The Valley of the Giants Part 23

"Have you talked with Gregory?"

"Yes. I met him while I was in San Francisco. Somebody brought him up to a meeting of the Redwood Lumber Manufacturers' a.s.sociation, and I pounced on him like an owl on a mouse."

John Cardigan's old hand came gropingly forth and rested affectionately upon his boy's. "What a wonderful scheme it would have been a year ago," he murmured sadly. "You forget, my son, that we cannot last in business long enough to get that road built though Gregory should agree to finance the building of it. The interest on our bonded indebtedness is payable on the first--"

"We can meet it, sir."

"Aye, but we can't meet the fifty thousand dollars which, under the terms of our deed of trust, we are required to pay in on July first of each year as a sinking fund toward the retirement of our bonds. By super-human efforts--by sacrificing a dozen cargoes, raising hob with the market, and getting ourselves disliked by our neighbours--we managed to meet half of it this year and procure an extension of six months on the balance due.

"That is Pennington's way. He plays with us as a cat does with a mouse, knowing, like the cat, that when he is weary of playing, he will devour us. And now, when we are deeper in debt than ever, when the market is lower and more sluggish than it has been in fifteen years, to hope to meet the interest and the next payment to the sinking fund taxes my optimism. Bryce, it just can't be done. We'd have our road about half completed when we'd bust up in business; indeed, the minute Pennington suspected we were paralleling his line, he'd choke off our wind. I tell you it can't be done."

But Bryce contradicted him earnestly. "It can be done," he said.

"Gregory knows nothing of our financial condition. Our rating in the reports of the commercial agencies is as good as it ever was, and a man's never broke till somebody finds it out."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that if we can start building our road and have it half completed before Pennington jumps on us, GREGORY WILL SIMPLY HAVE TO COME TO OUR AID IN SELF-DEFENSE. Once he ties up with us, he's committed to the task of seeing us through. If we fall, he must pick us up and carry us, whether he wants to or not; and I will so arrange the deal that he will have to. I can do it, I tell you."

John Cardigan raised his hand. "No," he said firmly, "I will not allow you to do this. That way--that is the Pennington method. If we fall, my son, we pa.s.s out like gentlemen, not blackguards. We will not take advantage of this man Gregory's faith. If he joins forces with us, we lay our hand on the table and let him look."

"Then he'll never join hands with us, partner. We're done."

"We're not done, my son. We have one alternative, and I'm going to take it. I've got to--for your sake. Moreover, your mother would have wished it so."

"You don't mean--"

"Yes, I do. I'm going to sell Pennington my Valley of the Giants.

Thank G.o.d, that quarter-section does not belong to the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company. It is my personal property, and it is not mortgaged. Pennington can never foreclose on it--and until he gets it, twenty-five hundred acres of virgin timber on Squaw Creek are valueless--nay, a source of expense to him. Bryce, he has to have it; and he'll pay the price, when he knows I mean business."

With a sweeping gesture he waved aside the arguments that rose to his son's lips. "Lead me to the telephone," he commanded; and Bryce, recognizing his sire's unalterable determination, obeyed.

"Find Pennington's number in the telephone-book," John Cardigan commanded next.

Bryce found it, and his father proceeded to get the Colonel on the wire. "Pennington," he said hoa.r.s.ely, "this is John Cardigan speaking. I've decided to sell you that quarter-section that blocks your timber on Squaw Creek."

"Indeed," the Colonel purred. "I had an idea you were going to present it to the city for a natural park."

"I've changed my mind. I've decided to sell at your last offer."

"I've changed my mind, too. I've decided not to buy--at my last offer. Good-night."

Slowly John Cardigan hung the receiver on the hook, turned and groped for his son. When he found him, the old man held him for a moment in his arms. "Lead me upstairs, son," he murmured presently. "I'm tired.

I'm going to bed."

