The Wall Street Girl. Bartlett Frederick Orin
borrow. The whole basis of his credit was gone.
The situation was, on the face of it, so absurd that the longer he thought it over the more convinced he became that Barton had made some mistake. He decided to telephone Barton.
It was with a sense of relief that Don found the name of Barton & Saltonstall still in the telephone-book. It would not have surprised him greatly if that too had disappeared. It was with a still greater sense of relief that he finally heard Barton’s voice.
“Look here,” he began. “It seems to me there must be some misunderstanding somewhere. Do you realize that I’m stony broke?”
“Why, no,” answered Barton. “I thought you showed me the matter of thirteen dollars or so.”
“I did; but that’s gone, and all I have now is the matter of thirteen cents or so.”
“I’m sorry,” answered Barton. “If a small loan would be of any temporary advantage–”
“Hang it!” cut in Don. “You don’t think I’m trying to borrow, do you?”
“I beg your pardon. Perhaps you will tell me, then, just what you do wish.”
“I must eat, mustn’t I?”
“I consider that a fair presumption.”
“Then what the deuce!”
Don evidently expected this ejaculation to be accepted as a full and conclusive statement. But, as far as Barton was concerned, it was not. “Yes?” he queried.
“I say, what the deuce?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Oh, I see. You mean, I take it, what must you do in order to provide yourself with funds.”
“Exactly,” growled Don.
“Of course, the usual method is to work,” suggested Barton.
“Eh?”
“To find a position with some firm which, in return for your services, is willing to pay you a certain fixed sum weekly or monthly. I offer you the suggestion for what it is worth. You can think it over.”
“Think it over!” exclaimed Don. “How long do you think I can think on thirteen cents?”
“If you authorize me to act for you, I have no doubt something can be arranged.”
“You seem to hold all the cards.”
“I am merely obeying your father’s commands,” Barton hastened to assure him. “Now, can you give me any idea what you have in mind?”
“I’ll do anything except sell books,” Don answered promptly.
“Very well,” concluded Barton. “I’ll advise you by mail as soon as anything develops.”
“Thanks.”
“In the mean while, if you will accept a loan–”
“Thanks again,” answered Don; “but I’ll go hungry first.” He hung up the receiver and went back to the lounge.
CHAPTER III
THE QUEEN WAS IN THE PARLOR
Stuyvesant was proud of his daughter–proud of her beauty, proud of her ability to dress, proud of her ability to spend money. She gave him about the only excuse he now had for continuing to hold his seat on the Stock Exchange. The girl was tall and dark and slender, and had an instinct for clothes that permitted her to follow the vagaries of fashion to their extremes with the assurance of a Parisienne, plus a certain Stuyvesant daring that was American. At dinner that night she wore, for Don’s benefit, a new French gown that made even him catch his breath. It was beautiful, but without her it would not have been beautiful. Undoubtedly its designer took that into account when he designed the gown.
The dinner was in every way a success, and a credit to the Stuyvesant chef–who, however, it must be said, seldom had the advantage of catering to a guest that had not lunched. Stuyvesant was in a good humor, Mrs. Stuyvesant pleasantly negative as usual, and Frances radiant. Early in the evening Stuyvesant went off to his club for a game of bridge, and Mrs. Stuyvesant excused herself to write notes.
“I met Reggie Howland at the tea this afternoon,” said Frances. “He was very nice to me.”
“Why shouldn’t he be?” inquired Don.
“I rather thought you would come. Really, when one goes to all the bother of allowing one’s self to be engaged, the least one expects is a certain amount of attention from one’s fiancée.”
She was standing by the piano, and he went to her side and took her hand–the hand wearing the solitaire that had been his mother’s.
“You’re right,” he nodded; “but I was all tied up with business this afternoon.”
She raised her dark brows a trifle.
“Business?”
“Lots of it,” he nodded. “Come over here and sit down; I want to tell you about it.”
He led her to a chair before the open fire. He himself continued to stand with his back to the flames. He was not serious. The situation struck him now as even funnier than it had in Barton’s office. He had in his pocket just thirteen cents, and yet here he was in Stuyvesant’s house, engaged to Stuyvesant’s daughter.
“It seems,” he began–“it seems that Dad would have his little joke before he died.”
“Yes?” she responded indifferently. She was bored by business of any sort.
“I had a talk to-day with Barton–his lawyer. Queer old codger, Barton. Seems he’s been made my guardian. Dad left him to me in his will. He left me Barton, the house, and twelve dollars and sixty-three cents.”
“Yes, Don.”
She did not quite understand why he was going into details. They did not seem to concern her, even as his fiancée.
“Of that patrimony I now have thirteen cents left,” Don continued. “See, here it is.”
He removed from his pocket two nickels and three coppers.
“It doesn’t look like much, does it?”
“Oh, Don,” she laughed, “do be serious!”
“I am serious,” he assured her. “I’ve been serious ever since I went to Sherry’s for lunch, and found I did not have enough for even a club sandwich.”
“But, Don!” she gasped.
“It’s a fact. I had to leave.”
“Then where did you lunch?”
“I didn’t lunch.”
“You mean you did not have enough change to buy something to eat?”
“I had thirteen cents. You can’t buy anything with that, can you?”
“I–I don’t know.”
Suddenly she remembered how, once on her way home from Chicago, she lost her purse and did not have sufficient change left even to wire her father to meet her. She was forced to walk from the station to the house. The experience had always been like a nightmare to her. She rose and stood before him.
“But, Don–what are you going to do?”
“I telephoned Barton, and he suggested I take some sort of position with a business house. He’s going to find something for me. I’m not worrying about that; but what I want to know is what I ought to do about you.”
“I don’t understand, Don.”
“I mean about our engagement.”
She looked puzzled.
“I’m afraid I’m very stupid.”
“We can’t be married on thirteen cents, can we?”
“But