thought. A chance and a
start, a new start! Traube thought of the
café. Hayes thought of an orange grove in
Southern California, Walsh of a riotous and
plutocratic descent upon his former fellow-
cowpunchers in Alberta, while the Frenchman
was considering vaguely how long it would
take him to finish his book and how much it
would cost him to be his own publisher.
Only Graham struck a discordant note. He
disliked the American instinctively.
“What is it, Mac?” he said with a smile which
seemed moulded in marble. "The survival of
the fittest, or the extinction of the one of us
who is most unfit?”
Macdonald hardly heard him. He rose to
his feet, gesticulating, excited, carried away
by his own eloquence.
58


THE PLAN
“What does death amount to after all,” he
cried, “and what does life amount to for that
matter? The difference between the two is
nothing but a wrong calculation. Don't you
see that unless you're rich and carefree you're
paying too big a price for the privilege of liv-
ing? We're broke! The world's against us!
And here's one way to get the best of that beast
of a world, to make life worth while, to put us
on our feet. Here's the way for all of us-
for all of us but one!”
“Yes,” the Frenchman said softly, “but what
about that one?”
Macdonald laughed.
“Well, count, it's the old story of the sailors
who were shipwrecked on a desert isle. They
got hungry, very hungry. They didn't like the
idea-didn't care much for roasted sailor-but
they had to do it. They had to eat one of their
number to keep alive. We, too, are ship-
wrecked sailors, shipwrecked in the gales of
life. Let's turn cannibals. Let's eat one of
59


BUCKING THE TIGER
ourselves. What do you say? Quick! De-
cide! Come on! Don't be pikers!”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Sud-
denly each of the six men decided that he
would be the one who'd have to commit suicide
at the end of the year and the thought damp-
ened their enthusiasm. Macdonald sensed their
hesitation, and he proceeded to whip them into
line once more.
"Come on!” he shouted furiously. “Let's
see if you've got two ounces of sporting blood
left. Don't be afraid. This is as straight a
gamble as ever was. We have all the same
chance; for six of us a substantial sum of money
at the end of the year, enough for a new chance,
a fresh start in life; and for the seventh one
year of peace and plenty-no worry, no hun-
ger, no thirst, no tramping the streets, no hunt-
ing for jobs, no dirty, nasty lodging houses
and at the end of the year," he lowered his
voice"—at the end of the year a quiet, quick,
clean death, and the comedy is finished! Good
60


THE PLAN
God, what more do you want, you cowards?
Do you want to live forever?”
Walsh jumped up as if raised by a
spring.
“I'll go you, old sport,” he shouted; then he
turned to the others. “Come on in; the water's
fine!"
And the next moment, with shouts and yells
and sporadic spurts of hysterical laughter, they
had all agreed to the crazy proposal.
Even Graham lost some of his sneering com-
posure. Faint red spots appeared on his pallid
cheeks.
"All right,” he said, and his voice trembled a
little.
"All blooming right, you mean," broke in
his countryman and faithful satellite. Then he
turned to Macdonald and shook his hand,
pumphandle-fashion.
“Colossal brain you've got, old top. Cork-
ing idea! Extraordinarily feasible! Very
sporty, in fact! Only,” he scratched his
61


BUCKING THE TIGER
curly hair, "if you will pardon me for introduc-
ing sordid details, how much will this little es-
capade cost us apiece—and who's going to be
the blooming goat?"
62


CHAPTER IV
THE TURN OF A CARD
ILLYER'S remark had certain
reactionary effects on the outflush-
ing enthusiasm of the others.
While Macdonald was speaking, they had felt
themselves caught in an unaccustomed eddy of
things happening, things new and strange, with
a golden bait wriggling at the tail-end. But
here was something concrete. The English-
man's materialism had put it into words.
How much would it cost them? And who
would be the goat?
Macdonald settled the first question in short
time.
“You heard what Hayes said. Two thou-
sand dollars premium the first year.”
"I'll knock off my commission; say, eight
63


BUCKING THE TIGER
hundred dollars," interrupted the Californian.
"Leaves twelve hundred," Macdonald con-
tinued. "Now, how much for our candidate to
live on during his last year on earth?”
"A thousand dollars," it was the Frenchman
who spoke.
Macdonald laughed.
“Not on your life. You can't expect a man
to kill himself for six bits. Also, don't you
think, Hayes, it would look rather fishy to the
insurance people if a man who can afford to
take out a whopping big life insurance, has to
live like a piker and pinch and scrape?”
“Yes,” the Californian agreed. “That's
right.”
“Three thousand bones,” Macdonald in-
sisted. “That's the very least we can give to
our suicidal appointee. Add the twelve hun-
dred insurance premium, and you have four
thousand two hundred dollars. Divide by
six.” He figured rapidly. “There you are,
fellows. Each and every one of the cannibals
64


THE TURN OF A CARD
will have to contribute seven hundred dollars.”
Hillyer gasped with amazement.
"Seven hundred dollars! My sainted
grand-aunt Euphrosinia!” There was an ex-
pression of hurt surprise on his round, cherubic
face which made him look like a saint with a
tile loose. “Bloody stiff that, Mac!”
Macdonald laughed.
“But dirt-cheap for the investment. For at
the end of the year you get your dividend.
One-sixth part of a hundred thousand dollars!
Figure it out for yourself.”
They all started figuring excitedly.
"A little over sixteen thousand dollars
apiece,” Hillyer announced; and again a wave
of enthusiasm spread over the company.
"Say,” Walsh cut in, “that ain't bad; but all
the same, pard, how in the name of hades are
we going ter earn the money for the jack-pot?”
“We've got to,” Macdonald replied.
And this time he found a hearty supporter in
Graham.
65


BUCKING THE TIGER
“Look here, Andy,” the ex-warrior said with
conviction. "Mac is right. We've jolly well
got to. Besides, hang it all, it shan't be so
deuced hard to earn seven hundred dollars.
Why, we are men of education and ability, of
strength, what?" He quite forgot the senti-
ments he had expressed only half an hour ago,
and continued serenely. “The country is
young and rich.. 'Pon my word! I am con-
vinced that personally I shall be able to earn
my little bit in no time.”
· A sarcastic remark trembled on Macdonald's
lips, but he suppressed it when he saw the
lugubrious expression on Hillyer's face.
“What is it?” he asked.
"I was just wondering," the other replied,
"if my governor can be persuaded to remit that
much.” He looked a little more hopeful.
“Still—by Jupiter—I've got a dashed old
spinster aunt in the Midlands—very wealthy—
large, sympathetic sums in the three per-cents
-positively reeking with oof-used to tip me
66


THE TURN OF A CARD
guineas when I was at Harrow. Fancy I'll
tap the old girl by cable. What do you
think?"
"Perhaps you won't have to cable,” Mac-
donald said quietly. “You can't tell yet, you
know. Perhaps you'll be the candidate.”
“O Moses, King of the Jews!” Hillyer
exclaimed fervently, and collapsed again.
A wave of dejection settled over the crowd.
Their enthusiasm was flickering out like a
candle in the wind. But Macdonald gave
them no time to reflect or to recant.
“Let's quit this shilly-shallying and get
down to brass tacks!” he cried enthusiastically.
“We've agreed on the principle of the thing.
We've agreed on its poetic justice and eminent
feasibility. We've agreed on the amount
we've got to stump up for the jack-pot. Now,
let's agree on the candidate. Any volun-
teers?" He glanced around him, encountering
only frowning, distinctly negative faces. “Of
course not. Let's"
67


BUCKING THE TIGER
Walsh jumped up.
"Let the cards decide,” he cried, and swept
the greasy deck from the box where he and
Traube had been playing pitch. “Here,
Mac,” he gave him the cards, "shuffle, cut 'em
yerself, and deal. Go on ... the first ace
means—ahem, you know, don't yer?”
“Death?” Macdonald queried.
“You're on. Go ahead!"
Macdonald looked at the others for con-
firmation of the cowpuncher's proposal. They
looked grey, dejected. The idea that in a
moment a bit of painted paste-board would
decide life and death between them passed not
so much across their minds as across the pits of
their stomachs. Only Walsh and Hayes kept
their nerves under fair control.
Graham was conscious of a greasy, sickly
taste on his lips, while Traube caught himself
just in time from executing a frantic leap in the
direction of the door. The Frenchman stared
at the wall, his eyes protruding on his bullet-
68


THE TURN OF A CARD
shaped head; and Hillyer was a cherubic, curly-
haired study in the most appalling shades of
dejection and despair.
But automatically, while their souls seemed
to be contemplating some very distant and not
very cheerful object, they mumbled, “Yes-go
on,” like a Greek tragedy chorus.
Macdonald shuffled the deck with steady
fingers. He cut and commenced dealing from
left to right, turning the cards face-up as he
dealt them.
"Here you are, count,” he said in a great,
oratorical bass, and gave the first card to the
Frenchman, who bowed gravely, remembering
even in that moment of fear and expectation
what was demanded of a man who bore the
oriflamme of St. Denis on his scutcheon.
“The eight of spades. Saved for France and
glory—at least so far.”
The Frenchman gave a little joyful excla-
mation, but instantaneously resumed his tragic
expression as he looked at the others. Mac-
69


BUCKING THE TIGER
donald had turned up another card. He gave
it to Hillyer.
“The nine of diamonds, old man. You may
have to cable to your aunt after all.”
Graham was next in line. He had to react
with all the force of his will against a sensation
of faintness running down his legs.
“Go on, go on,” he said thickly. “Cut out
the chaffing."
Macdonald laughed and dealt.
“The king of spades—danger line, my boy.
Reminds you of the Boers, eh?”
Walsh was next and received a small dia-
mond, while Traube got the queen of hearts.
"Ach!” he exclaimed huskily; then, with an
access of heavy, Teutonic humour:"Gott bless
de ladies!”
But nobody smiled. Hayes seemed afraid
to open his lips lest a groan should escape him.
“Hey there, you wooden-faced panjan-
drum,” Macdonald shouted, and tossed him a
card.
70


THE TURN OF A CARD
It was the four of clubs. He paused for a
moment. Then he swiftly dealt a card to him-
self. He picked it up, looked at it, and tore it
into a dozen pieces.
“What was it, what was it?” Graham de-
manded with an ugly oath.
Macdonald laughed.
“What d'you think it was?”
“I think it was an ace, by heck!”
Again the other laughed.
“And you're right. It was an ace!"
There was a sweep of utter silence. The six
men sat rigid, looking into each other's faces
guiltily. Then suddenly, Graham jumped
up.
“You-you—” He stuttered in his excite-
ment, and his face turned purple. “You lose
-da-da-damn you! You losekYou
won't back outf-You'll live up to the com-
pact! You,”
Macdonald looked him up and down.
“Of course I will, you damned cad,” he said,
71


BUCKING THE TIGER
in a level voice. “I'll live up to it, and I'll die
up to it when the time comes."
Graham controlled himself with an effort.
“I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. "I
didn't mean to—”
“Shut up,” Walsh interrupted him with a
roar. “Shut up, yer pap-fed, yellow-livered,
slobbery-mouthed, sheep-herding coward!
Shut up, yer spotted, body-snatching gila-
monster!"
He turned to Macdonald. “Look a-here,
pard,” he said. “I'm as sorry as hell, to put it
mildly. An' say let's call this thing off. I
don't like it- -"
Macdonald shook his hand warmly.
“Well, Alkali Bill, you aren't such a bad
gink after all. But don't tell me that you're
sorry. Because you're not. You're glad,
man, you're tickled to death—and you bet I'd
be if I was in your boots.”
Walsh was going to say something else.
But Macdonald continued.
172


BUCKING THE TIGER
place. I'll join the club. I'll have a hell of
a time.
“But you,” he jeered at them, “you poor
simps, you'll have to work for me. God, how
you'll work to make that seven hundred plunks
apiece; and you'll make it. You bet you'll
make it; because you know it's a cinch; because
you know that I won't welsh. Yes, you down-
and-outers, you'll have to work like fiends, and
1-I'll be the gentleman of leisure.”
There was a short pause.
“My word!” murmured Hillyer. “There's
something to that! Suppose the governor
refuses to remit; suppose the aunt, My
word!” he said again, and goggled up like a
dying fish.
The thought of how hard they would have
to work to contribute their seven hundred
dollars each struck them all with sadness.
Hayes sighed. He pointed at the bar-room.
“Let's have a snifter,” he said. “It'll cheer
us up.”
V4


THE TURN OF A CARD
There was a general movement in the direc-
tion of the bar-room; but Macdonald stopped
them with a gesture.
"I wouldn't if I were you,” he said softly.
They turned and looked at him question-
ingly.
"You see,” he continued with the same sar-
donic mildness. “You see, I want the last
ounce of flesh. I want every cent of that three
thousand, and I want it darned quick. I give
you a week to come across with the boodle!”
“A week?” Graham gasped.
"Exactly. You must respect a dying man's
last wish, don't you think?” Then he con-
tinued seriously. "Yes, a week; not one single
day more, mark my words. You'll have to
start out, bright and early, to-morrow and
work. Gad, how you'll work! So, take my
tip, and cut out the booze. Off to bed with
you. Don't hang round to pick flowers. Re-
member: seven hundred bones apiece—and
seven days to earn 'em in!”
75


BUCKING THE TIGER
They filed out, one by one, without another
word. Walsh was the last to go. He turned
at the door and walked up to Macdonald.
“Look a-here, pard,” he began hoarsely.
But Macdonald cut him short.
“That's all right, Andy," he said. “I know
what you're going to tell me. No, no! For-
get it can it-cheese it—dry it, and keep it
under cover! Let me alone. You're a decent
sort, but
He pointed at the door, and Walsh left.
Macdonald walked up and down. He was
deep in thoughts. It had all happened just
the way he had wanted. He had lost, and he
had wanted to lose. He had even cheated so
as to lose. For, remembering an old trick he
had learned in college, he had palmed card after
card so as not to give an ace to any of the
others; and when his own turn had come he had
torn up his card before the others had had a
chance to see it.
He picked up the pieces which were littering
S
76


THE TURN OF A CARD
the floor and put them together. They took
the form of the jack of diamonds. He
laughed and put the pieces in the stove.
He walked up to the window and looked out.
He was surprised to see that night had passed,
and that the grey-white of early daybreak had
already come.
One year; twelve months; three hundred and
sixty-five days, and then? He wondered if he
had been a fool, or a very, very wise man.
He felt as he imagined a high-flying bird
must feel, alone in the upper space.
Suddenly the air of the room oppressed him.
He felt slightly sick. The atmosphere was
acrid, greasy, intolerable. He flung open the
window and let in a rush of cool morning air.
He looked at the landscape with steady eyes.
The East was drowning in ensanguined
colours, and a sort of soft, lazy, sleepy flame
was creeping over the tips of the pine-trees
down in Hangman's Canyon. He looked up
the street. All the common, wretched things,
77


BUCKING THE TIGER
the ugly, desolate frame houses, the rickety
fences, the slanting chimneys, were losing their
drab. Under the pagan gold of the morning
they burned like costly and curious jewels.
He passed his hand across his forehead, and
was surprised when he felt that it was covered
with moisture.
Suicide, he thought, final oblivion, the be-
yond—and no more worries. Also one year of
plenty. For three thousand dollars! Three
thousand dollars!
He buried his face in his hands.
Three thousand dollars, he said to himself;
what a chance he would have for a new start, a
new life, with three thousand dollars in real
money!
Gee, what a chance!
78


CHAPTER V
MAC'S JACKPOT
6 TROIKE me pink fer an ’anky-
panky Heytalian organ-grinder if I
goes and meddles with this 'ere
ruddy swine of a jackanapes wot's got more
pants than ’orse-sense!” briefly and casually
remarked Lord Graham in the general direc-
tion of his wife and the sizzling coffee-urn.
Lady Graham, sweet-faced, corpulent, and
white-haired, looked up with a smile.
"What is it, dear?”
Her husband did not appear to have heard
her.
“Aw! fer a bloomin' dustbin!” he said with
a veritable shriek of agony.
This time even Stubbins, the immaculate,
funereal butler, who stood behind his lordship’s
chair, came out of his professional calm.
79


BUCKING THE TIGER
“I beg your pardon, m’ludd, did you ask for
a-a-eh-a dustbin?”
“Right-oh,” came the uncompromising
answer.
"Thank you, m’ludd,” said the butler, and
added, after a discreet pause, in a very still
voice, “Pardon me, m’ludd, but may I ask what
for?”
Lord Graham turned in his chair and threw
a withering glance at the faithful Stubbins.
“To bury my ’ead in, yer plurry fool!”
Then, with another shriek of rage: "Tike that
ugly mug of yours out of this 'ere room. Go
on. Sling yer 'ooks!”
“Thank you, m’ludd.” Stubbins bowed and
withdrew.
Lady Graham had been quietly buttering the
goldenest, fattest muffin that ever came out of
an English kitchen.
“What's the matter, dear?” she asked again
smilingly.
Her husband slammed a pudgy, dimpled,
80


MAC'S JACKPOT
babyish hand on an open cablegram which was
resting against the sugar basin.
“Did you arsk wot's the matter, Syrah?
Why, this 'ere bloomin' tuppenc-'ypenny, mud-
dlin', rotten—” Words failed him for a
moment. Then he added, fervently, incon-
tinently: “Aw Lord, stop the bus!”
Lord Graham jumped up from his chair and
walked up and down the length of the cheerful,
well-furnished breakfast room, which over-
looked the Sussex Downs.
His wife watched him, a frozen little smile
on her face. But she did not ask him again.
He would tell her in his own good time, she
knew.
For nearly fifty years she had been his wife
and his only sweetheart, his friend and faithful
ally. She had been his wife in the old days
when he kept a fried-fish shop on the barbarous
confines of Pimlico; later on, when he ex-
panded his fried-fish enterprise from shop to
shop until it covered all of Pimlico and half of
81