When Colonel Seth Pennington turned from the telephone and faced his niece, s.h.i.+rley read his triumph in his face. "Old Cardigan has capitulated at last," he cried exultingly. "We've played a waiting game and I've won; he just telephoned to say he'd accept my last offer for his Valley of the Giants, as the sentimental old fool calls that quarter-section of huge redwoods that blocks the outlet to our Squaw Creek timber."

"But you're not going to buy it. You told him so, Uncle Seth."

"Of course I'm not going to buy it--at my last offer. It's worth five thousand dollars in the open market, and once I offered him fifty thousand for it. Now I'll give him five."

"I wonder why he wants to sell," s.h.i.+rley mused. "From what Bryce Cardigan told me once, his father attaches a sentimental value to that strip of woods; his wife is buried there; it's--or rather, it used to be--a sort of shrine to the old gentleman."

"He's selling it because he's desperate. If he wasn't teetering on the verge of bankruptcy, he'd never let me outgame him," Pennington replied gayly. "I'll say this for the old fellow: he's no bluffer.

However, since I know his financial condition almost to a dollar, I do not think it would be good business to buy his Valley of the Giants now. I'll wait until he has gone bust--and save twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars."

"I think you're biting off your nose to spite your face, Uncle Seth.

The Laguna Grande Lumber Company needs that outlet. In dollars and cents, what is it worth to the Company?"

"If I thought I couldn't get it from Cardigan a few months from now, I'd go as high as a hundred thousand for it to-night," he answered coolly.

"In that event, I advise you to take it for fifty thousand. It's terribly hard on old Mr. Cardigan to have to sell it, even at that price."

"You do not understand these matters, s.h.i.+rley. Don't try. And don't waste your sympathy on that old humbug. He has to dig up fifty thousand dollars to pay on his bonded indebtedness, and he's finding it a difficult job. He's just sparring for time, but he'll lose out."

As if to indicate that he considered the matter closed, the Colonel drew his chair toward the fire, picked up a magazine, and commenced idly to slit the pages. s.h.i.+rley studied the back of his head for some time, then got out some fancy work and commenced plying her needle.

And as she plied it, a thought, nebulous at first, gradually took form in her head until eventually she murmured loud enough for the Colonel to hear:

"I'll do it."

"Do what?" Pennington queried.

"Something nice for somebody who did something nice for me," she answered.

"That McTavish girl?" he suggested.

"Poor Moira! Isn't she sweet, Uncle Seth? I'm going to give her that black suit of mine. I've scarcely worn it--"

"I thought so," he interrupted with an indulgent yawn. "Well, do whatever makes for your happiness, my dear. That's all money is for."

About two o'clock the following afternoon old Judge Moore, of the Superior Court of Humboldt County, drifted into Bryce Cardigan's office, sat down uninvited, and lifted his long legs to the top of an adjacent chair.

"Well, Bryce, my boy," he began, "a little bird tells me your daddy is considering the sale of Cardigan's Redwoods, or the Valley of the Giants, as your paternal ancestor prefers to refer to that little old quarter-section out yonder on the edge of town. How about it?"

Bryce stared at him a moment questioningly. "Yes, Judge," he replied, "we'll sell, if we get our price."

"Well," his visitor drawled, "I have a client who might be persuaded.

I'm here to talk turkey. What's your price?"

"Before we talk price," Bryce parried, "I want you to answer a question."

"Let her fly," said Judge Moore.

"Are you, directly or indirectly, acting for Colonel Pennington?"

"That's none of your business, young man--at least, it would be none of your business if I were, directly or indirectly, acting for that unconvicted thief. To the best of my information and belief, Colonel Pennington doesn't figure in this deal in any way, shape, or manner; and as you know, I've been your daddy's friend for thirty years."

Still Bryce was not convinced, notwithstanding the fact that he would have staked his honour on the Judge's veracity. n.o.body knew better than he in what devious ways the Colonel worked, his wonders to perform.