The Adventures of Mr. Clackworthy. Christopher B. Booth
tell you what I will do. Since I have caused you quite a little worry over your apparent loss of sixty thousand dollars, I will permit you to make a little profit—out of my own pocket, you know—as a sort of penalty for my mistaken judgment in advising you. I will give you thirty-five dollars a share.”
Mrs. Cartwright laughed, and how was Mr. Prindivale to know that this was the cue for Mrs. Cartwright’s loyal and trusted servant, Amelia, to connect the electric current which caused a telephone bell to ring in another room? The banker was engulfed by apprehension, that might be J. K.’s men seeking to get in touch with her; he was, somehow, almost sure that it was.
“As—as I was saying”—he stumbled.
“Mis’ Cartwright; there’s a man on the phone as wants to talk to you,” said Amelia; “he says his name’s Clack—Clack something.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Prindivale; you will excuse me for a moment.”
“Wait! Wait!” cried Mr. Prindivale wildly. “Let us close this up before you go; now let me see—” He was hastily doing a little problem in mental arithmetic; Clackworthy had promised to pay the par value of one hundred dollars per share, that would be an even two hundred thousand dollars. If he paid Mrs. Cartwright eighty dollars a share that would total one hundred and sixty thousand dollars, and as hard as the bargain was, a forty-thousand-dollar profit as compared with the clean-up of a cool one hundred and forty thousand dollars that he had visioned was, after all, a good killing.
“You said that you would take eighty dollars a share,” pursued the banker.
“Oh, but I was just joking—really; surely you—”
“You gave me your word, your promise, that you would take eighty dollars a share,” insisted Mr. Prindivale. “You can’t back out now; you must let me have it—you must!”
Feverishly he again wrote in his check book; he forced the slip of paper into Mrs. Cartwright’s fingers and almost forcibly tore the stock certificates from her hand. The widow was apparently too bewildered to protest. And before she could find voice, Mr. Prindivale dashed out of the house. He would have been a much surprised and mystified man if he could have seen her rush to the telephone and call a city number and to have heard her words:
“Amos Clackworthy, you darling, darling man! We have met the enemy and his check is ours. I’m going to rush right out, just like you told me, and have it certified—then I will be right down and give you your hundred thousand dollar collection fee. Isn’t it great to have a cousin who has a husband with such a wonderful brain!”
VIII.
And that would end the story, except for Mr. Prindivale being what is sometimes sneeringly referred to as “a rotten loser.”
When the suburban banker trotted triumphantly up to the Great Lakes Building the following day, two thousand shares of Monotrack Transit in his pocket, he was amazed to find the offices of the Atlas Investment Company vacant. It gradually dawned upon him that something was wrong. In his first burst of rage he visited the district attorney’s office and laid bare the amazing story.
The district attorney, viewing the case from all angles, decided that perhaps morally Mr. Cyrus Prindivale had been most thoroughly bunkoed, but that legally he had merely made an unfortunate investment. The district attorney, too, in delving deep into the details, had uncovered the fact that the worthless stock Mr. Prindivale had purchased from Mrs. Cartwright for one hundred and sixty thousand dollars was the same identical and equally worthless stock that he had sold to her for just one hundred thousand dollars less than that amount. And the prosecutor bowed Mr. Prindivale out of the office with scant sympathy.
By rare coincidence, the district attorney was a nephew of no less illustrious person than J. K. Easterday, and that was how “J. K.” got hold of it and may explain an otherwise mysterious communication which Mr. Amos Clackworthy received in his morning mail.
Mr. Clackworthy and The Early Bird were at breakfast when the Japanese boy entered with the postman’s nine o’clock delivery. From under the edge of the white tablecloth protruded the glossy surface of one of The Early Bird’s new twenty-dollar shoes; he glanced at the shining patent leather and grinned.
“Twenty smackers this time—and worth it,” he said. “You gotta pay real dough for kicks these days, and this pair ain’t gonna get chawed up by no plebeian—that’s right, ain’t it—sodbusters. That Monotrack layout sure has improved th’ transportation situation for yours truly, James; I went down on Boul Mich yesterday, and laid out two thousand iron men for th’ niftiest little racer that ever landed a guy in th’ speeders’ court.”
Mr. Clackworthy, laughing silently, as he read the contents of one of the envelopes which he had just opened, tossed it over to The Early Bird.
“Speaking, James, of our most recent adventure,” he said, “you will, I think, find this the crowning touch.”
The Early Bird picked up the sheet of paper; there was but one typewritten sentence which said:
It is gossiped in financial circles that Cyrus Prindivale, an exceedingly shrewd banker, has recently endowed the School of Experience with the munificent gift of one hundred thousand dollars.
Scrawled across one corner in a bold, masterful hand were the letters: “Okeh J. K.”
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