BUCKING THE TIGER
Soho; when he became the fried-fish monopolist
of the Metropolis, with branches all over Eng-
land and Wales; when he turned his business
into Graham & Co., Limited, he himself being
both the “Co.” and the “Limited”; and, finally,
when a judicious contribution of half a million
pounds sterling to the Conservative party fund
precipitated him, fried-fish and cockney accent
and all. into the House of Lords as Lord
Graham of Penville.
She had been the sharer of his deep joy when,
late in life, she had given birth to a son and
heir; and of his horrible, inarticulate sorrow
when the same son and heir had been cashiered
from the army and the company of decent men
for conduct "unbecoming an officer and a
gentleman.”
Together with her husband, helpless, hope-
less, she had seen their son go down the ladder,
rung by rung.
And now the boy was over there in America,
in Spokane, as far as she knew. For they only
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MAC'S JACKPOT
heard from him when he got into a specially dis-
graceful scrape and had to have money.
Six months back Lord Graham had sworn
that he would not send his son another shilling
as long as he lived. She knew that her hus-
band stuck to his decision once he had made up
his obstinate old mind. And now she was
horribly afraid of what the cable might contain.
For it was doubtless from Ralph.
So she watched her husband with a smile on
her face. But it was a make-believe smile, and
her old hands were trembling.
Finally she could no longer stand the
suspense.
"Is it?” she asked brokenly.
“No, Syrah, old dear. This time it ain't that
Johnnie boy of ours. It's that friend of 'is,
that 'ere young Willyum ’Illyer."
“Sir Charles's son?”
"Right-oh."
And he began to explain.
"You see, Syrah, Sir Charles 'as done just
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BUCKING THE TIGER
the same as me. 'E stopped sendin' 'im remit-
tances. The old codger told me so 'imself.
And now that son of 'is ’as gone and married a
bloomin' Indian, one of them 'ere red femyles,
all pynt and feathers and—and—” he went
rapidly over his literary recollections, “and
scalp locks, and bleedin' tommyhawks and
and all that,” he finished lamely.
"But what did he cable you for?” his wife
demanded.
“ 'E didn't. Ralph did.”
“Ralph? Our son?”
“Yuss. 'E cybles me that Willyum's comin'
'ome to England. Gawd knows ’ow 'e's raised
the money for the trip, but comin' 'ome 'e is—
Indian wife and pynt and tommyhawk all com-
plete—and ’e's goin' to disgrayce and shyme 'is
father, Sir Charles, just out of rotten cussed-
ness-aw Lord !”
"But what does Ralph want you to do about
it? Break the news to Sir Charles?”
"Not at all! On the contrary! Ralph sez
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MAC'S JACKPOT
'e 'ad a talk with this 'ere Indian wife of
Willyum's, and for a thousand dollars she's
willin' to sling 'er bloomin' 'ooks; to run away
from 'er ’usband. Ralph sez to cyble the
money to 'im at once.”
Lady Graham smiled.
“You must do it, dear. At once.”
“But I ’ave sworn as I wouldn't send any
more money to that precious son of ours.”
“This is different, dear. This isn't for
Ralph. It's really for Sir Charles. He is a
good friend of yours. He has been so nice to
us, introducing us to the country gentry and
all that.”
"Right-oh, old gel. Right as rain.” He
kissed his wife. “I'm off to London in ’arf a
| jiff and cyble this 'ere money."
Twenty minutes later he was on the station
platform, waiting for the Brighton and South
Coast Express. And the last man to enter
his compartment, red, hurried, perspiring was
Sir Charles Hillyer, William's father.
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BUCKING THE TIGER
Sir Charles was a proud and wealthy man of
a family which had been identified with Sussex
for over a thousand years.
"My dear sir,” he used to say, “the Hillyers
ate Sussex mutton and drank Sussex ale long
before the Conqueror stuck his ugly Norman
nose across the Channel.”
His motto was “High Church, High Tory-
ism and Old Port forever"; and he hated Radi-
cals, Dissenters, the London County Council,
and self-made men. But his most venomous
hatred was directed against the House of
Lords, which he called "that infernal breeding-
place of bloated, mediocre parvenus, that
dumping-ground of ennobled wholesale butch-
ers, brewers, carterers, and licensed victual-
lers.” But, since he made a point of not living
up to his ferocious Tory principles, he had
somehow taken a great liking to the cockney
peer, Lord Graham of Penville, who had
bought the estate next to his.
"Hullo, Graham!”
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MAC'S JACKPOT
“Hullo, Charles!”
The greetings were friendly and informal
enough. Yet Lord Graham was embarrassed
as he looked at his vis-à-vis and thought of his
Wild-West daughter-in-law; and a shrewd
observer would have noticed that Sir Charles
was just as embarrassed. But, between curs- .
ing the Liberals and deciding that Free Trade
was ruining England, the two gentlemen man-
aged to keep up a friendly flow of conversation
which lasted them until the express drew into
the Waterloo Station.
There were a few hurried words of farewell.
Then Lord Graham took a taxicab and so did
Sir Charles; and both machines whirred off in
the direction of the city.
Half an hour later, Lord Graham was at
the Smith and Union Bank arranging a cable
transfer of one thousand dollars to his son in
Spokane, while Sir Charles was at the Lloyd
and Globe, where he drew his check for eleven
hundred dollars to be wired to his son. For he,


BUCKING THE TIGER
too, had received a cablegram this morning
from his son, practically identical with the one
over which Lord Graham had fumed so at
breakfast.
Only in Sir Charles's message it appeared
that it was the Honorable Ralph who had taken
a squaw wife to his bosom; and William, being
a little more far-sighted than his friend, had
cabled that it would cost eleven hundred dol-
lars, and not a thousand, to buy off the squaw.
Thus, twenty-four hours later, Hillyer,
Junior, and Graham, Junior, were silently
shaking hands outside of the Spokane branch
of the Bank of Montreal, where Fred Cum-
mins, the manager, had just paid eleven hun-
dred dollars to the former and a thousand
dollars to the latter.
They stepped around at once to the Old
National Bank and paid seven hundred dollars
each into the account which had been opened
for the contributions of the members of the
syndicate. Hillyer was for a speedy and
88


MAC'S JACKPOT
eminently festive investment of the remaining
seven hundred dollars.
"I say, old top,” he said, “let's buy clothes
and things . . . let's have a gin-and-bitters
and a few cocktails; then a bit of food, what?
Then ”
But Graham, true though dissolute son of
the fried-fish monopolist, pronounced a stern
veto.
"No, by Jupiter. We've seven hundred
dollars left, and we're going to save it. One
of the other chaps might fall down on his pay-
ment, you know, and then we can buy him
out."
“No danger of Mac welshing, what?”
Graham laughed.
“Not he, the blooming fool! Come on, let's
go for a car ride. The fresh air will do us
C
US
good.”
So they boarded the next car and were off
toward Cour d'Alene Lake.
Early that morning, Count Jean de Salle La
89


BUCKING THE TIGER
Terriere could have been seen leaning over the
railing of the bridge which spans the Spokane
Falls. He was letting his thoughts take pos-
session of him, and the rhythmic gurgle of the
falls seemed like a modulator of the visions of
his life that floated through his mind.
They were black thoughts, blacker visions,
and deep in his heart he envied Macdonald who
had drawn the ace two nights ago at Eslick's.
He envied him, nom d'un chien, he, a gentle-
man of the Faubourg St. Germain, the de-
scendant of men who had been Peers of France,
and Chevaliers of the Saint Esprit.
The count felt dejected. His soul was both
lumpy and leaky; and as he looked down at the
white, puffy froth of the falls, as he listened to
the slow, lapping sound of the waves farther
down in the whirlpool, as he saw the red wrack
of the rocks and heard the sucking of the green,
turbulent water, he felt like jumping down
from the bridge and ending it all. His heart
was like a weary sea-bird, far out on the ocean,
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MAC'S JACKPOT
when the night is down and no ship near on
which to flap down and rest.
He had started bright and early on the day
before to earn the seven hundred dollars.
He had begun by taking the last one of his
heirlooms to Ostrowski, the pawnbroker. It
was an exquisite, gold-framed miniature on
ivory of a saucy belle of the First Empire, of
his own great-grandmother.
But Ostrowski had shaken his head.
“Oy yoi, yoi! Vot vill I do mit der bicture
of a dead Frenchvoman? It ain't saleable and
it ain't moral, Frenchvomen ain't. Nebbich!
Was fürne Meschuggass!" he had exclaimed.
“I tell you vot I vill do. I gif you dree dollars
shbot cash for der frame, and I svear to you by
der Gott of Abraham and Jacob dat even den
I am cheating my children's children!” And
he had wiped an imaginary tear from his face at
the distressing thought.
The count had taken the three dollars. He
had collected another three from the kindly
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BUCKING THE TIGER
French couple who managed the wine cellar of
the Hotel Spokane.
Of course, there were the French priests of
Gonzaga College, the Jesuit High-School on
the other side of the railway tracks. They
would give him ten, perhaps twenty dollars,
out of pity, and because of his great name.
But he decided he would not go there. ' No!
And he had only five more days to earn the
seven hundred dollars in. So he thought; and
suddenly an idea came to him. He knew
where to go for information. For, like all
free-thinkers, he was a great believer in the
written word.
He crossed the bridge, turned up First Ave-
nue, and walked up the steps of the Carnegie
Library. He stepped to the information desk.
"Madame," he said timidly, politely.
Miss Hattie Reeves, capable, kind-hearted,
used to the strange riff-raff from all the world
which drifts to the Northwest, to the broken
gentlemen who dream away the greyness of an
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BUCKING THE TIGER
Café, carefully studying between bites the
notes which he had made at the library.
He left the town, walking in an easterly
direction. He swung along steadily. It was
late when he reached the place on which he had
decided. The sun had gone down, and the
clouds were like films of fire; and, as he gazed
at them he felt that he was moved by a spirit
greater than mere sordid love of treasure. For
even thus had his ruffianly ancestors descended
from their rocky fastnesses to levy toll from
merchant and monk.
He fastened the black neckerchief across his
face and got his gun in readiness. A minute
later he heard the faint whirring of the electric
car. A few breathless seconds . . . and he
saw the huge, white-glaring head-lights which
brought the lonely landscape into sharp relief.
He hailed the car with loud voice, and it
stopped. The count was quick and strong
despite his years; and it took him but a few
seconds to swing himself aboard the platform,
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MAC'S JACKPOT
to frighten the motorman and the conductor
into obedience, and to march them into the car,
ahead of him at the point of the gun.
He ordered the motorman to take off his cap
as a sort of collection box for the passengers.
“Put 'em up, and keep 'em up, gents,” he
said in as close an imitation of the approved
highway diction as he could master. "Shell
out, and be darned quick about it!”
Three passengers were in the car. The first
was a fat banker whom he knew by sight as the
president of the Farmers and Mechanics'
National and whom he had often watched
through the windows of Davenport's restau-
rant, eating his fill and being otherwise objec-
tionable.
“Frisk the gent,” the count ordered the
conductor.
The latter obeyed, and took a well-filled,
hearty pocketbook from the banker's inside
pocket, which he dropped into the cap.
But when the count got a good look at the
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BUCKING THE TIGER
other two passengers, his iron will failed him
and his revolver wavered the least little bit.
For they were Graham and Hillyer, his
fellow down-and-outers, his fellow members of
the suicide syndicate.
They had their hands up. Both looked
goggle-eyed, unhappy. Scared to death, the
count decided; and he was about to pass them
over. Heavens, he thought, they were as
broke as he himself. But on second considera-
tion he said to himself that, so as to avoid all
suspicion and to leave behind him as few clews
as possible, he had better carry his bluff
through.
But he nearly fainted, when, acting on his
orders, the conductor tapped their pockets and
relieved Graham of a fat roll of yellow-backs.
He swept the contents of the cap into his
pocket, backed out of the car, dropped from the
back platform, and ordered the motorman to
go on.
“Travel, pard, and keep on a travellin'," he
96


MAC'S JACKPOT
said, again quoting from the history of Jesse
James.
The motorman obeyed the order implicitly,
while the count plunged into the woods. He
reached the river, threw gun and neckerchief
into the turbulent waters, and returned to town
in a round-about way.
He sat down on a bench in Manitou Park,
and, striking match after match, he counted his
ill-gotten gains.
He found that the roll taken from Graham
contained seven hundred dollars even, while
the banker's added up to the tune of over two
thousand.
A happy, childlike smile spread over the face
of the count.
“Saint Denis and fifteen million pale-blue
rabbits!” he exclaimed. “But this is the
Wealth of Ophir! The Purse of Fortunatus!
The Treasure of the Queen of Sheba! Ah, by
the fifty-five little curly-tailed guinea pigs!"
He put the seven hundred dollars in his hip
97


BUCKING THE TIGER
pocket . .. just the sum he needed as his con-
tribution for Macdonald, he said to himself
with a chuckle. The other roll he buried in his
inside pocket. He would see by-and-by what
to do with it. The first thing, of course, would
be to redeem the little miniature which he had
sold, and then-oh, well, he would see.
And, happy and whistling a gay and de-
cidedly mundane French song, he left the
park and turned into Pacific Avenue.
He was about to turn into Sprague Street,
on his way to Eslick's when a crowd on the
corner attracted his attention. Many men had
gathered there, mostly miners and lumberjacks
from the near-by country come into town for a
spree, and they were surrounding somebody
who was evidently haranguing them. He
could hear a stray word now and then, tried to
push his way through the crowd to take a look
at the preacher, but could not break through.
Some Salvation Army man, he decided with
a shrug of the shoulders and a pitying smile
98


MAC'S JACKPOT
for all such uniformed Anglo-Saxon senti-
mentalities. He was about to turn away when
a word from the unseen preacher riveted his
attention.
He listened.
"I don't believe in dishonesty, gents," came
the voice from the thick of the crowd. “Yer
can call me a damned sheep-herdin' son of a
coyote if I don't believe in wot the Good Book
calls the Golden Rule ... since I've re-
formed, leastways."
"Say, pard, when did yer reform?" came a
ribald, alcoholic query.
But the orator paid no attention. He con-
tinued in a tremendous basso.
"No, gents, there ain't a wickeder sin than
stealin'-unless it be sheep-herdin'. Say, back
home in Wyoming I oncet saw a Chink lynched
for stealing a pair o' pants, and darned rotten
pants they were, too, not worth two bits; and
oncet I saw 'em string up a couple of greaser
cattle-rustlers wot had swiped some of old man
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BUCKING THE TIGER
Gibbons' yearlings; damned hard punishment,
sez you! And damned square justice, sez I!
It ain't the pants, nor it ain't the little calves!
It's the all-fired principle of the thing, gents!
For there ain't no greater crime than stealin'-
always exceptin' sheep-herdin'—and there ain't
no excuse for it at all."
The count blushed furiously. Perspirations
studded his brow. Good Lord, he had stolen
money an hour ago. He had held up an
electric car. He had
: But he had to have money. He had to!
What did that snivelling, sentimental Salva-
tion Army man understand of the tribulations
of a man like himself? Again he turned to go.
But more people had gathered in back of him,
and he found it impossible to break out of the
circle of listeners. He listened in spite of him-
self.
“And who's responsible for stealin'?” the
voice continued. “Let me tell yer! It's them
saloons, gents, it's them whiskey-sellin' dens of
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MAC'S JACKPOT
-of—iniquerty and shame, believe me! It's
them gin-sinks wot's rottin' the guts out of our
manhood and the bread out of our children's
innercent mouths! I'm for perhibition, gents,
first, last, and all the time!"
There was derisive laughter. But the un-
seen orator continued unruffled.
‘Come on up, gents, and do a good deed!
I'm collectin' for this here anti-booze cam-
paign, for I sez that lips wot have touched
licker—be it whiskey, gin, or even plain, or-
dinary beer-shall never touch mine!”
“Say, who the hell wants ter touch yer lips
anyways?" came a challenging roar.
But the preacher paid no attention to it.
The count, somehow or other, felt a strange,
softening sympathy with this rough-voiced en-
thusiast creep over him. He edged up closer,
to see, but could not. Directly in front of him
a huge French-Canadian timber-cruiser was
standing, barring the view.
"Step up, gents, continued the orator.
101
me
>


