The Adventures of Mr. Clackworthy. Christopher B. Booth

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      Mr. Clackworthy took from his desk a fresh plug of natural twist.

      “James,” he chuckled, “you know that I abhor the vile habit, even in others; can’t touch it myself; but it now becomes necessary for me to ask you to masticate a generous portion of this plug of tobacco. Strew it around somewhere in the general vicinity of that seventy-five dollar cuspidor. No, I’m not jest­ing; it’s part of the stage setting.”

      Quietly The Early Bird complied.

      “That’s all, James,” said Mr. Clackworthy; “I will see Mr. Prindivale now.”

      “Holy blue-eyed catfish!” muttered The Early Bird as he retired.

      A moment later Mr. Prindivale entered, glancing swiftly about. The first thing that caught his eye was the dark tobacco stains which decorated the floor; he smiled in triumph.

      “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Looks as if my old friend J. K. had been here.” J. K. Easterday’s careless way of chewing tobacco was notorious in moneyed circles.

      “J. K. Who?” demanded Mr. Clackworthy.

      “As if there were more than one J. K. Easterday,” said Mr. Prindivale, exceedingly pleased with himself at this masterful bit of deduction.

      “J. K. Easterday has not been here,” declared Mr. Clack­worthy with entirely truthful but perhaps unnecessary em­phasis. “What would that big fellow be doing up here in my humble domain? You honor me.”

      “Have it your way,” said Mr. Prindivale, plainly unconvinced.

      “Mr. Prindivale,” began Mr. Clackworthy briskly, “I know that you are a busy man and I will not take your time by lengthy and needless explanations. My letter frankly ex­plained the matter. You have two thousand shares of Monotrack Transit that you couldn’t sell for a scrap of paper. The last selling price was ten dollars a share. For the purpose stated in my letter to you, my client is willing to give you the last quoted market price. That’s the whole thing in a nutshell. Did you bring the shares with you?”

      “Tut! Tut!” remonstrated Mr. Prindivale craftily. “Not so fast; I’m too old a head to be rushed like that. Come, my dear sir; give me credit for a little intelligence. When I play stud poker I like to see a few of the cards on the table before I bet.”

      “You are intimating—”

      “Intimating nothing, Mr. Clackworthy; I know for a positive fact that you’ve got an ace up your sleeve.”

      “I have stated the proposition just as it—”

      “Just as it isn’t,” charged Mr. Prindivale belligerently. “I’ve got two thousand shares of Monotrack Transit; some one wants them—that somebody happens to be J. K.—and when old J. K. wants anything he pays the price for it—if he has to.”

      “You are entirely misleading yourself, Mr. Prindivale,” declared Mr. Clackworthy with a frankness which the suburban banker little suspected. “J. K. Easterday has nothing to do with this matter.”

      “Hasn’t, eh?” cried Mr. Prindivale exultantly, pointing his finger at a mass of papers which littered the big mahogany conference table. “Then maybe you can explain that.”

      He gestured toward the exposed edge of one of the closely typewritten pages; there, penned in scrawling but entirely legible characters, were the somewhat cryptic letters:

      “OKEH JK.”

      “Don’t tell me!” he shouted, now thoroughly excited by the importance of his discovery. “That’s J. K. Easterday’s O. K. mark—Okeh, the Indian mark of approval; there are only two men in America who write it that way, one is the President of the United States and the other is J. K. Easterday.”

      “Bosh!” retorted Mr. Clackworthy; but, nevertheless, show­ing considerable chagrin. “I wrote that down there myself—you are jumping at conclusions.” Mr. Clackworthy was showing a most remarkable tenacity for the strict letter of truth.

      “Lay the cards down on the table and I’ll talk turkey,” bantered Mr. Prindivale.

      “Really, Mr. Prindivale, you are getting rather needlessly excited; I wish to play a game of golf this afternoon and I want to get this business over with. Suppose we say fifteen dollars a share.”

      “It cost me more than that; I made up my mind that I’d hold onto that stock until I came out whole on it or let the paper rot.”

      “Well, Mr. Prindivale, if you really feel that way about it, possibly we could pay you a price that would permit you to recover your original investment; you did not, I am reliably informed, pay the par value.”

      “Ha!” exulted Mr. Prindivale. “I trapped you that time; so it’s worth something after all, eh? How much is it worth? Come across; remember you are not dealing with a grammar-school student, but a business man.”

      Mr. Clackworthy stroked his Vandyke beard medita­tively; at the same time his foot slid under the desk and touched the tip of the electric button which was secreted there. It connected with a faint-voiced alarm on The Early Bird’s desk, and James Early, in turn, touched a button which connected directly with the telephone on Mr. Clackworthy’s desk. The bell tinkled.

      In the act of lifting the receiver from the book, Mr. Clack­worthy turned to the suburban banker.

      “Granting, for the sake of reaching an agreement, that you paid the par value of one hundred dollars a share and, taking cognizance of your determination to come out whole on it, I am empowered to offer you—”

      The bell rang insistently.

      “Hello,” said Mr. Clackworthy into the transmitter. “Yes, this is Mr. Clackworthy; yes, Aubuchon—uh-huh—yes, I understand. He’s here now.”

      Mr. Prindivale, sensing a personal reference, looked up quickly; he saw that Mr. Clackworthy’s gaze had grown hard and cold; the air of eagerness as he had jockeyed for the best possible price was gone. The banker, with a sinking heart, realized that something had gone wrong.

      “Mr. Prindivale,” said Mr. Clackworthy curtly, hanging up the receiver, “there is no need to discuss this matter further. I find that I shall not need to buy the stock from you, after all.”

      “But—but—I don’t understand,” stammered Mr. Prin­di­vale.

      “Oh, yes, I think you do,” returned Mr. Clackworthy icily. “One of my men has reported to me just now that you sold your Monotrack holdings some months ago—to some woman; we shall, of course, deal directly with the holder of the stock. You almost hooked me, eh?”

      Mr. Prindivale grabbed his hat and fled.

      VII.

      There was a reason for Mr. Prindivale’s precipitate departure. He cursed because the elevators were so slow and bolted out of the entrance to the drug store at the corner where he knew there was a telephone pay station.

      His fingers, fumbling with eager haste, turned the leaves of the directory until he found the name of Mrs. Clara Cartwright. It was, of course, a suburban call and he muttered trenchant maledictions for the operator СКАЧАТЬ