His Great Adventure. Robert Herrick
simple, a good gambler.” But the man who had signed his name between convulsions—H. Krutzmacht—didn’t seem to fit the same genial frame. He was of sterner stuff. “Anyway he’s given me one fine time and I’ll do what I can for him out there!” It was useless to speculate further as to what awaited him in San Francisco. It might be that court proceedings having already begun, the affair would be taken out of his hands completely. He might find a telegram from Krutzmacht countermanding his orders.
At last he dropped to sleep, buoyant and eager for that unknown future that lay before him, while the train having surmounted the last mountain barrier wound slowly down into the green, fruit-covered valleys of California.
VII
The Overland was several hours late; it was nearly four o’clock of a foggy April afternoon before Brainard emerged from the ferry station with his big valise in his hand. His first intention had been to go to a hotel and there deposit his bag and make inquiries. The miner had urged him to accompany him to the old “Palace.” “They say it’s finer than ever since the quake.” But Brainard, reflecting that it was Saturday afternoon and considering that a few hours’ delay might mean the loss of two days, shook hands with his fellow travelers and turned to the telephone booths to discover Krutzmacht’s city address. When he had memorized the street and number he started up Market Street, still carrying his bag. He was astonished to see how thoroughly the city had recovered from its disaster in little more than a year. There were large gaps in the business blocks, to be sure, but it was a lively, substantial city with a great deal of building going forward, especially in the noisy erection of tall steel buildings. The very sight of these ambitious structures inspired courage!
After a short walk Brainard found himself at the entrance of a large, new building on Sutter Street that corresponded with the number he had memorized. He stood on the curb for a few moments staring up at the windows. Now that he had reached his goal, a trace of his former habit of despondency came over him, making him hesitate before the final effort, but shaking himself free from the old morbidness he walked briskly into the building. When he emerged from the elevator on the top floor, the boy pointed down the corridor. “The last one on the right,” he said.
Brainard passed a number of offices whose doors bore in small black letters the names of different companies—“Pacific Northern Railroad,” “Great Western Land and Improvement Company,” “The Shasta Corporation.” At the extreme end of the corridor was a door with the simple lettering, “Herbert Krutzmacht.” The plain black letters of the name had something of the same potency that the signature at the bottom of the power of attorney had. Like that, like the sick man himself who had painfully gasped out his last orders, they were a part of the substantial realm of fact. So far, at least, the dream held! There was a real man named Krutzmacht, engaged in important business enterprises, and from what Brainard had learned on the train he knew that there was a crisis in his affairs.
With his hand on the door-handle he paused. His heart beat fast, and he looked around him nervously as if expecting to see an officer of the court lurking somewhere in the corridor. There was no one on this floor, however. The quiet of a late Saturday afternoon had settled down on the busy building, but within the private office Brainard could hear the slow click of a typewriter. He pushed open the door and entered.
It was a large, rather barely furnished room, evidently used as an ante-room to other offices. Near the window a young woman was seated at a desk, lazily examining a mass of papers and occasionally tapping the keys of a machine, with the desultory air of an employee killing time at the end of the day. She was a distinctly good looking woman, Brainard observed, although no longer young, with abundant coarse black hair, fresh complexion, and decidedly plump.
The stenographer looked up from her work at Brainard with a start as if she had been expecting some one, but quickly composed herself.
“Well, what is it?” she asked with a peculiar intonation that indicated hostility.
Brainard was at a loss for a reply and stood gaping at the stenographer foolishly. He had not thought of meeting a woman. He had known few women, and he lacked confidence in dealing with them.
“Is—is Mr. Krutzmacht in?” he stammered awkwardly, and cursed himself for the silly question.
The woman gave him a suspicious look and answered shortly:
“No, he ain’t.”
“Oh,” the young man remarked, looking about the office. Near the stenographer’s desk was a door partly open, which led into an inner room. In the farther corner of this room could be seen the projecting corner of a steel safe. This Brainard felt must be his goal, and he unconsciously stepped toward the door of the inner office. The woman rose as if to bar his further progress and snapped irritably:
“What do you want here?”
“Why, I just want to talk to you,” he replied as amiably as he could.
“Cut it short then, young man. I haven’t any time to waste in conversazione.”
“You don’t seem very busy!” Brainard observed smiling.
“I’m always busy to strangers, little one—I do my day-dreaming outside of office hours.” She thrust the metal cover on her machine with a clatter. “See?”
“Oh, yes, I see,” Brainard replied and again tried to approach the inner office. The stenographer confronted him alertly and folding her arms demanded:
“What’s your game, anyway, young man? If you’re one of those lawyers—”
“No, I’m no lawyer,” Brainard said laughing. “Guess again!”
“Haven’t the time. It’s Saturday afternoon, and this office is supposed to be closed at one o’clock.”
“So it is Saturday—I’d almost forgotten the fact.”
The stenographer eyed him very sourly and observed coldly:
“Where do you keep yourself that you don’t know the day of the week? Go home, young man, and think it over.”
Brainard saw that in this national game of “josh” he could make no progress against such an adept and came bluntly to the point:
“Are you in charge of Mr. Krutzmacht’s office?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Because I’ve been sent here by Mr. Krutzmacht to—”
“Sent here by Mr. Krutzmacht—the one you were asking for just now? … Try something else, sonny.”
Brainard felt foolish and completely baffled. He wanted to strangle the woman and throw her out of the window. But aside from the fact that she appeared to be vigorous and of a fighting disposition he realized that the less disturbance he made the greater chance he would have of carrying through his mission successfully. It is not clear what the outcome between the two would have been, if at that moment there had not appeared from the inner office an elderly man whose mild face had a worried look. Brainard noted the man’s near-sighted, timid air and regained his calm.
“Here’s a young feller, Mr. Peters, who says he’s looking for Mr. Krutzmacht,” the girl said.
“Mr. Krutzmacht is not in the city,” the man said nervously.
“Yes, I know that!” Brainard replied easily. “You see I was sent here by Mr. Krutzmacht himself.”
“You come from Krutzmacht!” the man gasped in excitement, while the woman’s face expressed incredulity. “Where is he? We’ve been telegraphing all over the country the last week trying to locate him. Mr. Snell has just gone east—left this office only an hour ago—to see if he can find him.”
Brainard