The Silver Horde Part 17

"Look out!" laughed his companion. "Every Alaskan falls in love with a manicurist at some time or other. It seems to be in the blood. We are going to have no matrimony, mind you."

"Lord! She wouldn't look at me," said the fisherman, suddenly, a.s.suming a lobster pink.

That evening they dined as befits men just out from a long incarceration in the North, first having tried unsuccessfully to locate Fraser; for the rogue was bound to them by the intangible ties of hards.h.i.+p and trail life, and they could not bear to part from him without some expression of grat.i.tude for the sacrifices he had made. But he was nowhere to be found, not even at train time.

"That seems hardly decent," Boyd remarked. "He might at least have said good-bye and wished us well."

"When he's around he makes me sore, and when he's away I miss him," said George. "He's probably out organizing something--or somebody."

At the station they waited until the last warning had sounded, vainly hoping that Fraser would put in an appearance, then sought their Pullman more piqued than they cared to admit. When the train pulled out, they went forward to the smoking compartment, still meditating upon this unexpected defection; but as they lighted their cigars, a familiar voice greeted them:

"h.e.l.lo, you!"--and there was Fraser grinning at their astonishment.

"What are you doing here?" they cried, together.

"Me? Oh, I'm on my way East."

"Whereabouts East?"

"Chicago, ain't it? I thought that was what you said." He seated himself and lighted another long cigar.

"Are you going to Chicago?" George asked.

"Sure! We've got to put this cannery deal over." The crook sighed luxuriously and began to blow smoke rings. "Pretty nice train, ain't it?"

"Yes," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Emerson, undecided whether to be pleased or angered at the fellow's presence. "Which is your car?"

"This one--same as yours. I've got the drawing-room."

"What are you going to do in Chicago?"

"Oh, I ain't fully decided yet, but I might do a little promoting. Seattle is too full of Alaskan snares."

Emerson reflected for a moment before remarking: "I dare say you will tangle me up in some new enterprise that will land us both in jail, so for my own protection I'll tell you what I'll do. I have noticed that you are a good salesman, and if you will take up something legitimate--"

"Legitimate!" Fraser interrupted, with indignation. "Why, all my schemes are legitimate. Anybody can examine them. If he don't like them, he needn't go in. If he weakens on one proposition, I'll get something that suits him better. You've got me wrong."

"If you want to handle something honest, I'll let you place some of this cannery stock on a commission."

"I don't see nothing attractive in that when I can sell stock of my own and keep _all_ the money. Maybe I'll organize a cannery company of my own in Chicago--"

"If you do--" Boyd exploded.

"Very well! Don't get sore. I only just suggested the possibility. If that is your graft, I'll think up something better."

The younger man shook his head. "You are impossible," said he, "and yet I can't help liking you."

Late into the night they talked, Emerson oscillating between extreme volubility and deep abstraction. At one moment he was as gay as a prospective bridegroom, at the next he was more dejected than a man under sentence. And instead of growing calmer his spirits became more and more variable with the near approach of the journey's end.

In Chicago, as in Seattle, Fraser accompanied his fellow-travellers to their hotel, and would have registered himself under some high-sounding alias except for a whispered threat from Boyd. That young gentleman, after seeing his companions comfortably ensconced, left them to their own devices while he drove to the tailor to whom he had telegraphed, returning in a short time garbed in new clothes. He found Fraser sipping a solitary c.o.c.ktail and visiting with the bartender on the closest terms of intimacy.

"George?" said that one, in answer to his inquiry. "Oh, George has gone on a still-hunt for a manicure parlor. Ain't that a rave? He's gone finger- mad. He'd ought to have them front feet shod. He don't need a manicurist; what he wants is a blacksmith."

"He is rather out of his lat.i.tude, so I wish you would keep an eye on him," Boyd said.

"All right! I'll take him out in the park on a leash, but if he tries to bite anybody I'll have to muzzle him. He ain't safe in the heart of a great city; he's a menace to the life and limb of every manicure woman who crosses his path. You gave him an awful push on the downward path when you laid him against this finger stuff."

Promptly at four o'clock Emerson called a cab and was driven toward the North Side. As the vehicle rolled up Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive the excitement under which he had been laboring for days increased until he tapped his feet nervously, clenched his gloved fingers, and patted the cus.h.i.+ons as if to accelerate the horse's footfalls. Would he never arrive! The animal appeared to crawl more slowly every moment, the rubber-rimmed wheels to turn more sluggishly with each revolution. He called to the driver to hurry, then found himself of a sudden gripped by an overpowering hesitation, and grew frightened at his own haste. The close atmosphere of the cab seemed to stifle him: he jerked the window open, flung back the lapels of his great coat, and inhaled the sharp Lake air in deep breaths.

Why did that driver lash a willing steed? They were nearly there, and he was not ready yet. He leaned out to check their speed, then closed his lips and settled back in his seat, staring at the houses slipping past.

How well he remembered every one of them!

The dark stone frowned at him, the leaded windows stared at him through a blind film of unrecognition, the carven gargoyles grinned mockingly at him.

It all oppressed him heavily and crushed whatever hope had lain at his heart when he left the hotel. Never before had his goal seemed so unattainable; never before had he felt so bitterly the cruelty of riches, the hopelessness of poverty.

The vehicle drew up at last before one of the most pretentious residences, a ma.s.sive pile of stone and brick fronting the Lake with what seemed to him a singularly proud and chilling aspect. His hand shook as he paid the driver, and it was a very pale though very erect young man who mounted the stone steps to the bell. Despite the stiffness with which he held himself, he felt the muscles at his knees trembling weakly, while his lungs did not seem to fill, even when he inhaled deeply. During the moments that he waited he found his body pulsating to the slow, heavy thumping of his heart; then a familiar face greeted him.

"How do you do, Hawkins," he heard himself saying, as a liveried old man ushered him in and took his coat. "Don't you remember me?"

"Yes, sir! Mr. Emerson. You have been away for a long time, sir."

"Is Miss Wayland in?"

"Yes, sir; she is expecting you. This way, please."

Boyd followed, thankful for the subdued light which might conceal his agitation. He knew where they were going: she had always awaited him in the library, so it seemed. And how well he remembered that wonderful book walled room! It was like her to welcome him on the spot where she had bade him good-bye three years ago.

Hawkins held the portieres aside and Boyd heard their velvet swish at his back, yet for the briefest instant he did not see her, so motionless did she stand. Then he cried, softly:

"My Lady!" and strode forward.

"Boyd! Boyd!" she answered and came to meet him, yielding herself to his arms. She felt his heart pounding against hers like the heart of a runner who has spent himself at the tape, felt his arms quivering as if from great fatigue. For a long time neither spoke.

CHAPTER IX

AND IS GRANTED A YEAR OF GRACE

"And so all your privations and hards.h.i.+ps went for nothing," said Mildred Wayland, when Boyd had recounted the history of his pilgrimage into the North.

"Yes," he replied; "as a miner, I am a very wretched failure."

She shrugged her shoulders in disapproval.