BUCKING THE TIGER
“Contribute yer little mite toward this here
fund! I ain't asking yer to ante up yer hard-
earned money. But if yer have a few sim-
oleons kickin' round sorter loose wot hasn't
been earned exactly honest; if yer have a few
ducats wot you've won at poker or slush or
pitch or one of them games of iniquerty, then
I asks yer to dig 'em up from yer pants and to
put 'em into this here hat. Remember that
stealin' is a stinkin', rotten sin, and there ain't
no blessings of no sort wotsoever on money
wot's tainted. So, if yer have any of this here
tainted money about yer, drop it in the hat!”
There was a roar of laughter. Then once
more the orator's voice boomed out.
“Come on and pay up! Don't rob the wid-
ows and orphans!”
A deep, raucous sob came from the throat
of the count. But this rough man was right,
he said. It was not a good deed to rob the
widows and orphans. And perhaps the two-
thousand-and-odd dollars he had taken from
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MAC'S JACKPOT
this fat pig of a banker belonged to some poor
woman!
But he couldn't touch such money; neither
could he go to the banker and confess.
Yet, he must make some sort of restitution!
He groped in his inside pocket, encountered
the banker's roll and threw it over the heads
of the crowd in the direction of the orator.
“Here, monsieur,” he shouted. “A small
contribution. Use it for the widows and the
little orphans!” And he broke away from the
crowd, penitent tears coursing down his cheeks.
A few minutes later, the orator- it was
Andy Walsh-gazed at the roll which the un-
seen stranger had thrown him from the crowd.
“Two thousand one hundred dollars!” he
said with a beatific smile. "Seven hundred
bones for Mac's jack-pot, and still fourteen
hundred perfectly good bones left for little
Andy. Gee whizz!"
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CHAPTER VI
ALL IN
T was early the following morning.
Macdonald was warming his toes at the
l glow of the cast-iron stove in the lobby of
the Hotel Eslick, while Graham, Hillyer, and
count Jean de Salle La Terriere were sitting
about in corners of the room, in various atti-
tudes of dejection, silent, brooding, unhappy.
The only sound was the plaintive, minor
note of a Chinese love song which drifted in
from the bar where Chung was wiping glasses
and dreaming of former joys when he was still
a peaceful bean-planter on the banks of the
Pai-Ho. .
The song got on Graham's nerves. He
rose, walked up to the bar-room, and shut the
door with a bang. Then he sat down again in
his former attitude of despair.
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ALL IN
Macdonald burst out laughing.
“What's the matter with you fellows?” he
asked. “Each and every one of you has earned
seven hundred dollars in two days. If you
don't want to tell me how you did it, that's
your own look-out. I am not kicking at that.
But can't you even say a decent word?"
There was no answer.
“Say,” Macdonald commenced again, “you
two Britishers look like Liverpool shipowners
whose last turbiner has just been submarined.
And you, count—why, man, you've the guilty
appearance of a cat coming from an alley-way
... its whiskers still wet and white with tell-
tale cream. Fess up! Did you rob anybody?
Are you expecting a plain-clothes man to drag
his broken arches across the threshold and lead
you off to the jug?”
The count gave a little shudder at the last
suggestion, and glanced furtively at the two
Englishmen who kept their stony silence.
“Can't you say a word?" Macdonald asked
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BUCKING THE TIGER
again. “What is it? A hang-over? You
seemed quite sober when you came home last
night.”
Hillyer looked up with a snarl. He was
formulating a series of disparaging remarks
concerning Macdonald's face, figure and moral
habits. But he suppressed them as once more
the pathetic remembrance of his financial loss
came back to his mind.
Seven hundred dollars gone up a perfectly
useless spout! He hadn't even got as much
as a cocktail's worth of change out of it. If
he only had not listened to Graham, and had
invested it the way he had wanted to, in a large
and festively alcoholic spree!
"My word!” he turned to his countryman.
"You're all sorts of a bloody fool, aren't you?"
"Chivy it! Go to the devil!" came the un-
compromising answer.
Hillyer turned purple with rage. He would
have clenched his fists and gone for the other
if he had not been constitutionally averse to all
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unnecessary bodily exercise. For he had en-
dowed indolence with a profound, semi-reli-
gious impulse which was every bit as mys-
terious and coercing as the millionaire's hunt
after the glittering double-eagle..
“What's the matter with you?" Macdonald
asked once more. “You have done nobly.
You've earned your ante in no time. Do you
regret our compact?”
“No," bellowed Graham.
Macdonald smiled.
"All right,” he commented peacefully, "if
you can't talk, for heaven's sake don't try to.”
A minute later Walsh came down the steps
and walked into the lobby. The others looked
at him in surprise. For in spite of his thread-
bare clothes, a certain indefinable aura of hap-
piness and solid prosperity surrounded the
rugged bulk of the cowpuncher.
There was an almost dewy freshness about
him; his boots were shiny; his thick, black hair
was parted down the middle with mathematical
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BUCKING THE TIGER
precision; his cheeks were freshly shaven and
rubbed to a hard, glossy, hygienic red.
He walked up to Macdonald with a heavy
swagger and plumped a fat roll of yellow-
backs down in front of him.
“Cast yer peepers over these, old hoss, and
count 'em!” he said with a loud voice. “Count
'em careful and slow! Seven hundred plunks
even, or I'm a Mormon!"
The others heard, and looked up with starts
of surprise. Walsh enjoyed the sensation for
a few seconds, tried to strike a negligent atti-
tude, failed miserably, and continued with a
yet louder voice:
"Pay 'em in to our account at the Old Na-
tional, Mac, if you happen to pass that way.”
“Why don't you pay them in yourself,
Andy?" Macdonald inquired.
"I hain't got the time," Walsh declared
pompously, and produced another roll of bills,
even larger than the one which he had handed
over. “I've a little business to see to; got to
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invest some of these here boys. So long,
gents.” And he walked to the door with the
same heavy-rolling swagger.
"Hey, Andy! Wait a second. I'm com-
ing with you,” a high voice piped from the bar-
room door, which had just opened.
It was Hayes, the insurance agent.
“All right, Hayes,” the cowpuncher replied.
They left the Hotel Eslick together and
turned up Sprague Street.
"Real money?" the insurance agent de-
manded, as he looked at the roll of bills in the
other's hand.
“You bet yer sweet life,” Walsh replied, and
patted the roll of money with a caressing,
paternal hand.
Hayes surveyed this evidence of luxury and
opulence with approving, but envious eyes.
He drew his arm through Walsh's.
“What are you going to do with it?” he in-
quired.
Walsh tried to assume the festive air of a
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BUCKING THE TIGER
Wall Street broker who has just sold out his
best friend over a stock deal.
“Invest it,” he remarked casually.
“All of it?”
“Yep.”
“How much have you got there?”
“Fourteen hundred plunk.”
Hayes made a rapid calculation. Then he
asked, trying to keep his trembling voice on
an octave of solid, disinterested friendship.
“What’re you going to invest in? Any-
thing special?”
Walsh drew a gaudy prospectus from his
pocket.
"Fasten your lill’orbs on this here, pard,"
he said. “A perspectus of the International
Coal and Coke Company; the swellest and most
attractive proposition in the whole Northwest.
Ten cents a share and dead-sure to pop to par
inside of the year. Just listen.”
And he read out loud the glowing passages
of the promoters; the usual comparison of the
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ALL IN
new mine with the Bunker Hill, the Calumet,
and the LeRoy.
“I'm hikin' right round to old man Hough-
ton at the Peyton Block to stump up my little
ante,” Walsh continued. “Say, ain't it a swell
chance?"
Hayes smiled.
“Andy,” he said, “are you going to specu-
late, or are you going in for a straight, solid
investment?”
. “Invest, surest thing you know. I don't be-
lieve in no speculatin', and there ain't no specu-
latin' about this here mine. Not by a darned
sight. It's a cinch-that's what it is a
double-barrelled Canadian cinch fixed up with
round Oregon stirrups for safety's sake. Lis-
ten once more.” .
Hayes winked elaborately at nothing in par-
ticular.
"Listen here, Andy,” he said. “If you
really want to invest, you listen to me.”
And he pulled from his bulging pocket a
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BUCKING THE TIGER
pamphlet of the Western Crown Life Insur-
ance Company.
Now be it remembered that, before selling
life insurance, Hayes had been a real estate
agent in Los Angeles, that he had sold Can-
nery stock in Portland, Oregon, apple ranches
on the Hood River, Placer Gold shares in
Seattle, Oil properties in Vancouver, and
Building and Loan units in Calgary, Edmon-
ton, and Saskatoon.
Thus, two hours later, Andy Walsh had
taken out a nice, all-wool, burglar-proof,
Harveyized-steel life insurance policy with the
Western Crown. The first year's premium
was a little over two thousand dollars, of which
he had paid fourteen hundred in cash and the
rest in notes. Needless to say, Hayes had
manipulated the deal so that the company re-
ceived the notes while he himself retained the
cash as commission; which the cashier of the
company, being a friend of Hayes's, may or
may not have known.
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ALL IN
Walsh returned to the Eslick, while Hayes
walked to the Old National Bank, where he
deposited seven hundred dollars to Macdon-
ald's account.
He said to himself that he had deserved a
little alcoholic refreshment. So he turned into
Post Street and entered the festive swinging-
doors of Jake Messerstecher's Germania café.
In the entrance he bumped against Traube.
They exchanged greetings.
Sympathy was not one of the Californian's
many failings. He was a firm believer in
single-minded Nietzscheism, brought up to an
up-to-date American business basis.
But now, his share in the suicide syndicate
paid up, and fat, yellow-backed prosperity lin-
ing his inside pocket, he felt a little affected as
he beheld the lugubrious, hatchet-like face of
the German.
"What seems to be the trouble, Dutch?” he
inquired. “Has a blight struck the sauerkraut
crop? Have the limburger veins of the West-
113


BUCKING THE TIGER
phalian mountains pinched out? Has the
Kaiser shaved off his moustache ?"
"Ach, Gott, nein! Vorse dan datt!”
Traube sighed, and pointed a broad, short-
nailed thumb in the direction of Jake Mes-
serstecher's Germania café.
“Jake-he-,” he continued after a pause,
and was silent again.
"Well, what's Jake gone and done?”
Traube explained. It appeared that Jake
Messerstecher was an old friend of his; that
they had visited the same school together, back
in Germany. So he had tried to borrow from
the wealthy saloon-keeper the seven hundred
dollars which he needed. He had offered him
security. For he had told him that at the end
of the year he was sure to receive a large
amount in cash, and that he was then going to
open up his café, and, as a bonus for the loan
of seven hundred he had offered to Jake a half-
interest in the future enterprise.
“Black on vite did I offer it to him," Traube
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ALL IN
wound up his tale, “before vitnesses and mit a
seal of der notary bublic attached.”
“And Jake didn't want to come through with
the spondulix, I take it?” Hayes asked grin-
ning.
“Eggsactly! He laughed at me. He sed
I vos a damned fool, und den he called me very
bad names in Cherman vich I am ashamed to
translate into English.”
Hayes laughed.
“Forget your troubles, Traube," he com-
mented, “and have a drink on me.”
“No, tanks! I am too sad; beer vould not
taste good mit dis sadness inside of me. Ach
Je! I am so onhappy!”
Again a wave of sympathy swept over the
Californian.
“I tell you what I'll do,” he said. “I'll play
you a game of cards."
"Pinochle?” Traube asked, with a hopeful
gleam in his eyes.
"Sure, pinochle it is,” Hayes replied, and
115


BUCKING THE TIGER
he led the other up the street and into the back-
room of Miller's cigar store.
"Two bits a game, Traube, and not a cent
more,” he remarked as he sat down. "I ain't
much of a pinochle player.”
"Sure. Two bits soots me fine,” the Ger-
man agreed, and broke the seal of the deck
against the edge of the table.
They played.
Late that night, Ritchie Macdonald was
again presiding over the gathering in the lobby
of the Eslick. The six contributing members
of the suicide syndicate were present. They
had all paid up their full shares of seven hun-
dred dollars each; but they were all singularly
quiet as to the methods by which they had
earned it.
Traube had been the last to pay up. He
had come into the lobby only a few minutes be-
fore, tightly holding on to a roll of bills which
he had given to Macdonald.
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ALL IN
Now he sat in a corner, next to Hayes, whose
usually pasty complexion was tinged with an
angry red.
The insurance agent was talking to the Ger-
man in an earnest, passionate whisper. But
the other was defending himself stoutly.
His words boomed out clear and distinct.
"Vell, it ain't my fault if you keep on raising
der limit, iss it? Vot good iss a limit onless
you shtick to it? Dere ain't no damned sense
in a limit vot's got no limit!"
“What's the row?” Macdonald inquired.
“Nothing, nothing,” Hayes replied.
And the German seconded him.
“Nodings at all.”
Macdonald rose.
"All right, fellows,” he said. “You've done
nobly. You've done your part. To-morrow,
bright and early, I'll step round to the West-
ern Crown with Hayes and have that painless
little insurance operation performed. And
117


BUCKING THE TIGER
the same evening I shall begin to wrestle with
the three thousand bones you so kindly con-
tributed.”
There was a long silence. They looked at
Macdonald, who sat hunched up like a large
bird of prey, his pipe casting a grotesque
shadow over his square chin.
He walked to the door.
"So I bid you all good-night-and
good-bye.”
“What d’you mean ‘good-bye'?” Hayes
asked. “Ain't we going to see you any more?”
Macdonald laughed.
“I told you that I was going to be a gentle-
man of leisure during my last year on earth.
I can't afford to run round with a bunch of
bums who live at the Eslick."
“Say, honest—" it was Walsh who spoke.
"Ain't we going to see you no more at all?"
“Sure you'll see me. To-morrow's the first
of April, isn't it? All right. You'll all see
me at my funeral, a year from to-morrow."
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. ALL IN
He walked as far as the door.
Then Graham ran after him.
"I say, Mac,” he commenced.
"What is it?” Macdonald demanded stiffly.
“Do you think you could lend me a hundred
to-morrow? Just for a few days? I am
rather stony-broke, you know—”
Macdonald laughed.
“Hold out another year, Graham,” he re-
plied. “You won't be broke twelve months
from to-morrow.”
And he walked into the bar-room.
119


CHAPTER VII
THE MIDAS TOUCH
CITHIN twenty-four hours of
his suicide compact having
been made hard and fast by
the writing of the insurance and its assignment
(as "security for a loan” to the six) and the
making over of the three thousand dollars at
Old National Bank, Ritchie Macdonald struck
the more unchecked components of the city
and the society of Spokane with the strength
and the enthusiasm of a flying blast. He
made his former expeditions into the realm of
gaiety, champagne, and over-manicured finger
nails look like the tenth part of a silver dollar
multiplied by three.
He took up quarters at a leading hotel, and
once more his former friends of the respectably
120


THE MIDAS TOUCH
festive section gathered around him. They
gathered with exuberance, mixed with thirst
and expectation. For Macdonald, when in
funds, had the well-deserved reputation of
touching only the high spots.
He had also the gift of spreading about him
a wave of quite inexplicable joy and happiness.
And this time he was wallowing in a positive
anarchy of joy, and he treated life as an ob-
stacle race composed of hazardous, though
pleasant obstacles.
He footed the bills in regal style, and the
consequence was that credit was practically
forced on him. He accepted it gratefully;
for, knowing that in a year his race with life
would be run out, he did not take the trouble
of taxing his brain with the financial problems
of the future.
He seemed to bear no grudge against Mar-
shall Houghton for having denied him both a
small loan and a job, but this recollection was
rather embarrassing to Marshall Houghton.
121


BUCKING THE TIGER
“Look here, Mac,” he said, blushing.
“Were you really broke when you came to my
office a few days ago and—”
Macdonald interrupted him with a laugh.
"Forget it,” he said; and then a spirit of
mischief caused him to add: “Of course I
wasn't broke. I was just play-acting. Try-
ing to fool you.”
Marshall Houghton grasped the opportu-
nity of saving his face.
"You didn't fool me a bit, old man. I knew
you weren't broke. Of course” he coughed,
"if you had been, you know I would have—”
"You bet," Macdonald broke in. “I know."
Marshall Houghton felt relieved. For he
knew that Macdonald's father was a very
wealthy Easterner. He also knew that fa-
ther and son had parted financial company in
consequence of the latter's repeated failures
and general mode of life. But then, perhaps
they had made up; and the thought had wor-
ried him a little.
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THE MIDAS TOUCH
For Marshall Houghton was a true son of
his father, Jay W. Houghton. Jay was to-
day a man of wealth and standing. But orig-
inally he had been a wild-catter of the most
aggressive type who had made his first stake
by squatting on somebody else's property with
a persuasive Winchester in the crook of his
arm, and who had gradually increased his for-
tune by selling whisky to the guileless Siwash,
copper prospects to the guileless millionaires
of Boston and London, and later on by mak-
ing a specialty of the sale of town lots which
had to be marked by a bobbing buoy when the
tide was running high.
To-day most of his wealth was solid and gilt-
edged, but he had still a constitutional aversion
to see loose money jingling in somebody else's
pockets, and his son ran true to type.
And it was evident that Macdonald had
money to burn.
Marshall leaned forward in his chair.
“Look here, Mac,” he said earnestly. “Of
123


BUCKING THE TIGER
course it isn't any of my business. But what
exactly are you doing?”
“Just now I am making a scientific investi-
gation.”
Marshall Houghton caught his breath; min-
ing or water-power, he thought, and most
likely for his father! He must find out the
details. So he dropped his voice to a con-
fidential, caressing octave.
“Mind telling me what it is? Perhaps I can
be of help to you.”
Macdonald grinned. '
“You are, old man, you are! For, you see,
I am making an investigation of alcoholism in
all its phases. And you must own up to the
fact that here is a science which is still in its
infancy."
The other forced himself to smile. Of
course Macdonald was hedging, he said to him-
self. So he was convinced that something
worth while was in the wind.
“You might tell me, Mac,” he said. "If
124


THE MIDAS TOUCH
you're looking for investments, for your fa-
ther perhaps—"
Macdonald tried to look mysterious and suc-
ceeded. He dropped his voice to a whisper.
“Marshall, my boy, I am not exactly look-
ing for an investment. For I've got a cinch.
I've a half-nelson on the infinite—and the in-
finite has a toe-hold on me.” And he smiled
grimly at the thought that he would be face
to face with the infinite in a little less than a
year's time. .
The other rose to the bait.
“Talk sense. What d'you mean by the in-
finite? Some business deal?”
"You guessed it first time, old man. Busi-
ness deal it is, and damned big business at that.
Why, there's an initial payment of a hundred
thousand dollars cash involved,” he added cas-
ually.
"Handling it yourself?” Marshall Hough-
ton's voice was eager.
“Good Lord, no,” Macdonald replied quite
125


BUCKING THE TIGER
truthfully. “A syndicate is backing me up."
And he rose and left the room.
That evening, in his home on Seventh
Avenue, Marshall Houghton communicated
the news to his father. That conscientious fi-
nancier smiled a heavily auriferous smile.
Then he winked an elderly, steel-grey eye.
“I had an idea that young boob had some-
thing up his sleeve,” he replied, chewing an un-
lit cigar. "By the way, you know that I had
to take over control of the Western Crown,
don't you?”
“Yes,” Marshall replied sadly, for he be-
lieved that for once his father's astute brain
had played him false when he had commenced
meddling with the affairs of the local insurance
concern.
“Well,” the father continued, "I had a look
at the books this morning, and I saw that Mac-
donald's taken out a hundred thousand dollars
life insurance just a few days back."
“Paid in notes, I guess."
126


THE MIDAS TOUCH
“Wrong! He paid spot cash.”
“What d’you make of it, dad?”
“That ain't the question, my son. The real
question before the house is what I am going
to make of it.”
Marshall suddenly jumped up. He spoke
excitedly.
"By Jingo, I've got an idea. Mac told me
a syndicate's backing him. But I lay you ten
to one his father is the syndicate.”
“Why?”
"Why? Why? Good Lord! Mac's fa-
ther is the president of the Sun Life Insurance
Company, the biggest concern of its kind in
the country!”
Houghton Senior gasped with surprise.
He had a rapid, pleasurable vision of pressing
a lengthy contract—unread—and a fountain
pen upon Macdonald, and of receiving from
the latter a blank check signed by his father;
and he smiled at the thought.
“My son,” he said, "you must cultivate the
127


THE MIDAS TOUCH
Marshall burst out laughing.
"Poor Pat!” he said.
“Poor Pat-hell!” Jay W. replied, banging
his hairy fist on the table. "He got me into
that Western Crown deal! He's as rich as
mud, and it'll do him good to lose a few thou-
sand plunk to young Mac!”
Father and son looked at each other. Then
the latter winked at the former.
"Sort of-eh-salting the mine, are you?”
he asked.
"Right.”
So it happened that on the following Sat-
urday night the small poker room at the club
was thick with the smoke of four fat cigars,
and sickly-sweet with the exhalation of much
assorted liquor. Four men were grouped
around the poker table; the two Houghtons,
Ritchie Macdonald, and Pat Kenny.
Kenny was one of the leading business-
men of the Northwest. Though the tang of
the steerage had never left him, he handled all
129


