The Carleton Case. Ellery H. Clark
He quickly overtook Carleton—a feat, indeed, not difficult of accomplishment—and laid a detaining hand on his shoulder. “See here, Jack,” he said in a low tone, “I want you to let me sell out some of your things. We get advices that there’s trouble coming—and pretty quickly, too. And by this time you’re really carrying quite a big line. So I guess it wouldn’t do any harm if you began gradually to unload a little. Don’t you think so yourself, Jack?”
Carleton gazed at him from eyes in which there was no understanding. He shook his head slightly. “Don’ want t’sell,” he said at last, “ain’t I ’way ’head th’ game?”
“Oh, sure,” Turner assented. “You’re ahead of the game, all right, but I want to have you stay there. And when things start to go in a top-heavy market, why—they go almighty quick. That’s all. There’s your Suburban Electric, now. That’s had a big rise. Let me sell five hundred of that, anyway. You’ve got a good profit. And you’ll find you can get out and in again, too. You won’t have any trouble doing that.”
Again Carleton obstinately shook his head. “No,” he said, with an almost childish delight in contradiction, “I don’ get ’ny ’dvices like that. I get ’dvices S’burban ’Lectric’s going to hundred’n fifty. I don’ want t’sell now. Not such fool.”
Turner, seeing the futility of further argument, shrugged his shoulders impassively. “Well, drop in at the office and see me to-morrow, anyway, Jack,” he said.
Carleton nodded. “Sure,” he answered cheerfully, “I’ll be in. Got t’get ’long now,” and he made again for the door.
Turner slowly made his way back into the lounging room. One of the smokers looked up at him with a laugh. “Old Jack’s pretty full, isn’t he?” he said, “growing on him, I should say.”
A second lounger caught up the remark. “Full,” he echoed, “oh, no, not for him. He’s sober as a church now. When he can walk, and see where he’s going, he’s all right. You ought to see him around the Club here some nights. Talk about raising hell!”
The first man yawned. “Well,” he said slowly, “it’s like lots of other things. It’s all right and good fun for once in a way, but for a steady thing—why, Heaven help the poor devil that gets going it and can’t stop. There isn’t any humor in it then. Nothing jovial, or convivial, or anything else. It’s just simply damnable; that’s what it is. And Jack Carleton’s too good a fellow to go that way. It’s a shame.”
The second man nodded in answer. “That’s right enough,” he assented, “and it’s rough on his old man, too. He’s an awfully good sort, the old chap. And Jack could amount to something, if he wanted to. That’s the bad part. He was never cut out for a soak.”
“Doesn’t he do anything at all?” some one asked.
The first man shook his head. “Not a thing,” he answered. “The old man gives him an allowance, I understand, or else he inherited something from his mother; I don’t really know which. And Jack’s playing Alcohol to win, I guess, and Suburban Electric for place.” He grinned at his own joke.
The second man turned suddenly to Turner. “Say, Jim, you know everything,” he said; “what about this uncle of Jack’s—this Henry Carleton? I seem to hear a lot about him lately. He’s the whole shooting-match down-town. What sort of man is he, anyway?”
Turner launched a little family of smoke rings into the air, and watched them float upward before he replied. “Oh, I don’t know,” he answered indifferently, “he’s smart as the devil, for one thing. I know that for a fact.”
“Yes, that’s right,” the first man chimed in, “everybody says that. And yet, you know, it’s funny, but there’s always something that strikes me as disagreeable about that man’s looks. He seems so confoundedly self-assertive, and sure of himself, somehow.”
Turner rose to take his departure. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said again. “First we sit here and damn a man for being a sport, and then we turn around and damn another man because he’s smart, and we don’t like his face. It’s mighty easy to criticize.” He paused a moment, then added, with what for him was almost an excess of feeling, “I’m really sorry about Jack, though. It’s too bad.”
Meantime, once out in the street, the air seemed for the moment to steady Carleton, and he started off briskly enough for the South Station. As he walked along, he pulled a letter from his pocket, read it through carefully, and then, as though striving to recall something that had escaped him, proceeded on his way with a puzzled and dissatisfied expression on his face. “Friday, Friday,” he muttered to himself, “something else, but can’t seem to think what. Guess nothing important. Anyway, can’t think.”
In due time he reached the station, and took his stand opposite the gateway through which the passengers from the incoming Eversley train would pass. There he stood, from time to time absent-mindedly consulting his watch, until at length from a distant rumble and cloud of smoke emerged the big engine, with flashing headlight and clanging bell, and huge wheels revolving more and more slowly until at length, with one last jerk, the whole train came suddenly to a stand. Then under the arc-light bustled forth the figures of the incoming passengers—first one, then another, then twos and threes, lines, groups—all hurrying, intent and eager, bound for their destination, and restlessly anxious to get there at once, wasting as little time as possible in transit. Scrutinizing them with care, it was not until the very end of the procession was reached that Carleton started suddenly forward. At the same instant the girl discovered him, and came quickly toward him.
Carleton’s masculine eye could hardly have appreciated all the details of her dress, yet the general effect was certainly not lost on him. Knowledge of the name of the dainty gown of blue and white would probably have conveyed no impression to his mind, but the way in which it fitted and the significant emphasis it lent to the graceful lines of the girl’s figure were matters which he viewed with no unappreciative eye. Surveying her critically as she advanced, from head to foot, from the hat of simple straw, with its clusters of blue flowers, to the tip of the dainty slipper, with just a glimpse of silken stocking above, he nodded in gracious approval. The girl was certainly looking her best, her pretty hair curling about her forehead in little clustering rings, her face just delicately flushed with color, her blue eyes very coquettish and very sparkling. Doubtless, too, these same practised eyes lost nothing of Carleton’s condition, for it was with a certain easy assurance that she came up to him and slipped her arm familiarly through his with a gentle welcoming pressure, glancing up almost impudently into his face. “Hullo, dear,” she said, “and how’s Jack?”
Carleton looked down at her, an odd mixture of emotions showing in his face; a certain satisfaction, a certain shame, above all, a certain recklessness—the recklessness of the aristocrat who, with a shrug of his shoulders, goes voluntarily out of his class, fascinated beyond his strength, half scornful of himself, and wholly regardless of what the consequences may be.
“Oh, fine, thanks,” he answered absently, and then, as they emerged from the station into the street, he returned the pressure of her arm. “You’re looking very pretty, Jeanne,” he said, “I’m glad I got your note.”
They sauntered slowly up Union Street, the girl chattering vivaciously, and glancing up at Carleton as she talked, with a subtle and flattering attention; Carleton for the most part listening, from time to time nodding or answering in monosyllables. At the up-town crossing they came to a brief irresolute halt. “Well,” said Carleton, “and whash going to be to-night? The river?”
The girl, with a little smile, shook her head. “No,” she answered capriciously, “I’m tired of the river. We’ve done that so often. I want a motor to-night. A nice long ride. We’ll have a beautiful time.”
Carleton doubtfully shook his head. He was in a distinctly contradictory mood. “Nice long ridsh,” he observed, “in nice big motors, damn ’xpensive things for man that’s short money. Motors ’xpensive