The Adventures of Mr. Clackworthy. Christopher B. Booth
and rudely draped a large piece of paper over the mass of lines and angles, but not before Mr. Prindivale’s sharp little eyes had seen the words “Monotrack Transit Company.”
“Ah!” breathed Mr. Prindivale. “Secrecy! I knew that something was on foot. Foxy old J. K.”
Inside the private office Mr. Clackworthy calmly smoked his cigar, and marked time until the suburban banker should have waited a sufficient length of time. The master confidence man had adopted none of his long list of pseudonyms in this adventure, for he had carefully laid his plans strictly within legal bounds. Even his possession of the abandoned offices of the Atlas Investment Company and the use of that name on his letterheads were entirely according to law. With customary thoroughness for detail he had discovered that the genuine concern had neglected the little formality of registering with the secretary of state, thus leaving it open to use by others; and Mr. Clackworthy had spent the required incorporation fee of appropriating it, free of possible future embarrassing entanglements.
A moment later The Early Bird, hurrying in from the street with an armful of important-looking documents, paused at Mrs. Bascom’s desk. He sighed and mopped his brow.
“Say,” whispered Mrs. Bascom, making sure that it was loud enough to be heard across the room, “you’d better hurry up with those papers; Mr. Clackworthy’s in a big hurry for them—J. K. is in there with him and they want them quick.”
Hastily James Early grabbed up the documents and hurried into the inside office. Eagerly Mr. Prindivale leaned forward to catch a stray word or sentence that might filter through the heavy door, but, to his chagrin, it was sound proof.
“Well, Old Gimlet Eye’s out there waitin’,” he announced.
“Yes, I know.” said Mr. Clackworthy; “Mrs. Bascom pressed the buzzer a moment ago. How do you size him up?”
“As nervous as a Pennsylvania millionaire about to meet King George,” chuckled The Early Bird; “say, that guy—”
“Watch your English, James.”
“Well, as I was gonna say, if you keep that gink—that man, I mean—out there very long he’s gonna wear th’ seat out of his pants th’ way he’s squirming around in th’ chair.”
“That’s fine, James; now you may retire to the outer office while I complete my conference with—ah—J. K. Remember my instructions and follow them to the letter.”
The Early Bird bowed solemnly to the empty chair across from Mr. Clackworthy, grinned, and made for the door.
“I’ve got it down pat,” he said.
In the outer office, James went to his desk, which stood but a few feet from where Mr. Prindivale was seated. Slowly he began to sort over a stack of papers which were heaped in front of him.
Mr. Prindivale edged his chair a few inches closer.
“Have a cigar,” he invited; “fine tobacco, very fine; import ’em myself direct. You have a very nice office here.”
“Uh-huh,” muttered The Early Bird, ignoring the cigar.
“By the way,” probed Mr. Prindivale, “I thought I saw my old friend J. K.—fellow banker of mine, you know—come in just ahead of me, does he transact much business with this firm?”
The Early Bird frowned in apparent annoyance.
“Never heard of ’im,” he mumbled, impolitely taking a cigar from his own pocket and lighting it, but, at the same time, he averted his eyes.
“Never heard of J. K.?” scoffed Mr. Prindivale with entirely justified skepticism. “Ha! Ha! That is quite a joke—sort of in the class with the fellow down in Arkansas who, when the orator shouted: ‘Lincoln is dead,’ declared that he didn’t even know that Lincoln was sick.”
“Never heard of ’im,” repeated The Early Bird with ridiculous obstinacy.
“I see,” nodded Mr. Prindivale, “it’s a dark secret; oh, I’m on.”
“On to what?”
“I know J. K. mighty well—personal friend of mine.”
“Uh-huh,” grunted The Early Bird noncommittally, and his pencil beat a little tattoo on his desk. In accordance with this signal, George Bascom removed the improvised paper shield from the draftsman’s board.
“Bascom!” snapped James. “I don’t want any more work on that just now; hasn’t Mr. Clackworthy told you—”
Hastily Bascom restored the pushpins and Mr. Prindivale’s nostrils quivered.
“Something big on foot—something mighty big,” he thought, and he leaned back in his chair, contracted his eyes thoughtfully and sought to reason it out.
VI.
At the end of thirty minutes Mr. Clackworthy gave the button on his desk three swift jabs and The Early Bird appeared.
“I got ’im goin’,” chuckled James. “He tried to pump me for all he was worth about this J. K. stuff.”
“James, you chew tobacco on occasions, do you not?” queried Mr. Clackworthy.
“Chew!” repeated The Early Bird. “Now, ain’t that a question to ask a guy—with th’ little lamb outside waitin’ for th’ clippers. Gonna get me to sign th’ pledge?”
Mr. Clackworthy took from his desk a fresh plug of natural twist.
“James,” he chuckled, “you know that I abhor the vile habit, even in others; can’t touch it myself; but it now becomes necessary for me to ask you to masticate a generous portion of this plug of tobacco. Strew it around somewhere in the general vicinity of that seventy-five dollar cuspidor. No, I’m not jesting; it’s part of the stage setting.”
Quietly The Early Bird complied.
“That’s all, James,” said Mr. Clackworthy; “I will see Mr. Prindivale now.”
“Holy blue-eyed catfish!” muttered The Early Bird as he retired.
A moment later Mr. Prindivale entered, glancing swiftly about. The first thing that caught his eye was the dark tobacco stains which decorated the floor; he smiled in triumph.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Looks as if my old friend J. K. had been here.” J. K. Easterday’s careless way of chewing tobacco was notorious in moneyed circles.
“J. K. Who?” demanded Mr. Clackworthy.
“As if there were more than one J. K. Easterday,” said Mr. Prindivale, exceedingly pleased with himself at this masterful bit of deduction.
“J. K. Easterday has not been here,” declared Mr. Clackworthy with entirely truthful but perhaps unnecessary emphasis. “What would that big fellow be doing up here in my humble domain? You honor me.”
“Have it your way,” said Mr. Prindivale, plainly unconvinced.
“Mr. Prindivale,” began Mr. Clackworthy briskly, “I know that you are a busy man and I will not take your time by lengthy and needless explanations. My letter frankly explained the matter. You have two thousand shares of Monotrack Transit that you couldn’t sell for a scrap of paper. The last selling price was ten dollars a share. For the purpose stated in my letter to you, my client is willing to give you the last quoted market price. That’s the whole thing in a nutshell. Did you bring the shares with you?”
“Tut! Tut!” remonstrated Mr. Prindivale craftily. “Not so fast; I’m too old a head to be rushed like that. Come, my dear sir; give me credit for a little intelligence. When I play stud poker I like to see a few of the cards on the table before I bet.”
“You are intimating—”
“Intimating nothing, Mr. Clackworthy; I know for a positive fact that you’ve got an ace up your sleeve.”