BUCKING THE TIGER
deals involving mines and contracts and real
estate with a clear-eyed vision that was posi-
tively uncanny. He had become thoroughly
Americanized in everything, being a good
Irishman, except in poker. For he still be-
lieved it to be a logical and not a psychological
game.
So he sat there losing pot after pot, with the
air of a melancholy dropsical camel; and it
was with deep, inward grief that at the end of
the session, early Monday morning, he handed
over a check of four figures to Macdonald.
Macdonald played cards two or three times
a week after this, winning steadily; and so, in
spite of the fact that he spent money like water,
his account at the Old National Bank grew in-
stead of decreasing.
He made a point of keeping away from
Railroad Avenue. He had no desire to see
the six broken men at the Eslick. He was not
a coward; and he really believed that life was
nothing but a rotten gamble with a stacked
130


THE MIDAS TOUCH
deck, and that suicide would be the cleanest
end to the plague-spotted failure he had made
of his life since he had left Princeton.
Also, in a way he liked at least two of the
down-and-outers: the cowpuncher and the
count. But the idea of the six men in that
rickety dive on Railroad Avenue, waiting for
him to die, struck him as disagreeable and
slightly obscene.
They reminded him of six starved, black,
red-necked vultures, sitting all in a row on a
low wall and waiting for the death agony of
the victim before swooping down on it and
rending it to pieces.
He could not banish the picture from his
mind though he tried his best; and he wished
that the end of it all would come sooner.
Still, there was that suicide clause in the in-
surance policy. He would have to wait until
the first of April of the next year.
So he drank and gambled harder than ever,
and he won steadily.
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BUCKING THE TIGER
It was natural that Ritter, the president of
the Old National Bank, who saw his new
client's account increase by leaps and bounds
and who had received a tip from Jay Hough-
ton, one of the bank's vice presidents, that
Macdonald was in Spokane in the interest of
a great Eastern syndicate, should look at the
young man with favour.
Also, since it is right to stuff a goose before
you pluck and kill it, he gave him a little whis-
pered advice once in a while about Cour
d'Alene and Kootenai mining stocks. Mac-
donald, with the recklessness of a man who
knows that his days are counted, followed the
advice, and everything he touched seemed to
turn into gold.
By the end of May he had over thirty thou-
sand dollars on account with the bank, not to
mention various small blocks of stock.
When one day Marshall Houghton, with
elaborate carelessness, asked him if he took any
interest in the stock of the Western Crown,
182


THE MIDAS TOUCH
the idea of it struck Macdonald as deliciously
funny; and he replied, quite truthfully:
“You bet I do. The Western Crown is a
matter of life and death with me."
Marshall Houghton made a note of the re-
mark. This was the first direct admission
Macdonald had made about the matter, and
that night he mentioned it to his father.
That gilt-edged old stock-bandit congratu-
lated his son warmly on his acumen.
"Fine and dandy, Marshall,” he said.
“We'll have young Mac take an option on the
Western Crown stock in no time. Lay low
for a while. Meanwhile, let's investigate if
the Western Crown has any assets that are
any damned good at all.”
He investigated...
Shortly afterward there was an informal
little directors' meeting in Houghton's office
in the Peyton Building. The two Houghtons
were present, also Kenny and Ritter. There
was a good deal of talking and figuring.
188


BUCKING THE TIGER
“You see, gentlemen,” Jay W. said, "it's
easy.”
"It is that,” Kenny agreed, and a beatific
smile spread over the red, pulpy acreage of his
face. “But we got to be quick and careful
about it,” he added with delicate restraint.
"You see the fact of the matter is that there's
a bunch of bran-new rube legislators up there
at Olympia just now, and they're threatening
to spring a new bunch of insurance laws on
this commonwealth.”
So the four directors were quick and care-
ful; and inside of ten minutes a motion had
been proposed, seconded, and unanimously
carried which transferred certain of the West-
ern Crown's holdings to a brand-new syndicate
in consideration of a block of stock in the Red
Cañon Copper Company.
It was of course only a coincidence that a
good deal of the capital stock of this mining
company had been owned heretofore by the
two Houghtons, Kenny, and Ritter, and that
134


THE MIDAS TOUCH
the same four gentlemen composed the new
syndicate.
On the evening of the same day Macdonald
entered Benson's barber shop in search of a
nail-polish. He walked straight through to
the manicurist who had a little box-like room
of her own, and opened the door.
A man was sitting opposite the manicurist,
with his back to the door, and just at the mo-
ment of Macdonald's entering he made a re-
mark to the girl which caused her to scream
and which caused Macdonald to clear the
width of the room at one jump and to strike
the man in the face with the full force of his
clenched fist.
The man fell like a log. Macdonald bent
over him.
“Why, it's Graham,” he shouted surprised.
A moment later Graham picked himself up.
“You'll pay for this,” he mumbled thickly;
he looked at Macdonald in a manner which
made even that bland disdainer of life shudder
135


BUCKING THE TIGER
the least little bit, and he left the room without
another word.
Macdonald dropped into the seat which the
other had vacated. He looked at the girl who
was breathing heavily. It was neither a hand-
some nor a pretty face, with its thin outline,
its slow, silent eyes, and the lips curled a little
in disdain. But there was a deep, fine sweet-
ness in it, Macdonald thought, and also pluck,
downright pluck. He wondered how she came
to be working at this trade, and he put his
wonder brusquely into words.
"What's the idea of your doing this sort of
work? You know what to expect from half
the men who come to have their nails mani-
cured?"
The girl had regained her composure. She
smiled.
"I've got to live,” she replied. “And I've
got to work for my living. It's right, isn't
it? Everybody's got to do some sort of work,
don't you think so?”
136


THE MIDAS TOUCH
Macdonald looked up puzzled.
"Why?"
“I don't know why exactly. But I guess
that's what we are sent into the world for, to
work; don't you think so?”
Macdonald laughed.
Then he boomed out a sonorous, vibrating
"No!” that wagged through the air like an un-
docked tail.
187


CHAPTER VIII
MAC HIRES AN OFFICE
HEN Ritchie Macdonald left
the club that same night, the
thought came to him that he
was perfectly sober, and that this was the first
night since the signing of the suicide compact
on which he had sought his couch without at
least one sheet trailing in the alcoholic wind.
The consciousness of this fact disturbed him,
and for a while he tried to play hide-and-seek
with himself. But finally he decided that,
since in a little over ten months he would be
confronting Eternity in the making, or in the
unmaking—he wasn't sure which—he might as
well enjoy the luxury of being honest with
himself.
“Cold feet?” Pat Kenny had sneered when
188


MAC HIRES AN OFFICE
he had dropped out of the game of California
Jack in the middle of a phenomenal run of
luck.
"Signed the pledge?" Marshall Houghton
had asked when he had steadfastly refused to
take another drink.
He had not replied. But he knew why he
could not concentrate his thoughts on the game
and the crowd he was with. There was no
doubt in his mind that all evening he had been
thinking of the little manicure girl in Ben-
son's barber shop. There was no doubt in his
mind that he wanted to see her again. Very
soon, he decided; for, after all, he didn't have
so very many months more to live. Then an
idea came to him.
“By Ginger,” he apostrophized himself with
a loud voice to the great surprise of the white-
robed Mexican who was selling tamales on the
street corner, "you are a bibulous ass of a Don
Quixote, but you are man enough to do it, and
to do it right.”
139


MAC HIRES AN OFFICE
A sharp reply trembled on her lips. But
she controlled herself. She looked at him, and
decided that the man's face was neither vicious
nor mean.
“My name's Emily Steeves,” she replied.
“Nice name; real nice, home-made, green-
apple-and-raisin-pie name,” he commented
with another laugh, and again she joined in it,
hardly knowing why.
There was a short silence. Then he con-
tinued:
“My name's Macdonald; Ritchie Macdon-
ald.”
Again there was silence. Then he asked
suddenly:
"Stuck on your line of work, Miss Steeves?":
The question caught her unprepared, and
she answered without thinking, but with ring-
ing conviction:
"You bet I'm not.”
“Then,” he said, wagging a didactic finger,
"why do you do it?”
141


BUCKING THE TIGER
She answered with a little rebellious note
in her voice.
“I told you yesterday.”
“I remember,” he said. “Sad necessity of
earning a living; nobility of labour, and all that
sort of thing. You told me. But there are
other jobs in the world besides cutting and
polishing the claws of the male beasts-of-prey.
Now there's stenography. Ever try it?”
“Yes. But there isn't enough money in it. ,
Twelve per, that's the highest I ever got.”
“How much do you make here?”
Once more his clean, good-natured counte-
nance disarmed her suspicions, and she an-
swered readily enough.
“Eighteen per's my average; a little more in
winter, and a little less in summer. Why?”
Macdonald lit a cigarette.
“Come and stenog for me,” he remarked
casually. "I'll give you forty a week."
The girl blushed scarlet. She had worked
long enough as both manicure and stenog-
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MAC HIRES AN OFFICE
rapher to understand the delicate as well as
the indelicate approaches of the other sex.
“Say,” she flared out, "you're a fine one to
knock down other men for a fresh word as you
did yesterday. And now you come here, the
very next day, and you—”
Suddenly she stopped. There was such a
look of honest, hurt bewilderment in the man's
face that she did not know how to continue.
"Perhaps you're just joshing,” she con-
cluded lamely.
"No, I am not,” he declared decisively.
“Now, look here, Miss Steeves. Forget for a
moment that I am a man male, and you a
woman female. Banish the thought! Kill it
with a cleaver and bury it! I like you. Get
that? I like you, and nothing more. Get the
‘nothing more? Fine and dandy!”
“Well-but-"
He waved her interruption aside.
“Wait. I am coming to that. I am a man
of affairs. I have-oh-investments to look
148


BUCKING THE TIGER
after, letters to write. And I—" he tried to
assume the pathetic air of a chronic invalid,
failed, and finally compromised by faking a
hollow cough. “I beg your pardon,” he added
in a thin, weak voice. “I get these attacks
every now and then. I look very healthy,
I know. But it's deceptive. My days are
numbered.”
"Wha—what?” Tears came into her eyes.
Macdonald tapped his chest and had another
coughing fit.
"One more year," he said laconically.
“What do you mean?”
“That's what the doctors give me, Miss
Steeves. One more year.”
The girl felt horribly distressed. She gave
a little cry of pity and sympathy.
"Oh, Mr. Macdonald, I am so very, very
sorry!”
“Thanks. That's kind of you. I am glad
you feel sorry for me. You see, I need help,
to straighten out my affairs, to keep books, and
144


MAC HIRES AN OFFICE
write my letters. Now don't you think that
a man whose days are numbered has the right
to have a girl about him whom he likes? Also
I know it's hard to work for a man who is dy-
ing before your eyes—by inches, so to speak—”
he gave another cough. “That's why I'm will-
ing to give you forty per.”
The girl stretched out her hand impulsively
and shook his.
“I'll come.”
“When? Remember, time presses; just a
year; every day counts.”
"I'll come to-morrow.”.
“Thanks." He rose. “To-morrow then."
He walked toward the door. The girl called
after him.
"Where's your office, Mr. Macdonald?”
"In the Peyton Building,” he replied, giv-
ing the first address that came to his mind.
Walking down the street, it occurred to him
that it was a lucky thing that Houghton and
Son owned the Peyton Building, and that he
145


BUCKING THE TIGER
would therefore have no trouble about renting
an office. For he knew instinctively that the
girl was both shrewd and proud, and that his
story would have to dovetail in every particu-
lar so as to prevent her from seeing through
his charitable intentions. He was well aware
of the ideas and some of the intentions of the
two Houghtons regarding himself, and he de-
cided to utilise them.
Marshall Houghton was eager to give him
all the office space he wanted.
“What about the corner office on the tenth
floor, Mac?” he asked. “Belden and Way-
land have it now. But they're going to vacate
it on the first.”
Macdonald shook his head.
“See here, Marshall,” he replied. “I want
only a small office. But, for reasons of my
own, I want it right away, and I want it in
this building. And I want some furniture
that's been used, and that looks as if it had
been used. Lend me some of yours if you will.
146


MAC HIRES AN OFFICE
You see I have a special reason for my de-
mand,” he added impressively.
Marshall Houghton smiled. He knew, he
said to himself. He also knew why Macdon-
ald had quit the club so early the night before.
Some of the people who were backing him,
perhaps his father himself, were evidently
coming out to Spokane to look over the situa-
tion; and so Macdonald wanted to give the
correct, businesslike appearance.
"Don't worry, Mac,” he said. “I under-
stand. Mum's the word. There's an office
right next to our main office. How'll that
do?”
"Fine and dandy.”
“All right. I'll fix it up with some of my
own stuff right away this afternoon." He
lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.
“Are you going to start your-ah-active
campaign for the syndicate you spoke
about?”
Macdonald thought of the syndicate of the
147


BUCKING THE TIGER
six down-and-outers at the Eslick. He
smiled.
“You bet,” he replied. “But keep it under
your hat. It's confidential dope, but I'm
going to step into the arena. I shall bedeck
myself in the loathsome apparel of the Ameri-
can businessman; I shall wear rubbers and an
umbrella and an unlit cigar. I shall spread
about me a general atmosphere of financial
finesse and the culpability that goes with it.
I shall play the part of a gifted and single-
minded conniver at legalised graft. I shall
hardboil my conscience and fan it with a gold-
brick. I shall ”
“Take an interest in the Western Crown?”
Marshall interrupted craftily.
Macdonald winked at him.
“Early next year,” he replied. “Around
the first of April. But not before.”
When Marshall Houghton told his father
that evening about his conversation with Mac-
donald the elderly financier smiled delightedly.
148


MAC HIRES AN OFFICE
"Marshall,” he said, “it's a shame. It's like
taking pumpernickel out of an armless Dutch-
man's mouth. It's like converting a Turk to
Mormonism. It's too easy. It ain't worthy
of my financial abilities, but I got to do it.”
Marshall looked slightly bewildered.
“I don't exactly get you, dad,” he said.
“Of course I know that you intend to unload
your Western Crown stock on Mac. But”
His father looked at him pityingly.
“Marshall,” he said, “if it wasn't for the fact
that you got me for a father you'd have to rely
on the ravens to feed you, like the Prophet
Elijah. You'd have to swipe embroidered
pen-wipers from a high-school girls' charity
bazaar for a living. And then you tell me
that you aspire to the profitable and oppro-
brious realms of high finance! Why, boy, you
don't even understand the first little Euclidian
problem in thimblerigging."
“But-"
“But nothing! Consider! Here's young
149


BUCKING THE TIGER
Mac, working either for a syndicate or for his
father, makes no difference which, and it's a
cinch that he's got a free hand. He's taken
an office, which proves that he's actually going
to do business. And it also appears--for he
was enough of a damned fool to let that par-
ticular cat out of the bag—that he ain't going
to talk terms before April of next year. He
told you that, didn't he?”
Marshall looked at his father with reverence
tempered by envy.
"Yes, dad,” he said.
Houghton, Senior, smiled.
“That's a sure sign, ain't it, that he's going
to lay low and watch the company? We want
to sell, don't we? Figuratively speaking, we
want to misuse a nine-inch piece of lead pipe
on Mac's coco, eh? Now, if you want to sell
the stock of a company which you control,
it's darn good business to mitigate the com-
pany's assets if you can do it without incrim-
inating yourself.
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MAC HIRES AN OFFICE
“We've done that. We've done a little
trading, I and you and Ritter and Kenny.
We've taken over the real estate of the
Western Crown, and have given to it instead
a bunch of Red Canyon Copper stock. That's
all right considering that the truth of the
matter is that Pat Kenny owns the rest of the
Red Canyon stock, and that he also owns the
assay people body and soul, and these assay
people are making monthly reports on the ore
ledges of that desolate bit of God-forsaken
desert landscape that'll make Aladdin's cave
look like a piker's dream.
“So, you see, there won't be any kick when
Mac examines the investment part of the com-
pany's balance sheet. The next item on the
bill of fare is to boom the company's business.
Now it appears that the main business of an
insurance company is to insure people; the
healthy sort who keep on digging up. We
got to write insurance like the devil.” He
thought for a moment. “Say, Marshall, who's :
161


BUCKING THE TIGER
the livest wire agent the Western Crown's
got?”
“There's that fellow who wrote the hundred
thousand dollars insurance for Mac, dad.
Fellow called Hayes, I believe.”
“Fine and dandy. You get a hold of him.
He's the boy for us. I'll talk to him.”
So the two Houghtons stepped around to
the office, and, looking over the books of the
company, they discovered that Hayes lived at
the Eslick Hotel.
Houghton, senior, looked at his watch.
“Only seven o'clock. I'll go right round to
the Eslick and interview that Hayes party."
He slapped his son jovially on the back. “So
long, Marshall. Yoicks and away! I go
a-filibustering.”
And he was off. .
The conversation between Houghton, sen-
ior, and Hayes was short and to the point.
"Sure,” the pasty-faced native son, ad-
mitted, “I'm the gink who pulled off the
152


MAC HIRES AN OFFICE
hundred thousand plunk Macdonald insur-
ance.” He paused. He wondered if some-
body had blabbed, and if the Powers Higher
Up had received information about the suicide
compact. So his voice trembled a little as he
continued: “Say, mister-ain't-ain't it
O. K.?”
Houghton smiled at him like a benign
elderly wolf.
“You bet, my boy. It's more than 0. K.”
He drew Hayes into a corner. For he had
noticed that the five shabby, hungry-eyed men
who crowded about the stove-to wit: Walsh,
Traube, Graham, Hillyer and the count-had
cocked up their ears at the mentioning of Mac-
donald's name.
“Look here, young man,” he continued,
"that Macdonald insurance was a bright and
noble piece of business. I honour and respect
you for it. Put it here!” They shook hands.
“I guess you know Mac pretty well, don't
you?"
158


