The Son of his Father. Cullum Ridgwell
hardened his heart.
"Disconnect the 'phone then," he said sharply, and flung himself into a great settle which stood in the domed hall.
"Very good, sir."
The man was moving away.
"If my mother or sister should come here, I'm out. Send word down to the office that there's no one in."
The valet's face was quite expressionless. Gordon Carbhoy had his own way of dealing with his affairs. Harding understood this. He was also devoted to his master.
"Yes, sir."
He vanished out of the hall.
Left alone a great change came over Gordon. The old buoyancy and humor seemed suddenly to fall from him. For once his eyes were perfectly, almost painfully serious. He stared about him, searching the remoteness of his surroundings, his eyes and thoughts dwelling on the luxury of the apartment he had occupied for the last three years. It was a two-floored masterpiece of builder's ingenuity. It was to be his home no longer.
That splendid domed hall had been the scene of many innocent revels. Yes, in spite of the accusation of immorality, his parties had been innocent enough. He had entertained the boys and girls of his acquaintance royally, but—innocently. Well, that was all done with. It was just a memory. The future was his concern.
The future. And that depended on his own exertions. For a moment the seriousness of his mood lifted. Surely his own exertions as a business man was a broken reed to—— What about failure? What was to follow—failure? He hadn't thought of it, and his father hadn't spoken of it.
Suddenly the cloud settled again, and a sort of panic swept over him. Did his father intend to—kick him out? It almost looked like it. And yet—— Had he intended this stake as his last? What a perfect fool he had been to refuse the hundred thousand dollars. Then, in a moment, his panic passed. He was glad he had done so—anyway.
He selected a cigar from his case and sniffed at it. He remembered his father's. His handsome blue eyes were twinkling. His own cigars cost half a dollar more than his father's, and the fact amused him. He cut the end carefully and lit it. Then he leaned back on the cushions and resigned himself to the reflection that these things, too, must go with the rest. They, too, must become a mere memory.
"Harding!" he called.
The man appeared almost magically.
"Harding, have you ever smoked a—five-cent cigar?" he inquired thoughtfully.
The valet cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry to say, sir, I haven't."
"Sorry?" Gordon's eyes were smiling.
"A mere figure of speech, sir."
"Ah—I see. They must be—painful."
"Very, I should think, sir. But, beg pardon, sir, I believe in some—ahem—low places, they sell two for five cents!"
"Two? I—I wonder if the sanitary authorities know about it."
Gordon smiled into the serious face of his devoted henchman. Then he went on rapidly—
"What baggage do you suggest for a six months' trip?"
"Europe, sir?"
"No."
"South, sir?"
"I—haven't made up my mind."
"General then, sir. That'll need more. There's the three large trunks. The steamer trunk. Four suit cases. Will you need your polo kit, sir, and your——?"
Gordon shook his head.
"Guess your focus needs adjusting. Now, suppose you were getting a man ready for a six months' trip—a man who smoked those two-for-five cigars. What would you give him?"
Harding's eyelids flickered. He sighed.
"It would be difficult, sir. I shouldn't give him clean under-garments, sir. I should suggest the oldest suit I could find. You see, sir, it would be waste to give him a good suit. The axles of those box cars are so greasy. I'm not sure about a toothbrush."
"Your focus is adjusting itself."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir."
"And the five-cent-cigar man?"
Harding's verdict came promptly.
"A hand bag with one good suit and ablutionary utensils, sir. Also strong, warm under-garments, and a thick overcoat. One spare pair of boots. You see, sir, he could carry that himself."
"Good," cried Gordon delightedly. "You prepare for that five-cent-cigar man. Now I want some food. Better ring down to the restaurant."
"Yes, sir. An oyster cocktail? Squab on toast, or a little pheasant? What about sweets, sir, and what wine will you take?"
"Great gods no, man! Nothing like that. Think of your five-cent-cigar man. What would he have? Why, sandwiches. You know, nice thick ones, mostly bread. No. Wait a bit. I know. A club sandwich. Two club sandwiches, and a bottle of domestic lager. Two things I hate—eternally. We must equip ourselves, Harding. We must mortify the flesh. We must readjust our focus, and outrage all our more delicate susceptibilities. We must reduce ourselves to the requirements of the five-cent-cigar man, and turn a happy, smiling world into a dark and drear struggle for existence. See to it, good Harding, see to it."
The man withdrew, puzzled. Used as he was to Gordon's vagaries, the thought of his master dining off two hideous club sandwiches and a bottle of domestic lager made his staunch stomach positively turn.
His perfect training, however, permitted of no verbal protest. And he waited on the diner with as much care for punctilio as though a formal banquet were in progress. Then came another violent shock to his feelings. Gordon leaned back in his chair with a sigh of amused contentment.
"Do you think you could get me a—five-cent cigar, Harding?" he demanded. "Say, I enjoyed that food. That unique combination of chicken, hot bacon and—and something pickly—why, it's great. And as for domestic lager—it's got wine beaten a mile. Guess I'm mighty anxious to explore a—five-cent cigar."
Harding cleared his throat.
"I'll do my best, sir. It may be difficult, but I'll do my best. I'll consult the clerk downstairs. He smokes very bad cigars, sir."
"Good. You get busy. I'll be around in my den."
"Yes, sir," Harding hesitated. Then with an unusual diffidence, "Coffee, sir? A little of the '48 brandy, sir?"
Gordon stared.
"Can I believe my ears? Spoil a dinner like that with—'48 brandy? I'm astonished, Harding. That focus, man; that five-cent-cigar focus!"
Gordon hurried off into his den with a laugh. Harding gazed after him with puzzled, respectful eyes.
Once in the privacy of his den, half office, half library, and wholly a room of comfort, Gordon forgot his laugh. His mind was quite made up, and he knew that a long evening's work lay before him.
He picked up the receiver of his private 'phone to his father's office and sat down at the desk.
"Hello! Hello! Ah! That you, Harker? Splendid. Guess I'm glad I caught you. Working late, eh? Sure. It's the way in er—big finance. Yes. Got to lie awake at nights to do the other feller. Say. No. Oh, no, that's not what I rang you up for. It's about—finance. Ha, ha! It's a check for me. Did the governor leave me one? Good. Five thousand dollars, isn't it? Well, say, don't place it to my credit. Get cash for it to-morrow, and send it along to—— Let me see. Yes, I know. You send along a bright clerk with it. He can meet me at the Pennsylvania Depot to-morrow, at noon—sharp. Yes. In the waiting-room. Get that? Good. So long."
"That's that," he muttered, as he replaced the receiver. "Now for Charlie Spiers."