The Carleton Case. Ellery H. Clark
headed straight for the ticker, as he neared it striving, with an obviousness scarcely reassuring, to appear cheerful and unconcerned. “Hullo, Jack,” he said, “how they coming now?” and without waiting for a reply, gathered up a dozen yards of the tape and let it pass quickly under his practised eye. “H’m,” he said, almost immediately, in a tone that plainly enough showed his relief, “not so bad, are they? Quite a lot better than they were an hour ago. Oh, I guess we’ll come through it somehow, after all.”
His tone gave Carleton measureless comfort. He found himself nodding with assurance. “Oh, yes,” he answered, “they’re really a lot better. I guess things are all right now. Do you suppose, Jim—” he hesitated, stopped, and then, with a flush of color, and his eyes averted from Turner’s face, “do you suppose, Jim, you’ll be able to see me through?”
Turner non-committally shrugged his shoulders. “Why,” he answered, not unkindly, “I guess so. Yes, if things don’t go all to the devil again, I guess we can. But you’re in too deep, Jack, for a man that hasn’t unlimited resources. It isn’t right, really. I’ll stand by you as long as I can—and when I can’t, I’ll let you know—and then, if you can’t do anything, and it gets too bad, why, business is business, Jack, and we’ll have to chuck you. That’s all we can do.”
Carleton gazed at him a little helplessly; then asked, “But you think the worst’s over, don’t you?” He spoke so trustfully, and with such confidence in the other’s judgment, that Turner gave a half-contemptuous, half-embarrassed laugh. “Why, yes,” he answered slowly, “I think it is, but good Lord, Jack, at a time like this I’m not on the inside. I’m only one of the small fry. If I could tell you what you wanted to know, instead of just guessing at it, I wouldn’t be here, working for a living; I can tell you that; I’d be over touring the continent in a big French six-cylinder. That’s where I’d be.” He paused a moment; then, laying a hand on Carleton’s arm, continued, “But to the best of my knowledge, I really think the worst is over, and that things are going to right themselves. Gradually, of course; it’s going to take time; but they’ll right themselves, for all that. And I wouldn’t worry too much, Jack, if I were you. I’ll give you warning anyway, and if worst should come to worst, why, I suppose your old man would see you through, wouldn’t he, if it was a case of that or bust?”
Carleton shook his head. “No, I guess not,” he answered, “he would if he could, but there’s something queer about the property now. I didn’t know about it till a little while ago, and I don’t understand all the details yet; but the idea is that my father’s made Henry trustee of everything. Henry’s the whole shooting-match at home now, you know. So I guess it wouldn’t do to try the old gentleman. No, I’ve got in too deep, like a fool, and I’ve got to get out by myself or else drown; one of the two. But if I can only get by, this time, you can bet I’ll never be such an ass again. You see, Jim,” he added, ruefully enough, “I wanted to show people—”
Turner laughed, though without amusement. “Yes, I know,” he said dryly, “you wanted to come the young Napoleon racket. There’ve been others. You needn’t kick yourself for being the only one. But there must be some one that would help you out, Jack. Why couldn’t you go to your uncle himself?”
He made the suggestion casually enough, yet with a shrewd eye on the younger man’s expression. Carleton frowned. “Well,” he answered doubtfully, “I’d hate to do that. You know what Henry and I think of each other. I suppose I could, though, if I was dead up against it. But I’m not going to worry yet.” He glanced once more at the tape; then added, “Things really have steadied, haven’t they, Jim? I guess we’re all safe for to-day.”
Turner did not at once reply. The events of the last three days had to a large extent discouraged him from hazarding further prophecies. “Can’t tell,” he answered guardedly, at length, “can’t tell these days, but they’ve certainly steadied quite a bit; that’s sure; perhaps they’ll begin to pick up now.”
As he spoke, a clerk entered with a bundle of papers in his hand. “For you to sign, Mr. Turner,” he said, and Turner, taking them, departed into his private office. One or two quick lunchers, the vanguard of the returning stream of regular patrons, came in at the outer door; the first, thin, pale and dyspeptic looking, making hastily for the ticker, with no attempt to conceal his anxiety; the other, stout, red-faced, and philosophic, following more calmly, his hat on the back of his head, making leisurely exploration with a toothpick the while, evidently with a certain not unpraiseworthy desire to show that even in the throes of a panic a man could still be game. As they approached, Carleton glanced first at the tape, then at his watch, then at the patch of blue sky. The tape said that Akme Mining was seventeen and a quarter, and that Suburban Electric was sixty-four and a half; the watch said that it was twelve-fifteen, and that the twelve-thirty train would get him to the Country Club in time for lunch; the patch of blue sky said “Come.” With a rather guilty haste he walked quickly toward the door, for a moment paused on the threshold, still listening to the whirring of the ticker; and then passed hurriedly out into the street.
It was Championship Cup day at the Country Club, and the locker room, when Carleton entered it two hours later, was crowded with excited men in various stages of dress and undress; men who had entered the Club five minutes before as respectable doctors, lawyers, bankers and business men, and who, five minutes later, were to emerge in a common indecorous garb of faded flannel shirts, dingy gray trousers and shapeless felt hats, making their way toward the first tee with an eagerness which in fulfilling their professional engagements, they were seldom, if ever, seen to display.
Carleton, entering, with the mechanical dexterity of long habit, almost with one motion stripped off coat and vest, collar and tie, and opening his locker, began pulling out his clubs and his battered golfing clothes. He affected not to see Henderson, thin and spare and brown, seated on a bench with knees drawn up under his chin and clasped by bare, sinewy arms.
Presently his rival rose and sauntered over to him across the room. He stood near Carleton in silence, and the two eyed each other with grins, hostile, yet friendly. Finally Henderson spoke. “Well,” he observed, without enthusiasm, “how’s the boy? Looking a little bit fine, what? A little bit pale for him, hey?” Carleton laughed, with elaborate disdain. “Oh, no, Tommy,” he returned, “can’t catch me that way. That’s too old a gag. Never felt better in my life, thanks. How are they scoring? Barnes finished yet?”
Henderson nodded. “Played this morning,” he said, “was going fine till the eighteenth, and then drove into the quarry, and dropped his nerve. Cost him nine for the hole, and did an eighty-five at that. Said his caddie moved just as he was swinging back for his drive; too bad, wasn’t it?”
His tone belied the grief expressed by his last words, and at his humorous wink Carleton openly smiled. Both could exult in the common enjoyment of seeing a dangerous rival put out of the running. “Yes, too bad,” he rejoined, “his eighty-five the best?”
Henderson shook his head. “No,” he answered, “fellow from Brooklawn did an eighty-three. Nothing much else under ninety, though; one or two eighty-nines, I believe, and an eighty-eight; better get limbered up a bit, Jack; it’s getting near our turn. See you outside.”
Carleton nodded, tightened his belt another hole, and reached for his clubs. Then, for a moment turning his back on the crowded room, he held out his hand, scanning the fingers critically. His ideas of conditioning himself were his own. He frowned slightly, shaking his head in displeasure. “That’s the first time that’s happened again so soon,” he muttered, “I thought I looked out for that this morning. Well, I know the answer, anyway,” and a couple of minutes later, wiping his lips with his handkerchief, he joined Henderson outside the club-house, and began leisurely to limber up.
It was a quarter of an hour later when, in answer to their names, they stepped forward to the first tee. Henderson, having the honor, surveyed his footing with care, and then, absolutely cool and phlegmatic, teed his ball, eyed the direction flag waving on the cop bunker some seventy yards away, and with his provokingly easy swing drove a ball without much “ginger” behind it, a trifle