BUCKING THE TIGER
"Sure. He's a friend of mine."
“And I'm quite sure you wouldn't mind
doing him a good turn if you could?” he
winked at him and added hastily, “and if it
would mean money to yourself?”
"You bet your sweet lifel” Hayes replied
fervently.
“That's good. Listen. I know for a fact
that Macdonald intends to buy control of the
Western Crown.” Hayes nearly collapsed
with surprise, but somehow succeeded to keep
a straight face. “And so," Houghton con-
tinued, “if as good a friend of yours as Mac-
donald wants to buy something, you want that
something to look good, and you'll do all in
your power to make it look good, won't you?
Don't reply, my boy. I can tell by the expres-
sion in your honest eyes that you agree with
me, Put it here again!”
Once more they shook hands.
“So I want that company to look its very
best," Houghton went on. “I want insur-
154


MAC HIRES AN OFFICE
ances taken out, oodles of them! And you're
the boy to turn the trick. Insure everybody.
Insure those gentlemen over there near the
stove. Insure the Chink barkeeper. Insure
the Indians. Insure the lame, the blind and
the crippled. Appoint your own sub-agents.
Take the premiums in notes—any old notes
but insure them.”
“What about my commission?” Hayes in-
quired. “It's all right for the company to
take those notes. But I,” his voice was de-
termined, "I gotta have cash!”
Houghton patted his shoulder caress-
ingly.
"Don't you worry, my boy. I'll pay you
cash. I'll pay you personally.”
They talked a little over the details, and
Houghton returned to his home on Seventh
Avenue well pleased with himself.
The moment he had left, the other down-
and-outers surrounded Hayes with eager ques-
tions.
155


BUCKING THE TIGER
“Say," Walsh inquired, "who was the
elderly party with the undevout smile?”
Hayes told them, and they were utterly
amazed.
The count smiled..
“Palsambleu!” he exclaimed. “But he is
doing well, our friend Macdonald!”.
“Ain't he, though?” Walsh agreed.
Graham flushed an angry red. He hated
Macdonald because the latter had knocked him
down the day before, and now his hatred grew
when he heard how well Macdonald had done
with the money which he and the others had
contributed.
“Our friend Mac evidently intends to
welsh,” he sneered.
“What d'ya mean 'welsh’?” the cowpuncher
inquired with an ugly scowl.
Graham laughed
"It's self-evident, isn't it? Hayes tells us
that Macdonald is about to acquire control of
the Western Crown. So he's made money
156


MAC HIRES AN OFFICE
with the three thousand we gave him, instead
of spending it, as he said he would. And a
man who intends to commit suicide wouldn't
bother his head about making money."
“Right-oh!” Hillyer seconded.
Walsh flared up.
"Look a-here, Mister Captain Graham,” he
thundered. “God knows what Mac's tryin'
ter make money for. But Mac's a man of his
word. You know that yerself, yer sinful, in-
sidious, ornery hog, yer! I wish to God he
would welsh! I've been sorry about this here
damned suicide compact ever since April. I
ain't no blood-sucking vampire, I ain't. But
I knows that Mac ain't a-goin' ter welsh-not
he!”
Graham smiled. He saw the battle-glare
in the cowpuncher's eyes, and he had no ap-
petite for physical combat.
“All right, all right, Andy,” he said, sooth-
ingly. “I'm sorry I said it. But look here,
all of you. Macdonald has done jolly well
157


BUCKING THE TIGER
with the little jack-pot which we contributed.
We, on the other hand, are as hard-up as we've
ever been. Why, hang it all, only this morn-
ing old man Eslick told me we'd have to clear
out, every one of us, by the end of the week
unless we paid him a substantial something on
account. Mac's made a pile of money, and
whatever he has made he owes to us in the first
place. Isn't that so?”
"Right,” chimed in his cherub-faced coun-
tryman. “Bloody right.”
"And so I propose,” Graham continued,
"that we call on Macdonald and ask him to
ah—declare a dividend. That'd only be
cricket, I fancy."
"It ain't!” Walsh growled. “Nor baseball
neither! It's his money. We were all tickled
stiff when he drew that there suicide ace
instead of us. We didn't kick then. We
were damned glad to give him those three thou-
sand bones. And now he's got the right to do
with them what he pleases. We ain't got no
158


CHAPTER IX
THE DEPUTATION
ITCHIE MACDONALD had
gone to the club earlier in the
, evening, on a sort of farewell visit,
as he said to himself. For he knew that, to
carry through his plans in regard to the little
manicure girl whom he had engaged as secre-
tary and stenographer, he would have to make
his bluff good.
During the past weeks his check account and
his investments had grown steadily in spite of
himself. Now he would have to look after
them; he would have to attend to business.
Otherwise, being shrewd and proud, the girl
would see through his charitable intentions,
and he felt sure that she would never forgive
him. And the thought of hurting her feelings
struck him as peculiarly disagreeable.

160


THE DEPUTATION
OUTSO
was
But was it really charity which he intended
toward her? The thought came to him, and
with it a faint wonder, like a light in a dark
house. He dismissed both thought and
wonder. Of course it was charity. What
else could it be?
Also, why the deuce shouldn't he be allowed
to do some practical charity? For he owned
up to the fact that during all his life, while he
had never done a really mean thing, a thing to
be morally ashamed of, he had never had the
energy to do a decently good thing either. He
had been an idler, a failure and a wastrel, he
told himself fiercely, and every one knew it.
His father knew it, his mother, his sister, his
friends; he knew it himself.
Of late he had made a little money. That
was true. But he had made it gambling, and
not working; and its very initial stake-the
three thousand dollars which the six down-and-
outers at the Eslick had contributed—he had
received thanks to a compact by which he was
161


THE DEPUTATION
Kenny had only given up the struggle after
his wife had telephoned for the third time.
“Ye'll give me my revenge to-morrow,
sonny,” he had said on parting.
But Macdonald had shaken his head.
"Nothing doing, Pat,” he had replied.
“After to-night I am going to eschew this den
of poker and punch, of bridge and brandy, of
whist and wickedness. I am going to occupy
myself solely with ducats and devoirs. I am
going to foreclose on whatever business ability
I possess and watch the gold-dust drop into
my poke. No more cards—until April of next
year!”
"Near-sport!” Kenny had growled sav-
agely. “You're so darned tight that the good
Lord had to use a shoehorn to squeeze your
heart into your body. Bad luck to you, and
lots of it!"
But, in his own heart, Kenny was glad that
Macdonald was going to attend to business.
It was a sign that he was ready to put the
163


BUCKING THE TIGER
finishing touches on the Western Crown deal,
which, according to Houghton, had brought
him to Spokane.
And so, since he still owned a minority
interest of the company's shares, he said to him-
self that in the final settlement he would get .
back from Macdonald every dollar he had lost
to him at poker, with a handsome bonus added
to it.
· Now Macdonald was alone in the card-room.
It was between the afternoon and the evening
session, between the bridge and poker hour.
The members had gone home to eat dinner and
growl at their wives, and would not be back
before an hour or so.
Macdonald walked up and down the length
of the room. He looked approvingly at the
little tables covered with green cloth. Cards
had been good to him. Cards had given him
the groundwork for that neat little fortune
which he proposed to leave to Emily Steeves.
Again his thoughts concentrated on the girl;
164


THE DEPUTATION
and then, very suddenly, he knew that he loved
her. Ridiculous, he said to himself. A man
doesn't fall in love at first sight, within twenty-
four hours. But why not? whispered another
cell in his brain. Man is born in an hour,
and dies in a second; why can't he love in a
day?
He did love her. He was certain of it.
The thought came to him like a shock. He
loved her—yes—and his love was like a fine
rain, the kind which one neither sees nor hears,
which is unceasing, chilling, penetrating.
What of it? His love would never do him
any good-nor her any harm, God bless her,
he completed the thought. One must live to
love, and he/he would be in his grave in a little
over ten months' time.
He supposed he might be able to strike some
sort of a bargain with those fellows at the
Eslick, so that they would let him off his con-
tract. What of that? He would have to pay
over his money to them; he would be as broke
165


BUCKING THE TIGER
as he had been before; he would not be able to
make life easy for her, which was the main
thing.
Also, he would have to make full confession
to her. Why, damn it, this very morning he
had told her that he was very sick, that he had
only a year to live. He had worked on her sym-
pathies to get her to accept the position as
stenographer with him. And now, if he con-
fessed, there would come her contempt; per-
haps, which was still worse, her pity!
No! Couldn't be done! He'd stick to his
bargain; suicide as per arrangement with those
six vultures at the Eslick, and little Emily
Steeves to get his money. The one decent
thing in his life!
Then he thought of the Houghtons, father
and son, and he was amused. Why, those two
efficient and whole-hearted Grand Sachems of
the Ancient and Benevolent Order of Grafters
and Kidnappers were figuring on doing him up
brown over a bunch of stock in the Western
166


THE DEPUTATION
Crown. That much he had read between the
lines. All right, he decided, he would have
some sport with them before he died. These
last ten months wouldn't be devoid altogether
of laughter and merriment.
He walked over to the window and looked
out. The day was closing in, and the sun had
moved down the horizon into a deep, inky-black
bank of clouds, transfusing them with pink and
orange edges. The foaming, turbulent water
of the Spokane Falls was green one moment
and gold the next, and where the evening wind
blew there came a great blotch of silver, and
the little crinkled waves looked like the ruffled
- feathers of a wild bird.
He opened the windows and filled his lungs
with the fresh, chill air. It was a beautiful,
beautiful world after all, he thought—and he-
in one more year-
“Ah beg yoh pahdon,” drawled a soft
African voice from the door. “Ah beg yoh
pahdon, Mistah Macdonald.”
167


THE DEPUTATION
round the walls, the warm, red carpet on the
floor. He saw Macdonald's well-cut tweed
suit, his expensive silk shirt, and the fat, black
cigar between his lips. He turned white with
hatred and envy, and a deep rage rose in his
heart.
Finally Macdonald himself broke the silence.
“Well, gentlemen," he said, “to what
pleasant chain of circumstances am I indebted
for this charming visit en masse?"
“Say, Mac,” Walsh shouted from the door.
"I swear to Heaven it wasn't me—nor the
count, either—who's responsible for this here
deputation. It was that no-account, cradle-
snatchin', yellow-livered eyesore of a Graham.”
At the sound of his name Graham forgot his
rage. Of course he hated Macdonald. There
was the memory of the blow; the luxury which
surrounded him; still, business was busi-
ness.
So he spoke suavely and concisely.
"Exactly, Macdonald. I myself suggested
171


BUCKING THE TIGER
this little visit. We heard of your tremendous
good fortune, don't you know”
“Right-oh!” chimed in Hillyer. “Jolly, rip-
pin' good fortune, I call it. Bunches and bales
of the ready, eh, what? Shell out!"
Graham stared stonily at his jovial com-
patriot.
"Shut up, you bungling blighter!” he whis-
pered savagely; then he turned again to Mac-
donald. “Yes, old chap, we've heard that you
made quite a lot of money since you left the
Eslick; and so, being, so to speak, your silent
partners, we came to”.
"Being my what?” inquired Macdonald
softly.
“Your silent partners,” the other repeated
icily.
Macdonald laughed.
“All right, if you want to put it that way.
Go on.”
“Being, as I said, your silent partners, we
came to"
172


THE DEPUTATION
“To congratulate me, I suppose,” Macdon-
ald interrupted.
Again a great rage rose in Graham's throat;
but again he controlled himself. He bowed
slightly.
“Of course, of course,” he said. “We came
to congratulate you; but we also came to”
"To get money," Macdonald interrupted
once more.
Hillyer burst into a guffaw.
“My word, old chap, how the deuce did you
guess it?"
“Second sight, old man,” Macdonald replied
with a smile; then he addressed Graham direct.
"If I may put it in my own crude way, you
have come here to collect an interim dividend
on my prospective corpse.”
“Not a bit," answered Graham. “We have
come to the conclusion that there is really no
necessity of your fulfilling the silly contract at
all_"
“Right-oh,” the irrepressible Hillyer broke
173


BUCKING THE TIGER
in. “The whole thing was only meant in fun.
Meant to rot you a bit, you know—”.
Macdonald leaned back in his chair. He
observed the others from beneath his lowered
eyelids. He had an idea as to what was com-
ing next, and he was not mistaken.
"Suppose you pay us now instead of waiting
for April of next year,” Graham continued,
"and then ”
"I may be allowed to live?”
“Yes. That's it exactly."
“You see, old cock,” Hillyer put in, in spite
of his countryman's warning glances and
whispered admonitions, “we thought we'd give
you what you Yanks call a square deal and all
that sort of piffle.”
Macdonald smiled.
“Very square, I'm sure,” he admitted.
Hillyer grew enthusiastic.
- “Isn't it? You see, we are deucedly hard
up; rather stony-broke, in fact. And you've
174


THE DEPUTATION
barrels of the filthy stuff; and we are offering
you a bargain.”
· Macdonald was in thoughts. Life, he con-
sidered, life and a chance--and the girl!
“How much do you want?” he asked
abruptly.
Traube opened his mouth for the first
time.
"It ain't der question of how much ve vant,”
he said coolly and briskly. “Der question is,
how moch haf you got?"
“What d’you mean?" Macdonald retorted;
and a little sharp note crept into his voice.
"It's easy to see vot ve mean,” the German
said stubbornly. “Ve ask you how moch
money you haf got, no?”
Hayes pushed the German to one side.
“Dutch is right, Mac,” he said. “Pass over
your cash-box, your bank-book, your pawn
tickets, and the key to your private vault.
Come through with the dough. Say, you
175


THE DEPUTATION
Want me to divvy up between you what I've
made, and make me a present of my life
instead?”
He glanced inquiringly around. Graham
was about to answer, but Walsh got there ahead
of him.
“Mac,” he said solemnly, “this ain't any o'
my doin'. Nor the count's, either. We two
are against it-dead against it.”
“But you're overruled,” Graham interrupted
quickly. “We four are in the majority, Mac,
and we give you your choice.” Traube, Hill-
yer, and Hayes gave a rumbling chorus of
assent, and Graham continued. “Pay up.
Divide whatever you've got or—you know!”
and he moved his thumb in a downward direc-
tion, like a Roman emperor condemning a
gladiator to death.
There was a long silence. Macdonald
looked straight ahead into nothingness. Here
was a chance. Should he accept it? Should
he let Graham blackmail him? Should he let
177


BUCKING THE TIGER
these useless wastrels have the money which
he had decided to leave to the girl?
He looked at the men, studying their faces
narrowly. They seemed eager for life, eager
for money, eager for all the grossnesses of what
life and money could buy. They represented
to him everything he hated in his own life,
everything he despised in himself. They were
broke, financially and morally.
It did not take him long to decide; and when
he spoke his voice was hard and cold, dismissing
with its first word the possibility of any alter-
native.
“No,” he said, and rose. “Not a cent. I
stick to the original bargain. Get out!”.
Hillyer walked up to him. “But I say, old
chap, don't be so bloody pig-headed—”
Macdonald took him by the shoulders and
whirled him toward the door.
“Back to your tents, O Israel!” he said
laughingly; then very suddenly he lost his tem-
per. “Get out, all of you, before I kick you
178


THE DEPUTATION
out! Get out, damn you!” he shouted with a
thundering voice.
Walsh and the count were the last to leave
the room. Macdonald detained them by a
gesture.
“You're broke, too, you two fellows, aren't
you?” he asked.
"You bet,” Walsh replied fervently, while
the count raised his hands to the ceiling in a
gesture which was a superlative yes.
“All right,” Macdonald continued. “I'll
give you two fellows a chance. I've opened up
offices in the Peyton Building. Come around
to-morrow morning at eight sharp—both of
you—I'll give you a job. There's just one
condition. You've seen to-night that I intend
to stick to our suicide compact. I'm going to
stick to it, whatever happens—for reasons of
my own—and I don't want you fellows to ever
talk to me about it. You must not try to dis-
suade me. Promise me that?”
The two men looked at each other, and then
179


· BUCKING THE TIGER
they looked at Macdonald. Finally they gave
a half-hearted promise.
And so it came about that when Miss Emily
Steeves appeared at the Peyton Building the
next morning at half past eight she found an
extremely busy office there, with her new boss
giving rapid directions to two employees who
looked suspiciously like vagrants, but who
seemed to be in great favour with Macdonald
and who repaid him with doglike devotion.
180


CHAPTER X
THE BOOMING OF THE WESTERN CROWN
URING the next few days a verita-
ble cyclone of insurance agents
rooting for the Western Crown
struck the peaceful city of Spokane and the
surrounding inland empire. For Hayes had
appointed the two Englishmen and the Ger-
man as sub-agents. They commenced proceed-
ings by insuring each other for hearty amounts,
paying the premiums in notes and turning
them over to the company, and mulcting
Houghton senior of the cash equivalent of the
commission due them in hard-hearted, merci-
less cash.
The elderly financier smiled his usual
auriferous smile.
"Go to it, boys,” he said. “Bring along the
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BUCKING THE TIGER
baggage-train and the munitions, the mounted
infantry and the big howitzers. Descend into
the lowlands, the low; and climb the highlands,
the high. Open up fire under the white flag.
Prove that you've learned something about
up-to-date warfare, and spare neither women
nor children. Open fire on this commonwealth
and the smiling, rural landscape which sur-
rounds it. Insure everybody—and God bless
you!"
And, cheered up by relays of square meals,
the four men responded nobly to the clarion
call. They buttonholed strangers in the streets
and forced applications and fountain pens into
their hands. They approached Siwashes,
lumberjacks, blondes, members of Chinese
tongs, State Senators, second-story men, Holy
Rollers, grocery clerks, free rural delivery
letter carriers, and the president of the local
* B'nai Brith.
In payment of the premiums they took
enthusiastically everything in the way of long-
182


BUCKING THE TIGER
“Yes, yes,” he replied. “The company is
certainly booming to beat the band. I'm
damned glad of it, for your sake, since you own
control”—Houghton paled, but cheered up
as Macdonald continued—“and also for my
own sake. For, you see, next April, promptly
on the first, I shall take a more active interest
in the affairs of the Western Crown. And
now—will you pardon me if I go into execu-
tive session with myself ?"
Which last meant that he was about to
dictate half a dozen unnecessary and very
lengthy letters to Emily Steeves, punctuating
the dictation with hollow coughs for reasons of
local colour, and speculating meanwhile if her
grey eyes would light up when she was looking
at the man she loved.
Houghton was considering. “By April of
next year, promptly on the first,” Macdonald
had told him. He was wishing both devotedly
and profanely that April would come a little
sooner. For the commissions he had to pay to
184


