The Son of his Father. Cullum Ridgwell
his friends would have seen a tremendous humor in the idea of his making one hundred thousand dollars under any conditions.
One hundred thousand dollars! What a tremendous sum it sounded viewed from the standpoint of his having to make it. He had never considered it a vast sum before. But now it seemed to grow and grow every time he thought of it. Then he laughed. What stupid things "noughts" were. They meant so much just now, and, in reality, they mean nothing at all.
Oh, dear. The whole thing was a terrible trouble. It was worse. It was a tragedy. But – he mustn't give his friends the laugh on him. That would be the last straw. No. The whole thing should remain a secret between his father and himself. He almost broke into a sweat as he suddenly remembered the Press. What wouldn't the Press do with the story. The son and heir of James Carbhoy, the well-known multi-millionaire, leaving home to show the world how to make one hundred thousand dollars in record time! A stupendous farce. Then the swarm of reporters buzzing about him like a cloud of flies in summer time. The prospect was too depressing. Think of the columns in the Press, especially the cheaper Press. They would haunt him from New York to – Timbuctoo!
It couldn't be done. He felt certain that in such circumstances suicide would be justifiable. Thoughts such as these swept on through his disturbed brain as he sped up Broadway on his way to say good-by to his mother and sister. He had been lucky in finding his father's high-powered automobile standing outside the palatial entrance of the towering Carbhoy Building. Nor had he the least scruple in commandeering it.
His visit to the east side of Central Park was in the nature of a whirlwind. He had no desire to be questioned, and he knew his young sister, Gracie, too well to give her a chance in that direction. Their friends were wont to say that, for one so young – she was only thirteen – she was all wit and intellect. He felt that that was because she was his father's daughter. For himself he was positive she was all precocity and impertinence. And he told himself he was quite unprejudiced.
As for his mother, she was one of those gentle Southern women who declare that no woman has the right to question the doings of the male members of her household, and, in spite of the luxury with which she was surrounded, and which she never failed to feel the burden of – she was originally a small farmer's daughter – still yearned for that homely meal of her youth, "supper" – a collation of coffee, cakes, preserves and cold meats.
Experience warned him that he must give her no inkling of the real facts. She would be too terribly shocked at the revelation.
So, for an hour or more, in the little family circle, in his mother's splendid boudoir, he talked of everything but his own affairs. Nor was it until he was in the act of taking his leave that he warned them both that he was leaving the city for six months. He felt it was a cowardly thing to do, but, having fired his bombshell in their midst, he fled precipitately before its stunning effect had time to pass away.
Off he sped, the automobile urged to a dangerous speed, and it was with a great sense of relief that he finally reached his own apartment on Riverside Drive.
Letting himself in, he found his man, Harding, waiting for him.
"Mrs. Carbhoy has been ringing you up, sir," he said in the level tones of a well-trained servant. "She wants to speak to you, sir – most important."
Gordon hardened his heart.
"Disconnect the 'phone then," he said sharply, and flung himself into a great settle which stood in the domed hall.
"Very good, sir."
The man was moving away.
"If my mother or sister should come here, I'm out. Send word down to the office that there's no one in."
The valet's face was quite expressionless. Gordon Carbhoy had his own way of dealing with his affairs. Harding understood this. He was also devoted to his master.
"Yes, sir."
He vanished out of the hall.
Left alone a great change came over Gordon. The old buoyancy and humor seemed suddenly to fall from him. For once his eyes were perfectly, almost painfully serious. He stared about him, searching the remoteness of his surroundings, his eyes and thoughts dwelling on the luxury of the apartment he had occupied for the last three years. It was a two-floored masterpiece of builder's ingenuity. It was to be his home no longer.
That splendid domed hall had been the scene of many innocent revels. Yes, in spite of the accusation of immorality, his parties had been innocent enough. He had entertained the boys and girls of his acquaintance royally, but – innocently. Well, that was all done with. It was just a memory. The future was his concern.
The future. And that depended on his own exertions. For a moment the seriousness of his mood lifted. Surely his own exertions as a business man was a broken reed to – What about failure? What was to follow – failure? He hadn't thought of it, and his father hadn't spoken of it.
Suddenly the cloud settled again, and a sort of panic swept over him. Did his father intend to – kick him out? It almost looked like it. And yet – Had he intended this stake as his last? What a perfect fool he had been to refuse the hundred thousand dollars. Then, in a moment, his panic passed. He was glad he had done so – anyway.
He selected a cigar from his case and sniffed at it. He remembered his father's. His handsome blue eyes were twinkling. His own cigars cost half a dollar more than his father's, and the fact amused him. He cut the end carefully and lit it. Then he leaned back on the cushions and resigned himself to the reflection that these things, too, must go with the rest. They, too, must become a mere memory.
"Harding!" he called.
The man appeared almost magically.
"Harding, have you ever smoked a – five-cent cigar?" he inquired thoughtfully.
The valet cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry to say, sir, I haven't."
"Sorry?" Gordon's eyes were smiling.
"A mere figure of speech, sir."
"Ah – I see. They must be – painful."
"Very, I should think, sir. But, beg pardon, sir, I believe in some – ahem – low places, they sell two for five cents!"
"Two? I – I wonder if the sanitary authorities know about it."
Gordon smiled into the serious face of his devoted henchman. Then he went on rapidly —
"What baggage do you suggest for a six months' trip?"
"Europe, sir?"
"No."
"South, sir?"
"I – haven't made up my mind."
"General then, sir. That'll need more. There's the three large trunks. The steamer trunk. Four suit cases. Will you need your polo kit, sir, and your – ?"
Gordon shook his head.
"Guess your focus needs adjusting. Now, suppose you were getting a man ready for a six months' trip – a man who smoked those two-for-five cigars. What would you give him?"
Harding's eyelids flickered. He sighed.
"It would be difficult, sir. I shouldn't give him clean under-garments, sir. I should suggest the oldest suit I could find. You see, sir, it would be waste to give him a good suit. The axles of those box cars are so greasy. I'm not sure about a toothbrush."
"Your focus is adjusting itself."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir."
"And the five-cent-cigar man?"
Harding's verdict came promptly.
"A hand bag with one good suit and ablutionary utensils, sir. Also strong, warm under-garments, and a thick overcoat. One spare pair of boots. You see, sir, he could carry that himself."
"Good," cried Gordon delightedly. "You prepare for that five-cent-cigar man. Now I want some food. Better ring down to the restaurant."
"Yes, sir. An oyster cocktail? Squab on toast, or a little pheasant? What about sweets, sir, and what wine will you take?"
"Great