THE WESTERN CROWN
Hayes and the three sub-agents were rapidly
growing in size.
He was afraid to call the agents off, as he
knew that a decrease in the volume of business
would cause the stock to slump. So Hayes,
Traube, Hillyer, and Graham continued to
write insurance. They wrote it as it had never
been written before. Their campaign marked
an epoch in the history of Northwestern life in-
surance.
One curious consequence was that it caused
the two Englishmen first to take an interest
in their work-since it brought easy and profit-
able returns and secondly to take a certain
amount of pride in the company for which
they were working.
Let it be remembered that Graham was
Eton, Oxford, and Army, while Hillyer was
Harrow and Cambridge, and that they had
thus gone through a classic course of educa-
tion which taught them all about Cliquot, the
Cloacaline Floods, and the Curse of Scotland,
185


BUCKING THE TIGER
about Juvenal, Jingoism, and Jockeys, about
Bacchus, Bridge-Whist, and Baconian Phi-
losophy; but which on the other hand had
achieved the ethical aim of the British peda-
gogical system by carefully un-training them
for the vulgar pastime of the proletariat called
Business.
Not even the fried-fish ancestry of Graham
could counteract what Brazenose College and
the mess-rooms had taught him, and it was the
same with his cherub-faced retainer and com-
patriot, Hillyer.
They saw that the business of the Western
Crown was increasing rapidly and that the
stock was soaring. They did not realise that
there was as much difference between un-
secured, long-term notes and cash, as there was
between a package of green-goods printed for
the Arkansas R. F. D. routes and a certificate
of U. S. Steel common stock.
“My word,” Graham said one day, “I wish
I had a slice of this Western Crown stock!"
186


THE WESTERN CROWN
"Rather! Not half! Regular bloomin'
bonanza!" Hillyer agreed. “But what's the
good of wishing? It's like asking a chap for
change of a quid which he hasn't got and don't
look ever like getting. Why—” he pointed at
the local stock report of the Spokane Spokes-
man-Review, “the shares were up to four hun-
dred and seventeen yesterday.”
"If I only hadn't done my guy'nor so much
in the past," Graham sighed, "I might—".
Hillyer looked up with a gleam of hope in
his pale-blue eyes.
"I say, old chap. Let's try it; sort of a long
shot, you know, but do let's try it. I'll write
to my guv'nor and you write to yours. Let's
do the Pater Peccavi act; sob stuff; violins and
a harpsichord in the orchestra, and all that sort
of thing. Turned over a new leaf, don't you
know; see the error of our former ways and
learned our bloomin' lesson here in America;
goin' to stick to business in the future; what
d'you say?"
187


BUCKING THE TIGER
"All right,” Graham agreed. “Let's try.
It'll only cost us a five-cent stamp.”
So they wrote home.
Meanwhile Macdonald kept faithfully the
promise he had given to himself. The club
saw him only at lunch-time. He attended
strictly to business, and, by dint of trying hard,
he discovered in his cranium a brand-new,
though slightly rusty set of business ability and
diligence of whose existence he had not
hitherto been aware. He did some shrewd
trading in real estate and acquired a seat on
the local mining-stock exchange, doing there
so well and withal so honestly, that the mem-
bers hailed him as a new prophet arisen in
Israel.
Gradually he learned to love the prosaic
serenity of the daily task that gives bread,
whose main reward is not the money involved
and made, but the perfect love of the work
itself. Battling and working successfully for
the future and the welfare of the girl whom he
188


BUCKING THE TIGER
mad! That's why I am desecrating my last
year on earth by biting big business men in the
chest. That's why I am going tooth and nail
after this new real estate venture of mine.”
Just then the door opened, and Walsh and
the count came into the room. They had
changed during the last few weeks. It is true
that the former still had the rolling, toes-to-
the-front gait of the cattleman and the out-
curve at the knees from the saddle grip, while
the latter still sported a monocle and waxed his
moustache with that aromatic mixture of oleo-
margarine and lamp-black which delights the
female hearts of the Inner Boulevards. But
gone were the shabby clothes, the hungry eyes,
the general air of pathetic neglect.
They were broke no more.
Walsh was exuberant.
“Say, Mac,” he shouted, “roping mavericks
is sure swell training for a hustling American
real estate man! I sold two of them Lincoln
Park lots this morning."
192


THE WESTERN CROWN
But the count seemed dejected.
“What's the matter, Frenchie?" Macdonald
inquired.
The Frenchman dropped into a chair.
“Alas!” he exclaimed. “I saw M. Kenny;
I talked, I argued, I cajoled, I objurgated,
but he will not buy that lot in Lincoln Park;
he says he will not pay cash. He says that the
word cash will always remain a stranger to the
vocabulary of his business life. He says that
perhaps he will trade”.
Walsh pointed a broad thumb at the
count.
“Say, Mac,” he said, “Frenchie can't help
it. He ain't no good at this here real estate
game.”
“But I try! Mon Dieu, I try!” the French-
man interjected.
“Sure you do,” Walsh remarked soothingly.
"But you don't try right. I tell you where
you make yer mistake. Take that Kenny
party what you saw to-day and what you tried
193


THE WESTERN CROWN
the East. Ain't that so? Now let me tell
you the real way to sell real estate.”
Walsh cleared his throat preparatory to a
lecture on real estate salesmanship, but Mac-
donald interrupted him.
He turned to the Frenchman.
“Did Pat Kenny say what sort of a trade
he was willing to make?”
-“Yes, yes,” the other replied. “He said
something about stock of the Western Crown.”
And he blushed guiltily as he mentioned the
name of the concern which figured so promi-
nently in Macdonald's suicide compact.
Macdonald laughed.
“All right,” he said. “I guess I'll step
round to Pat's office and interview him myself.
I may do a little trading with him after all.”
He left the room.
Walsh sat down across from Miss Steeves:
“Say, Miss Emily,” he said, “ain't Mac the
swell guy though?"
“Yes,” she smiled; and then a pathetic little
195 :


BUCKING THE TIGER
note crept into her voice. “But isn't it too
bad that he's in such wretched health?”
Both the count and the cowpuncher looked
up startled.
“Watd’yer mean bad health?” the latter ex-
claimed.
“Why-don't you know? Hasn't he told
you?”
“No.”
So she told them. They listened, aghast,
dumfounded. A suspicion of the real reasons
for Macdonald's stubborn resolve to carry out
his part of the suicide compact crept into their
understandings. And that night, as they were
returning to the Hotel Eslick where they still
lived in spite of the change in their fortunes,
Walsh turned to his companion with an oath.
“Say!” he exclaimed, “I'll be everlastingly
damned and pickled in sulphur and brimstone
if that Mac ain't the whitest man in the State
of Washington; white clean through to the
marrows!",
196


THE WESTERN CROWN
And the Frenchman so far forgot himself
and his usual soft, beautiful English as to
chime in with a slangy, but fervent:
“You bet your boots, Andy!”
197


BUCKING THE TIGER
Crown. He himself, believing the stock of the
concern to be an extremely good buy, had al-
ready written home for money so as to be able
to purchase a substantial block of shares, and
his friend Hillyer had done likewise.
But when a casual word which the cow-
puncher let drop one evening at the Eslick
showed him that Macdonald was ready to act,
that in fact he was about to trade in some valu-
able real estate in Lincoln Park for some of
Pat Kenny's Western Crown holdings, he felt
more than ever convinced that it was up to him
to move heaven and earth so as to get there
ahead of Macdonald.
He wanted more than a mere voting slice of
the company's stock. He wanted control.
He wanted to frustrate the very deal which, he
thought, Macdonald had set out to accomplish
before he died.
Both he and Hillyer had saved a few hun-
dred dollars from the commissions which they
had been earning. He had a short talk with
200


AN OPTION
his compatriot. Then he called on Houghton
senior.
That elderly mining stock and real estate
corsair smiled rather a wry smile when the
Englishman sat down beside his desk.
"Sacred wild-cats!” he thought. "I wager
this diligent sub-agent of mine has sandbagged
another insurance victim, and I gotta shell out
more cash for commission."
He put his hand in his pocket and fingered
coquettishly a roll of bills which was reposing
there.
“How much?” he inquired with a loud voice
and a subdued sigh.
Graham waved the proffered money aside
with a lordly gesture.
“Nothing," he replied. “I have come here
to talk business, Mr. Houghton.”
Houghton felt relieved. He let the roll of
money drop back into his pocket with a little
satisfactory plump. Business, with him, spelt
the taking, not the giving of money.
201


BUCKING THE TIGER
“Gladly! Gladly!” he exclaimed, shaking
Graham fervently by the hand. “Proceed!
You interest me.”
That last statement was perfectly true.
“I would like to acquire an interest in the
Western Crown; that is if it's for sale,” the
Englishman began lamely.
It seemed to Houghton that sweet and sooth-
ing chimes were tinkling in the distance. But
he never winked an eyelash. In fact, he man-
aged to look slightly bored.
“Yes, yes,” he replied with a voice which
was as throbbing with emotion as an ossified
bagpipe. “Lots of people want that." He
paused and stifled an elaborate yawn. “Cash
transaction?” he asked casually.
The Englishman blushed. He felt uncom-
fortable and cheap; the very thing Houghton
wanted him to feel
“Why, no,” he stammered. “That is—I
fancy I can muster a little cash. Not very
much though. Fact is I want an—" He
202


BUCKING THE TIGER
to strike a better bargain through Graham than
if he came in person. All right. He'd see
that he was mistaken. He was altogether too
eager to buy.
So Houghton discouraged Graham's prop-
osition with his first words.
“Not for sale,” he declared with inexorable
accent. “Not for sale!” he repeated, and
turned to the work on his desk.
But Graham was not so easily discouraged.
Somewhere, in a half-forgotten cell in the back
of his brain, the huckstering spirit of the en-
nobled fried-fish monopolist who was his father
rose screaming.
“Look here, Mr. Houghton,” he commenced
with a firm voice.
There followed a homeric battle of words.
The curious thing about it was that both
Graham and Houghton-though they did not
suspect each other of it were unanimously in-
tent on doing Macdonald: the former by trying
to keep him from obtaining the stock, the latter
204


AN OPTION
by trying to sell it to him under a guise of coy
unwillingness.
Both men were moved by the lust of gold:
Graham wanted to buy something which he
thought was good, Houghton to sell what he
knew to be bad. Added to this was Graham's
bitter hatred of Macdonald. Houghton, on
the other hand, rather liked Macdonald; still,
business was business, and so he felt toward
him like an undertaker who is about to plant his
best friend in a palatial, two-thousand-dollar,
silver-edged, velvet-lined coffin, and the bereft
widow ready to hand over the cash.
At the end of an hour the two gentlemen
agreed. Graham paid over as margin most of
the cash he had in his pocket, and received a
ninety days' option from Houghton for fifty-
one per cent of the capital stock of the Western
Crown.
“I suppose you're acting for Macdonald?”
Houghton inquired as he was about to fill in
the name of the option buyer.
OV.
205


AN OPTION
haled the whole, smiled beatifically, and re-
plied:
“I have done young Mac. I have done him
richly and for keeps. I have sold him an op-
tion on the Western Crown stock. How much
per share would you say at a rough guess?”
"Four hundred and seventeen," Marshall
opined, quoting the market price.
When Houghton senior shook his head and
told him the real price he had asked and ob-
tained, his son paled with emotion..
"Father," he said with a firm voice, "the
next round of drinks is on me.”
Graham meanwhile returned to the Hotel
Eslick. He felt elated, pleased with himself.
He looked with an approving eye at the many
evidences of the town's opulence and pros-
perity. In the past, while he had been at
Brazenose College and, later on, when he had
borne his majesty's commission, he had felt
secretly ashamed because his father had made
the peerage via the fried-fish route.
207


BUCKING THE TIGER
But to-day the commercial instincts of his
blood came to the surface with a pop. He had
the option on the Western Crown stock snugly
tucked away in his inside pocket. He would
manage to take it up when the time came; he
would make the thing pay; and—best of all-
would spoil Macdonald's plans thoroughly.
When he entered the room which he shared
with his compatriot Hillyer, he found the latter
in an attitude of deep dejection; but he was so
primed with his own news that he did not stop
to inquire after the cause.
“Did it, old chap!” he exclaimed. “Got a
ninety days' option on fifty-one per cent of the
Western Crown stock! I paid down the few
hundred dollars we saved up, as a sort of re-
tainer, don't you know. Jolly proper piece of
business, I call it,” he added triumphantly.
Hillyer's answering voice was hollow.
“Did you pay out all the money we saved
up?"
208


BUCKING THE TIGER
rude, hard, unfeeling, not at all paternal. He
reminds me of the fact that he passed his bloom-
ing word of honour over a year ago that he
wouldn't give me another ruddy penny as long
as he lived. He reminds me curse him
that the Hillyers have lived in Sussex since the
days before the Conqueror-curse him, too!
that they are pure Saxon, and that they've
never broken their word of honour. Then he
winds up by asking me if I wanted him to
break his word of honour! Silly old josser!
Pure Saxon be damned!” he added in an agony
of grief. “I wish to God the Hillyers had in-
termarried a little with peasants and trade. I
wish somebody had taught them how to break
their blooming word of honour once in a while!
I wish—"
Graham patted his shoulder.
"Never mind, old chap,” he said soothingly.
“My guv'nor hasn't answered me yet. There's
still hope. Meanwhile I'll write to him again.
I shall also cable to him. Don't give up the
210


AN OPTION
ship. We shall carry this thing through some-
how.”
He said this with such steely resolve that
Hillyer looked at him in surprise. Graham
was indeed surprised at himself. For the first
time in his life he had decided to do something,
to carry it through to the end with single-
minded purpose. For the first time in his life
he felt energy and diligence fermenting within
him. And it was hatred, hatred of Macdonald,
which had brought the two qualities to the sur-
face.
So he wrote and cabled to his father. And
he wrote and cabled so urgently, so implor-
ingly, but with so much sense and grasp of
business conditions appearing between and in
the lines, explaining how he had earned the
money he had paid down as retaining-fee on
the option by working as agent for the com-
pany, how he had obtained an option on the
majority of the stock, enclosing the option it-
self as well as a mass of newspaper clippings
211


BUCKING THE TIGER
to show how the shares of the concern were
booming and how the business of the company
was increasing, that Lord Graham of Penville
rubbed his eyes when he read the letter, eleven
days later.
He turned to his sweet-faced wife with a
broad smile.
“Go’blyme!” he said. “You can call me a
bloomin' donkey's horphan; you can call me
a—a—a plurry, man-eatin', nose-ringed 'Ot-
tentot if the age of miracles hain't come back
on this 'ere earth! Why, Ludd love me, 'ere
is this 'ere brass-'eaded, mouldy-'earted son of
ours wot useter break my 'eart, livin' like a
bloated millionaire, eatin' dinners down at the
'Otel Cecil at foive quids an ’ead, and gettin'
jolly well kicked out of the harmy on top of it
-'ere is this 'ere Ralph turnin' into a bloomin'
financier, so 'elp me! Hooray!” he added
after a short pause for breath. “Hoo-bloom-
in’-ray!"
His wife smiled delightedly. She walked
212


AN OPTION
over to her husband and patted his pudgy, rosy
hands.
“I'm so glad, dear,” she said, her aged voice
trembling with joy. “Remember that time
when Ralph wired you to send him the money
so he could buy off that horrid Indian wife of
young Hillyer? Why, dear, I thought at the
time it was real unselfish of the boy. Standing
up for his pal, and never even asking a single
farthing for himself !”
“Right-oh! Not ’arf! Bit of arl right!"
agreed Lord Graham, heartily. “That warn't
’arf dusty of ’im, now I come to think on it.”
Lady Graham smiled. She knew her hus-
band's stanch pride under all his rough cockney
phrases. She knew how nearly heart-broken
he had been that day when their only son had
been drummed out of the army. And now she
was glad at the little ray of sunshine.
“What does Ralph write, dear?" she asked
softly.
“Read for yourself, old gal,” he replied,
wa
213


BUCKING THE TIGER
giving her the letter; then he said, half to him-
self, “I've ’arf a mind to-to-yuss, blyme if
I’aven't-"
She finished the letter. There were happy
tears in her eyes, and she took her husband's
hands in hers.
“William dear,” she whispered, “do you re-
member the day Ralph was born?"
“Yuss! Wasn't 'e the cunnin' little shaver?”
“And the plans we made for him," she con-
tinued, “do you remember? The plans for his
future! We were old, you and I, when Ralph
was born to us. You had already made your
money. Perhaps”—her voice trembled a little
—“perhaps it wasn't all his fault-what came
later-perhaps we spoilt him a little.”
He drew her to him.
“Don't you fret, old gal,” he said, patting
her white hair. “We tried our bloomin' best.
But perhaps you're right. Perhaps we did
spoil 'im.”
He stared into the fire which was burning in
214


AN OPTION
the grate; for a thick, white fog was drifting
over the Sussex Downs in spite of the June
sun.
"Say, Syrah old dear,” he continued after a
pause, in a low voice. "Remember them old
days down the Totten'am Court Road when I
was a-courtin' o' you? I wasn't no bloomin'
lord then, with a coronet and a town 'ouse and
a country estite. I was just plain Bill Gra-
ham; fried-fish retail—and bloomin' good fish
they was, too! Remember when I proposed
to you?"
“You didn't, dear,” she smiled.
"I didn't wot?"
“No, dear, you didn't. I was still calling
you Mister Graham, quite formal-like. And
all of a sudden—it was on a bank holiday and
we were lookin' at the tulips in Regent's Park
-you put your arms around my waist right in
front of everybody and you said: 'Dammit!
Call me Bill, can't you, and give us a buss.'
Remember?”
215


BUCKING THE TIGER
Lord Graham smiled reminiscently.
“Yuss, old dear. I was always one of them
straight-a’ead, grabbin' kind. Ludd love me,”
he added musingly, “I do wish Ralph was a
bit like 'is old dad.”
His wife pointed at the letter.
“William dear, why—why don't you—”
Lord Graham rose very suddenly.
“Right, Syrah, right as rain! I'll do it!"
He walked into the outer hall, picked up his
ancient stick and his high hat, which was of
solemn, ultra-conservative Sheraton architec-
ture, and, a few minutes later, the motor-car
was whizzing him toward the station.
And so, two weeks later, in his room at the
Hotel Eslick in Spokane, young Graham was
gazing rapturously at a fat draft on a New
York bank. It was for the full amount of his
option on the controlling interest of the
Western Crown.
There was also a letter from his father. It
was partly congratulatory and partly mina-
216


CHAPTER XII
EMILY STEEVES
VER-NIGHT the year had leaped
into the softness of full summer, the
summer of the Northwest, green
and golden, scented with the perfume of pine
and rhododendron, but with a cool, fresh tang
to it which spoke of the rolling, yellow fields of
the Palouse to the east, of the open sea beyond
the western range, of granite peaks and blue-
glittering snow far to the north.
Graham was swinging down the street, head
erect, arms a little akimbo. He looked at the
green tracery of the trees and at the coppery
reflections of the sun in the windows. The
whole atmosphere seemed drenched in pow-
dered gold, and he decided that life was worth
the living.
Years of worry and shame seemed to have
219


BUCKING THE TIGER
mo
dropped from his shoulders. He was broke no
more. He felt again as on that day when he
had received his majesty's commission, and so
he swung along easily, freely, an imaginary
cavalry sabre clanking behind him on the pave-
ment.
Last night he had received the draft from his
father, and just a few minutes ago he had made
it over to Houghton senior in payment for a
majority interest in the shares of the Western
Crown.
The old financier had suppressed an emo-
tional tear at sight of the draft. He had
shaken Graham warmly by the hand.
“Well done, my young friend!” he ex-
claimed, “exceedingly well done! I turn over
the control of this company to you with a cer-
tain amount of regret. But no-no-I know
that you will follow in my footsteps. Recti-
tude, honesty, the finer, nobler business ethics
- let these be your motto! Take this stock,
my boy, and God bless you!”
220


EMILY STEEVES
new
He had paused for a moment, seemingly
overcome by his own emotional eloquence; then
he had continued in a more matter-of-fact
voice. “I suppose you'll want to call a stock-
holders' meeting very soon, to have the new
directors voted into office?”'
“Yes.”
“I suppose Macdonald will be the new presi-
dent of the company?"
“Macdonald be damned!” Graham had in-
terrupted savagely. “What the deuce has
Macdonald to do with all this?”.
The old financier had smiled. Of course, if
the other still wished to keep up the farce that
he had bought the stock for himself and not for
Macdonald, it made no difference to him.
“All right, all right,” he had said soothingly.
“You elect whom you please. You have the
majority of the stock. There are a few loose
shares for which I hold the power of attorney.
I'll glady endorse them over to you so's you can
vote them as you please. And then of course
221


BUCKING THE TIGER
there are a few shares owned by Pat Kenny.
You'll rule that meeting, my boy. You'll be
able to appoint as directors whom you please.
I suppose you'll go over the books of the com-
pany?"
“Yes; during the next few days. Mean-
while I'll be very much obliged if you'll have
one of your stenographers send out the regular
notifications for the stockholders' meeting.”
"Surely,” Houghton had replied, “I'll do
that little thing for you."
Graham had left, and Houghton had looked
after him, shaking his head wistfully.
"The poor young fish!” he had thought, as
he rung for his bookkeeper to deposit the draft
at the bank. “The poor canned sardine! The
poor lemon-sucker! Well, youth must learn,
and age must teach him, and it's right that
teacher should be paid!”
But Graham, as he walked down Riverside
Avenue, did not feel poor at all. On the con-
trary, he felt rich. He imagined that he was
222


BUCKING THE TIGER
controlled his rising fury, and lifted his hat
with mock politeness.
“Why, Miss Steeves, as I live!” he exclaimed
with well-simulated surprise. "How do you
do? My word, but you do look a stunner this
morning; perfectly toppin' frock, and what a
little dear of a hat; imported French model, I
warrant! By Jingo, manicuring seems to be
paying well these days.”
“Will you please let me pass?" the girl con-
tinued, but with a low voice, as she did not
wish to create a disagreeable scene on the
crowded street-corner.
Graham continued as if he had not heard her
interruption.
“But I forgot; you've given up the manicur-
ing business. You're working for Ritchie
Macdonald now, aren't you?"
The girl did not reply. She did not even
look at Graham. Her free, independent,
young body stood up straight. But her eyes
flashed fire under her heavy coil of golden-
224


EMILY STEEVES
brown hair, and her little feet tapped the pave-
ment impatiently.
"Deucedly droll,” Graham continued with a
smile, "also rather a bit thick, don't you think,
of old Mac to-oh-to hit me when I wasn't
looking—to do all that mammoth twaddling
stunt about morality and that sort of thing-
and now you and he Oh, well! You tell
him that I spoilt his little plan, that I bought
control of the Western Crown. I've no doubt
he'll leave you some money, my dear. But if
you are looking for a real bargain in eligible
and slightly festive gentlemen, I beg to recom-
mend myself. Look here, Miss”
Suddenly a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
"Shut up, you damned cad,” a hard voice
whispered in his ear.
Graham turned pale with terror. Mac-
donald had come unseen from the drug-store.
Graham tried to wrench himself free. He
wanted to run away. But the other's grip was
one of steel.
225


BUCKING THE TIGER
welsher if he refused to blow his brains out on
the first of April?
She was positive that she had not misunder-
stood the words. So she looked up question-
ingly at the tall man who was stalking by her
side. But she refrained from speaking when
she saw the set, tense expression in his hand-
some, aquiline face.
Still, her thoughts bothered her. Mac-
donald had told her that he was a very sick
man, that the doctor gave him only a few
months more to live. And he had handled that
tall, strong Englishman as he would a baby!
Also, what was all that talk about suicide, and
about the money he would leave her? What
did it all mean? She was thoroughly mys-
tified.
They reached the office in silence, and in
silence Macdonald sat down at his desk.
He was deeply moved, profoundly dis-
turbed. He loved the girl with all his heart.
She was dearer to him than the dwellings of
228


EMILY STEEVES
kings. But he would have to leave her behind
him; well off as to money, no doubt, but un-
protected. She had told him that she was all
alone in the world; she was so pretty and soft,
she would be prey for such men as Graham.
He knew that the Northwest was full of
such men, adventurers, wastrels, English and
Eastern remittance men, the spawn of the
social gutters of New York and London and
Boston, men who had left their native towns
for the towns' good. He knew them. He
had herded with them; in mines and ranches
and lumber-camps and gambling dens.
Of course he supposed he could still buy him-
self free. He wouldn't have to commit suicide.
But then he would be as penniless as before;
he would have to begin all over again; and the
girl-she would find out all about his miserable
past, how he had lied to her! So his thoughts
went in a mad circle, and he was very unhappy.
Only of one thing he was sure: he would not
welsh!
229


BUCKING THE TIGER
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Macdonald.”
He looked up with a start. The girl was
standing close by his desk.
“Yes, Miss Emily?" he forced himself to say
in a matter-of-fact voice.
“I must ask you a question,” she continued
haltingly. “I–I simply must."
“Curiosity killed a cat,” he replied, with a
forced laugh.
But her face remained unmoved.
“This is perfectly serious.”
“All right,” he said with a sigh, “go on.”
“Mr. Graham asked me to tell you that he
had spoilt your plans, that he had bought con-
trol of the Western Crown.”
Macdonald smiled.
“Thanks for the information, Miss Emily,"
he replied, “but it is really quite indifferent to
me who owns control of that particular con-
cern.” He said it with such evident truth and
sincerity that the girl was convinced, and
rightly convinced, that the news meant nothing
230


BUCKING THE TIGER
“Why?”
“Because” She paused, visibly embar-
rassed, then continued recklessly, “because it
has got to do with you."
He looked at her, his face at once clouding
and softening.
“Like me as much as all that?” he asked
slowly.
She blushed a little. Her grey eyes were
very still and dark, as though she were pur-
suing something in her thoughts which was
both tender and hurting.
“Yes,” she said bravely, “I do like you.”
Macdonald rose abruptly and walked to-
ward the window. A gentle breeze came from
the outside, bringing with it the velvety soft-
ness of the sky, the languor of the summer-hot
earth; suggestions of infinite repose, the golden
gift of endless dreams.
He walked back to where she stood, and
took her unresisting hands in his.
“Don't bother, dear little girl,” he said
232


EMILY STEEVES
softly. “Don't bother about me.” He gave
a short laugh. “I guess everything'll come
out all right in the wash.”
There was another short pause. He picked
up his hat.
"I guess I'll go next door and see Marshall
Houghton about about some business deal,”
he said with a woful imitation of his usual busi-
ness manner.
But the girl stuck to her point.
“You haven't answered me. If you don't
tell me I—I shall ask Walsh! I shall ask the
count!” Her voice rose a little. “If you
don't tell me, I shall ask Mr. Graham himself.”
“You—you'll ask Graham?” He made a
grimace like a man who hears a false note.
“Yes."
“You mean that?”
“Yes."
"All right.” His voice was very hard.
But there was no anger in it; only a strange
despair, a strange fatalism. “Graham spoke
233


BUCKING THE TIGER
the truth.” He spoke slowly, distinctly.
“On the first of April of next year I shall kill
myself.”
She opened her eyes as wide as they would
go. Her lips trembled a little. She was
silent for several dragging moments. When
finally words came to her, she spoke as if ap-
pealing to a third person; but her eyes never
left Macdonald's face.
“Suicide-suicide-but why?"
He did not look at her. He was staring
into nothingness, grim, frowning, his teeth
clenched tight.
· "But why?" Her voice came to him again
as from a great distance.
Suddenly his concentrated, frowning repres-
sion relaxed. He turned and looked at her.
He spoke wearily, hopelessly.
"Because I love you, dear. Because I love
you with all my heart and soul. Because all
my thoughts are of you. Because I adore
234


EMILY STEEVES
you. Because you are everything to me that
is decent and sweet and worth while. Because
you are dearer to me than life itself.”
She walked straight up to him and put her
hands on his shoulders.
"Ritchie-Ritchie, dear!” she said in a low
voice. “But is that a reason why you want to
kill yourself—just because you love me?"
She smiled. “But, my dear, don't you think
it would be fair to ask me if I-if I_” She
stopped, blushing furiously.
A profound silence fell. Macdonald was
struggling with himself. He bent over her
and kissed her, very gently.
"Listen, dearest,” he said. "I'll tell you the
whole story.”
And he did. He told her of his wasted
years, of his despair, of his resolve to end it all,
of the suicide compact, and how he had cheated
so as to draw the losing ace; how fortune had
smiled on him so that by gambling he had in-
285


BUCKING THE TIGER
creased the three thousand dollars which the
others had contributed; how he had liked her
first, and then loved her; how he had made up
his mind to accumulate a decent-sized fortune
and leave it to her on his death; how later on
the others had offered to let him off the suicide
compact on condition that he would turn all his
money over to them.
He did not spare himself in the telling. He
spoke with utter, merciless truth. And when
he had finished, he waited like a man who ex-
pects sentence to be passed.
“Ritchie, dear," the girl turned to him, “you
said that all your life you've been a was-
trel?”
“Yes."
“You said that you'll never amount to any-
thing?"
“Yes,” he said bitterly. “It's the truth,
isn't it?"
"It is not the truth,” she replied. “Why,
look about you,” she continued, pointing at the
236


BUCKING THE TIGER
TIIS
bought timber claims on speculation, and those
who bought desert land and found oil. They
all gambled, didn't they? And then, after they
made a little stake by gambling, they built up
their fortunes. Why, dear, you've done the
same. You gambled—and you won. I don't
know New York,” she continued, musing.
"I've never been farther east than Butte. But
I bet the big men back there gamble as much
as they do out here."
Macdonald smiled.
“You bet they do, honey.”
“Well, there you are,” she concluded trium-
phantly. “You've no reason to be ashamed
because you made your stake by gambling.”
- “Gosh, you're a corking little counsel for
the defence,” he said with a laugh.
He walked up to her and tried to take her in
his arms. But she moved away.
"Why—Emily!” he exclaimed with sur-
prise. “I thought you—you—"
“I do, Ritchie,” she said, and her voice was
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BUCKING THE TIGER
she said. She blew him a kiss from the tips
of her fingers and left the room.
Macdonald looked after her in silence.
"Well, I'll be damned!” he said with utter,
ringing conviction.
240


CHAPTER XIII
A GLEAM OF LIGHT
URING the next few days neither
Macdonald nor Emily Steeves, as
if acting under a silent compact,
referred to the words which had passed be-
tween them. He knew that it was up to him
to act, but he had not the faintest idea how he
could do it.
He walked about with a morose air. Even
the fact that the Lincoln Park lots were sell-
ing like hot cakes did not seem to interest him.
Both the cow-puncher and the count noticed
his gloomy silence, and they naturally con-
cluded that the thought of his coming suicide
was beginning to distress him.
Finally one day Walsh, regardless of the
fact that he had promised Macdonald never to
241


BUCKING THE TIGER
-by honest means; neither welshing nor per-
mitting himself to be blackmailed.
The girl was her usual self; a quick stenog-
rapher, an efficient secretary, and coolly im-
personal. But all the time he felt her steady
observation of him like a physical contact,
like a soft, firm hand resting lightly on his
shoulder, commanding him to go ahead and
act.
A dozen schemes crossed his mind, to be dis-
missed immediately as unfeasible. But some-
thing seemed to tell him that his salvation
would come from the Western Crown. He
was not a superstitious man, nor was he easily
influenced by any psychic suggestions. He
was just a hale, clean, young American with
a sense of humour and a deep capacity for
sweet, unselfish love; a young American who
had been a miserable failure in the past, who
was making good now, and who had a splendid,
solid future before him.
He was the quintessence of prosaic healthi-
244


BUCKING THE TIGER
He was silent. Thank God, he said to him-
self, that he had cashed and deposited the draft
which Graham had paid for the stock.
Macdonald looked utterly bewildered; but
Houghton senior misinterpreted the expression
for one of fury and hatred.
“Of course, you've come to see me in regard
to the Western Crown,” he said meekly, look-
ing longingly toward the door.
“Yes, Mr. Houghton. How the devil did
you guess it?”
The financier interpreted Macdonald's last
remark as pure, unadulterated sarcasm.
“Well, I couldn't help it,” he continued a
little heatedly. “That man Graham you sent
to buy those shares for you is a damned fool.
His hind wheels are locked, and his carbureter
is out of order. He should have known bet-
ter. Why, damn it, he wrote insurance for
the company himself. He knew that half,
three-fourths of the notes we took in payment
of the premiums were unsecured. Mac, I've
248


A GLEAM OF LIGHT
an idea that measly Britisher double-crossed
you."
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Houghton,” Mac-
donald cut in. “I don't know what you are
talking about. I didn't send Graham to you.
I didn't buy any Western Crown nor any other
shares from you—and what's more," he added
under his breath, “I never shall buy any shares
from you, so help me!”
He said the last words with such utter sin-
cerity that the aged financier felt momentarily
relieved.
“Say, Mac,” he said, scratching his mostly
bald poll, “is this the truth you are giving me,
or some deep-toned, nefarious joshing?”
“It's the truth,” Macdonald replied.
The other was still suspicious; so he con-
tinued severely:
“You aren't trying to be funny, are you?
You aren't trying to wheedle me into childlike
peace and confidence, and then—when I am
not looking—to hit me on the vocal orifice
• 249 .


BUCKING THE TIGER
with that large hand of yours? You wouldn't
do that to me, would you, my boy? You
wouldn't be so cowardly as to smite an old
man on the top shelf after allaying his suspi-
cions?”
Macdonald laughed.
“I've no idea what you're talking about, Mr.
Houghton. I have not the faintest intention
of committing assault and battery. And I
don't see any earthly reason why I should.”
“Well,” the other replied dubiously, “you
mentioned the Western Crown stock.”
Macdonald laughed again.
“Is that sufficient reason to hit a man?"
“That depends—that depends," Houghton
mumbled; then he continued sternly: "Graham
didn't buy those shares for you? Really?"
“I swear to you he didn't," Macdonald re-
plied.
Houghton did not speak for a while. It
occurred to him that all his fear had been
for nothing, and the thought made him mad.
250


A GLEAM OF LIGHT
It also made him brave. So he blazed up.
“Then what the devil do you mean by com-
ing here and talking to me about the Western
Crown?” he shouted. “What the devil do you
mean by introducing this—ah-painful sub-
ject? Have you no heart? Have you no
sympathy? Have you no respect for old
age?”
“Well, Mr. Houghton,” Macdonald replied,
"I'll be darned if I know why I came here and
what I want to ask you. I obeyed a sort of
impulse.”
“Impulse be damned!” Houghton inter-
rupted.
“It's so, though,” Macdonald continued.
“I don't know what I want. That's all there
is to it.”
“But you must have some reason!”
"Perhaps I have." Macdonald sighed.
"It's such a long tale."
for, in his own way, he liked the other, and he
251


A GLEAM OF LIGHT
Houghton listened in silence. Somehow his
heart went out to the young man in front of
him, and he felt moved by a genuine desire to
help him out of his dilemma.
“Plain case, it seems to me,” he said.
“You've got to-ah-disappoint these four
gentlemen who are waiting for your death.
Let that fool of a Graham advertise you for
a coward. What do you care? It will be the
biggest free advertisement you can get.”
Macdonald sighed.
“But I told you the girl doesn't want me to
welsh. I wouldn't welsh, anyway. I'm not
that sort."
“Queer fish!” Houghton senior remarked
and lit a cigar.
He walked up and down, blowing out
volumes of smoke, “efficiency” written deeply
in every piratical lineament of his face. Sud-
denly he stopped in front of Macdonald.
“Mac, my boy,” he said, “you obeyed an A
Number One, nickel-plated, all-to-the good im-
253


A GLEAM OF LIGHT
“Much cash in bank?”
“Well, not so very much.”
"Any other investments, besides the notes?”
Houghton blushed.
“There's a good bunch of Red Cañon Cop-
per shares among the investments.”
Macdonald laughed.
"You don't mean that stuff which old Pat
Kenny is offering to everybody for a tenth of
& cent per share?”
“Yes. I do mean it.”
"Fine and dandy,” Macdonald laughed.
“That stuff is assessable, isn't it?”
“Yes."
“And Pat owns control?”
“Yes.”
Macdonald hit the aged financier heartily on
the back.
"Mr. Houghton,” he exclaimed, “I believe
I've got it!”
“Let's hear, my boy."
Macdonald told him, and when he had
255


BUCKING THE TIGER
finished the other shook him warmly by the
hand.
“My boy,” he said, “you're absolutely it.
You personify what the magazines call ‘Ro-
mance in Business. You’re a bear-cat! You
instigate a fine cordiality and a noble admira-
tion in my heart! There is prismatic beauty
in the eyes of your soul! Come with me, and
I'll buy you three drinks!”
256


CHAPTER XIV
WASTRELS, REGENERATE
YITH the acquisition of the con-
trolling interest in the Western
Crown, a deep and subtle
change came over Graham's outlook on life: a
stirring of the great curtain which hangs be-
tween success and failure. Spoiled as he was
by his early training, by Eton and Oxford and
the army, he had yet a natural temperament
and aptitude, redolent of fried fish and the
Tottenham Court Road, which had been be-
queathed to him by his father and which now
came to the surface, forcing him into the arena
of barter and trade.
One of his father's business maxims had been
“Centralisation of Interests and Lessening of
Overhead Charges," which, translated into the
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BUCKING THE TIGER
He did not know that they had been care-
fully coached by Macdonald himself. At first
they both demanded cash. Then they asked
for a full equivalent in Western Crown stock
of their suicide equities. But Graham, secure
in the knowledge that he owned the majority
of the equities anyway, swore by all the gods
of Jermyn Street and Bishopsgate Street
Within that he would not give them a cent
more than a thousand dollars' worth of stock
apiece.
“I only offer you that because I'm sorry for
you,” he said with a smile. "Take it or leave
it.”
The count looked despondent, while Walsh
grew profane.
“All right,” he said. “You caught us with
our boots off. But we gotta take it. Come
across.”
So Graham gave them the stock, making
them sign the same power of attorney for the
coming shareholders' meeting which Hayes
262


WASTRELS, REGENERATE
and Traube had signed; and he smiled a
pleased smile when Walsh, as he left his office,
cursed him fluently and picturesquely for a
scaly-headed, heartless gila-monster.
He would have been far less pleased if he
could have followed the two to the street and
overheard the cow-puncher's comment to his
companion.
"Ain't he the poor simp, though?” Walsh
asked the Frenchman.
The count laughed.
“Of a certainty,” he replied. “Enfin, you
know—what does the poet say—“He whom the
gods wish to destroy~ You know the quota-
tion?"
“Sure I do,” Walsh lied stolidly and man-
fully.
The shareholders' meeting of the Western
Crown Life Insurance Company came off the
following Saturday. Only three gentlemen
were present—Houghton senior, Graham and
Hillyer, who was acting as secretary, philos-
263


BUCKING THE TIGER
opher, friend, and general side-kick for his
compatriot.
It appeared that Houghton had voting
proxies not only for the few outstanding loose
shares, but also for the substantial minority
interest of Pat Kenny. True to his word, he
voted the former proxies in favour of Graham,
thus electing him to the office of president and
general manager, and appointing Hillyer as
secretary and treasurer of the concern.
When it came to the election of vice-presi-
dent, Graham nominated Hayes, and he was
perturbed when Houghton refused to second
the nomination, and proposed Macdonald in-
stead of Hayes for the office.
“Look here, Houghton,” Graham exclaimed
angrily. “You promised me you would vote
your proxies as I want you to vote them.”
“Sure enough,” Houghton replied. “I'm
voting all the loose shares your way. The
flood-gates of my loyalty are open to you, and
they are going to remain open, believe me!
264


WASTRELS, REGENERATE
My single-minded conscientiousness is so all-
fired great that it's fictional. I'm for you, cap.
Put it here."
He held out his aged, clawlike hand. Gra-
ham shook it rather limply.
"Then why the deuce—” he commenced;
but the other silenced him with a gesture.
“Give a fellow a chance to explain,” Hough-
ton continued. “May I never lap up another
highball if I don't vote those loose shares your
way. But old Pat is out of town, and I
promised to vote for him, too. And so I'll
have to vote his shares as he asked me to; and
he wants me to nominate Macdonald for vice-
president."
Graham considered rapidly. What did it
matter after all, he thought. Let Houghton
nominate and vote all he pleased. He himself
held the majority of the shares even without
the support of Kenny's shares, and so he could
elect Hayes into office. He was about to ask
Hillyer to count the votes, with the inevitable
265


BUCKING THE TIGER
result which he expected, when Houghton ad-
dressed him in a confidential whisper.
“Look here, Graham,” he said. “Don't mis-
understand me. There's no hiatus in the
manly appreciation I feel for you. But take
my tip and vote for Mac as vice-president.
Why not? That office ain't going to do him
any good. You needn't give him any salary.
You can hook all the Western Crown's war
chest yourself.”
Graham's features cleared a little. But he
was not yet convinced.
“But what's the idea?” he asked.
“Well,” Houghton replied, “a good deal of
the Western Crown's assets are in Red Cañon
Copper shares—a most excellent investment,
I am led to believe. But, you see, Kenny
holds the majority stock of that particular min-
ing company."
“What's that got to do with it?”
"A whole lot,” Houghton said. “Old Pat
is right smart on the freeze-out. He hasn't
266


WASTRELS, REGENERATE
got the same high moral standard which you
and I have, my boy. You don't know what
old Pat mightn't do if we irritate him. He
might deliberately ruin the Red Cañon. Or
he might levy an assessment on the stock—you
see, the stock happens to be assessable. No,
no. Take my tip. Don't cross that old wart-
hog. He's set his mind on seeing Mac vice-
president of the Western Crown.”
Graham groaned. He thought of the Red
Cañon stock as one of the chief investments of
the Western Crown. He thought of Pat
Kenny's revenge. Then he thought of his
father's last letter; of his warning that, in case
he lost the money which he had lent him to
acquire control of the Western Crown, Lord
Graham of Penville's Home for Retired and
Impecunious Retail Fish-mongers, would get
the decision over him in his father's last will
and testament.
Then he cheered up a little. For what did
it matter after all, he thought. Macdonald's
267


BUCKING THE TIGER
vice-presidency would be purely nominal.
More than that, he said to himself, and laughed
at the thought, it was rather droll to imagine
Macdonald as vice-president of the very com-
pany in which his life was insured, the very
company which had been the main factor in the
suicide compact.
"All right, Houghton,” he agreed, and voted
Macdonald into office.
So the meeting ended. At the door Hough-
ton turned.
"When are you going to look over the books
of the company?” he asked casually.
“Oh, in a day or two,” Graham replied.
“Why?”
“Well,” Houghton replied as he opened the
door, “mine and the other fellows' term of office
-Pat's and Marshall's and Ritter's, you know
-is only out on the first of the year. But
we're going to resign at once and let you step
into our shoes. You don't mind that, do you?”
“Not a bit,” Graham replied. “I'm very
268


WASTRELS, REGENERATE
grateful to you, in fact. But why did you ask
me about"
"I'm coming to that,” the other interrupted.
“You see, it's customary to have the vice-presi-
dent there when a new administration takes
over the affairs of a company.”
“All right, all right,” Graham said. “I'll
drop you a line.”
Houghton left, and Graham sank back
luxuriously into his chair. He was giving him-
self over to a series of pleasant dreams. He
would assume the reins of office and respon-
sibility at once. He would make the company
a success, a big success. He would accumulate
a large fortune.
On his father's death—for, of course, the old
chap would have to die some day-he would
return to England. The combination of his
own fortune and of the one he would inherit
from his father would be so overpoweringly
large that he would be able to résume his right-
ful place in society. Arrayed against such a
269


WASTRELS, REGENERATE
coming our way on that date. We'll take a
little jaunt down to California and—”
“Holy Whitechapel!” Hillyer interrupted
with a roar. “A fat lot of good that'll do me
if you kill me with work in the meantime.”
Again Graham hardened.
“You do as you're told. Eight sharp in the
morning; no swearing; no cigarettes; no”
“Oh, yes,” Hillyer cut in, with a sharp laugh,
"I quite forgot.” He knew how touchy Gra-
ham was on the point of his self-made father;
so he continued slowly: “You've all those
ah-fried-fish antecedents to contend with,
haven't you?"
Graham blushed furiously, but his voice was
even.
“Possibly so," he replied. “But I under-
stand they were jolly good fried fish. They
chucked my guv'nor into the House of Lords,
don't you know. And I tell you that this in-
surance company's going to be every bit as
good as my father's fried fish. You're going
me
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BUCKING THE TIGER
to help me. If you refuse-well, I fancy it
sha’n't be hard to find another secretary and
treasurer.”
And so, the next morning punctually at
eight o'clock, William Hillyer was opening the
mail addressed to the Western Crown Life In-
surance Company, thinking longingly of his
lunch half-hour, when he would be able to
smoke a cigarette and buy himself one-just
oneglass of beer.
274


CHAPTER XV
ANDY’S COUP
BOUT noon of the same day
Houghton senior entered Macdon-
ald's office in the Peyton Building.
Miss Steeves and Walsh were alone in the of-
fice, and they greeted him pleasantly. For
they liked the old finance pirate, in spite of
his many iniquities.
“Mac coming in?” he asked; and there was
so much suppressed wo in his voice that Emily
Steeves, who was about to go out to lunch,
stopped in her tracks and looked at him
anxiously.
"Mr. Macdonald will be back in half an
hour,” she said. “Is—is there anything
wrong?"
Houghton pulled himself together. He
275


BUCKING THE TIGER
walked up to her, and, pretending to help her
on with her coat, he whispered into her ear:
“There's nothing wrong with Mac. You go
ahead and order your trousseau. Go as far as
you like. I'll back the bill.”
The girl blushed furiously. She looked
round at Walsh; but the cow-puncher was
looking out of the window, and was not paying
any attention to her and to Houghton.
“You—you know,” she stammered.
Houghton smiled.
“I'm wise,” he said. “I know the whole
little romantic tale. You're a brick, and you'll
be the making of that young Mac. I'll be best
man, or give you away, or something equally
important, when the wedding comes off.”
“But"
"But nothing, my child. Don't you worry.
I know all about it. I know all about your
conditions, about the little nut you asked Mac
to crack. And he's going to crack it, believe
me.”
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BUCKING THE TIGER
mortgage on grandfather's farm. Because I
am an idiot.”
The cow-puncher looked genuinely worried.
“Let her rip, pard,” he said. “Give us a
line on the whole story. Perhaps I can help
you.”
“It isn't me who needs help,” Houghton
sighed. “It's Mac. I'll tell you everything.
You see, Mac told me all about that famous
suicide syndicate of yours.”
Walsh blushed.
“Say, Mr. Houghton, that warn't my fault,”
he stammered. “I never did—”
"I know, Andy; I know. Don't worry.
It's Graham, first, last, and all the time. The
thing could be easily arranged with a little
judicious welshing. But then there's Mac's
mulish sense of honour, and there's also the
girl.”
“Go slow, pard; go slow. What girl are
you talking about?”
“I'm coming to that.”
278


ANDY'S COUP
Houghton unfolded the tale which Mac-
donald had told him a few days before, and
with most of which Walsh was, of course, al-
ready familiar.
"I had a hunch thataway,” commented the
Cow-puncher, when the other came to the love
affair between Macdonald and Emily Steeves.
“I sure had a hunch them two kids were stuck
on each other. And you mean to tell me them
two young fools is goin' about whistling ‘No
Wedding Bells for Us' just because that here
silk-socked, cradle-snatching sap-sucker of a
Graham—"
"No, no. Not exactly that,” Houghton in-
terrupted. “But it seems the young lady is
cursed with very high-minded principles, and
so she has simply asked Mac to break away
from the suicide compact without letting him-
self be blackmailed and without welshing."
Walsh was packing his ancient brier with cut
plug. He sniffed contemptuously.
“Skirts are the limit,” he remarked sa-
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BUCKING THE TIGER
gaciously. “They expect a fellow to make
noises with his ears. Believe me, I'm going to
ride single for the rest of my life.”
“Well,” Houghton resumed his tale, “it
didn't seem so very impossible at first. Mac
and I stuck our heads together, and finally we
hit on an excellent scheme. We figured out
that there was enough cash in the bank, and
enough money coming in so that the Western
Crown would be able to settle that hundred
thousand dollars' insurance of Mac's without
going to the wall. We also figured that the
company would be able to take care of all her
other life insurances, given a fair to medium
death-rate between now and the 1st of April
of next year.
"But we knew that the company has a good
deal of Red Cañon Copper shares, of which
old Pat Kenny owns control. Well, we
thought we'd buy the shares from Pat for a
song. We knew he'd be glad to sell them at
any price. . Then we'd spread a few rumours
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BUCKING THE TIGER
sand dollars if Macdonald committed suicide,
or he would have to fall down on the Red
Cañon assessment. In the former case he
wouldn't be able to pay the assessment, and the
shares would be advertised and sold out on him.
The Western Crown would lose what seemed
to be a valuable asset; her shares would come
tumbling down; nobody would have any faith
in her, and there would consequently be no new
insurances coming in.
"In the latter case, with nearly all the com-
pany's ready cash paid out for the Red Cañon
assessment, Graham wouldn't be able to take
care of the hundred thousand dollars' life in-
surance of Mac's. He would simply have to
beg Mac to keep on living—otherwise the
Western Crown would go to the wall.”
Walsh looked up admiringly.
“Say, pard,” he said, “I see now why you're
one of the leading financiers of this here com-
monwealth. I also see a bright and wealthy
future for friend Mac. You're all to the
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he saw the lugubrious expression on the faces
of his two friends.
Houghton told him.
“It's a shame,” he added. “I did everything
so carefully. I attended the stockholders'
meeting of the Western Crown. I even suc-
ceeded to have you elected as vice-president."
“What was that for?” Macdonald inquired.
The financier broke into a high-pitched,
senile cackle.
“My boy,” he said, “I imagined there would
be a whole lot of anguish on that Graham
party's face when he looked over the books of
the Western Crown, and I wanted you to be
there so that you could enjoy the sight.”
“And now?"
“Now it's all off. Graham's got you coming
and going. You simply have got to welsh.
Never mind the girl. I'll talk to her myself.
I'll talk to her like a Dutch uncle. I'll make
her see the error of her ways. Leave it to me.”
Macdonald shook his head.
·
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BUCKING THE TIGER
ST
was that fifty thousand bones which Graham
got for the Red Cañon stuff which saved the
day for him, eh?"
“Yes,” Houghton replied. “Why dwell on
it?”
“Well,” the cow-puncher continued, “sup-
pose a big life insurance falls due between now
and the 1st of April-about seventy-five thou-
sand dollars' worth—enough to make it impos-
sible for the Western Crown to pay Mac's in-
surance in spite of that money Graham got for
the Red Cañon shares ?”
Houghton sighed.
“We figured on that, Andy,” he replied. “I
told you before there's enough money in the
treasury of the Western Crown to take care of
all the policies that may fall due, given a fair
to medium death-rate up to the 1st of April."
"Sure you told me,” Walsh insisted; "and I
haven't forgotten, either. But just suppose an
additional seventy-five thousand bones' policy
falls due? What then?"
286


ANDY'S COUP
“Well,” Houghton replied, “Mac would be
saved for his friends, his girl, and the common-
wealth. That's a cinch. But we can't figure
on it. Nobody's going to commit suicide just
to save Mac. Also, most of the insurances
which have been taken out with the Western
Crown are in small amounts. I guess a whole
lot of additional people would have to die to
save Mac, considering his noble principles,” he
added with a sniff.
Walsh grinned.
“Look a-here, you fellows,” he said. “Did
I ever tell you that I carry quite a hefty little
life insurance with the Western Crown, taken
out a few days before Mac took out his?"
“What?" Macdonald inquired incredulously.
"You're insured with the Western Crown?”
"Sure. Don't you remember that day when
I paid my share of the suicide syndicate, and
when I flashed all that big roll of yellowbacks?
Well, I was going to buy a hunk of coal shares
with them, but Hayes persuaded me to buy a
287


BUCKING THE TIGER
life insurance instead. I did that. Just a few
days before you took out yours. You see, if
I should die just a few days before you're due
to make your final kick-off, there would be”
"I got you, my boy,” Houghton interrupted
with a shout of triumph, jumping from his
chair. “You've got an elegant line of brains
and loyalty. By heck! We'll bilk that
Graham party yet.”
Macdonald flushed angrily. “What the
devil!” he roared. “Are you suggesting that
Andy sacrifice himself—"
"Sacrifice nothing!” Houghton chuckled.
“Keep your shirt on, you wild-eyed Piute!
It's a case of bluff, that's all—but Graham
won't know that, and if he suspects it he's in
no position to take the risk that it ain't. Got
it now?"
“You bet,” laughed Macdonald, "we'll do
him yet.”
“And honestly, quite honestly,” Houghton
continued. “That's the beauty of it. The
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ANDY’S COUP
girl's yours, Mac. Come on, Walsh”-he
turned to the cow-puncher—“and we'll pick
out a wedding present or two."
And so it happened that late that same after-
noon Macdonald and Walsh paid an im-
promptu call on Graham in the office of the
Western Crown Life Insurance Company.
Macdonald came quickly to the point.
Graham listened, furious, nonplused. But
there was no way out of it. He thought of
his father's letter and his father's warning.
Lord Graham, of Penville, would come to
Spokane, together with a chartered accountant.
There was the spectre of the home for retired
and impecunious retail fish-mongers hanging
over his head.
"All right,” he said finally. "I give in.”
"I knew you would,” Macdonald said with a
laugh. “And you'll also sign a little paper
stating that you release me voluntarily from
my suicide compact, won't you?”
Graham obeyed.
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ANDY'S COUP
other; they talked of themselves, their hopes
and ambitions; and then they talked of the big
Northwest which would be their home.
They talked for hours and hours. Arm in
arm, they walked over to the window and stood
looking into the moonlit streets. The town
was bathed in a mist of silver and blue; the
silver of promise and the blue of hope.
There was a breeze that brought to them the
warm, sweet odour of that great Northwestern
world, and the blurred noises of the night were
to them as the happy voices of little children.
THE END
291









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