CHAPTER X

LOVE AND BUSINESS

Frank Barton had been thinking but little of love and not much about business. His entire time from the bugle-blown:

“I can’t get ’em up! I can’t get ’em up! I can’t get ’em up in the mor-r-rning!”

to tattoo at night was filled with thoughts military. In addition to the regular course in tactics, he was studying special branches, such as the science of gunfire, range finding, signaling, and the like, for he wished to be assigned to the Field Artillery branch of the service.

His former experience in the Guard was of vast assistance to him, yet he found that even the brief campaign on the Mexican Border had greatly changed the drill and the training of both officers and men. New methods were being adopted all the time. He soon realized that a military formula based upon the experience gained by our War Department in the Civil War, and upon which basis the National Guard had been drilled in the past, was almost as old-fashioned as the rules for conducting a Field of Honor in the time of the Crusaders.

The Great War has flung into the discard most established measures of warfare. Fancy, so many years after the tilting with spears, a fighting man wearing an iron pot on his head!

Barton had little time for the social life of the camp nor interest in it. He was only interested in those men about him who were as sturdily in earnest as himself in learning and getting ahead. Some were getting into “this army thing,” as they called it, as a profession; some out of pure patriotism, even if they did not talk about it. In either case those who were not thoroughly in earnest did not last long.

He was mildly surprised when Morry Copley and his friend Bradley arrived in camp--the former arrayed in a uniform cut by a fashionable tailor, Bradley slouching behind in his heavy way, and with a scowl. Why either of these fellows had come it was hard for Barton to understand.

Reports from the factory encouraged Barton to believe that he might safely continue his training. Mayberry had driven over in his car once to see him and they had talked things over. Business seemed running on well-oiled gears. There had been nothing in Ethel Clayton’s brief letters to make him apprehensive. The factory and its affairs seemed far afield from him.

The camp interests were so manifold that when even a short furlough was due him Barton did not go home to Mailsburg. Instead he went to New York to confer with certain high officers of the Department of the East who he felt sure would bear him in mind if chance arose for an early assignment to the Front. If business matters remained as they seemed to be, he was determined to get “over there” as soon as possible. Pershing’s hundred thousand were on the scene; the engineers had marched through London and had arrived in France; now it was the Rainbow Division that was talked of as being almost ready to sail, and Frank Barton was eager to be assigned to duty with them.

“Rest your mind easy, Barton,” Grandon Fuller assured him the first time he came over to Camp Quehasset with his daughter. “We stockholders appreciate all that you have done; the Board is more than pleased with your work. But you have trained a good assistant in Mayberry. He’ll do very well.”

“I believe he will,” Frank Barton said heartily. He would rather, however, have had a reassuring word from Macon Hammerly upon this point. But Hammerly neither wrote to him nor came near the camp.

Helen was full of her own plans, although she did not forget to show some interest in Barton’s affairs. She had become an active member of the Red Cross forces. Being amply able to pay her own expenses, and with health and freedom, she had the more easily secured permission to join the very next quota of Red Cross workers sailing from “an Atlantic seaport”--that in about six weeks. Her mother was to go with her and establish herself in Paris.

“Really,” Barton thought, “it is brave of Helen, and wonderfully unselfish as well.” That the girl made a display of everything she did was not seen by his blinded eyes.

Barton was expecting the Fullers over again in their car on this Sunday, and had accordingly polished his accoutrements and made his quarters presentable. He shared these last with three other men; but they were all off for the day, and he himself was duty-free until taps.

So he was not at all surprised when he heard the rustle of crisp skirts and a light tapping on his open door. Before he could reply to the summons he heard Morry Copley’s high voice advising:

“He must be there, Miss--ah--Really, I’m suah he’s not gone out of the street this morning. I’ll look around for him if I may?”

“Thank you,” said a very cool voice. Morry was evidently not being encouraged. And it was not Helen Fuller who spoke.

“Miss Clayton!”

Barton appeared with hand outstretched and a real welcome in his eyes. But Copley was not to be easily ignored.

“I say, Barton,” he drawled, “I showed her over here from the camp entrance, knowing you were at home, don’t you know.”

“Thanks, old fellow,” Barton said. “This is Miss Clayton’s first visit to the camp.”

“Oh, I knew that,” Copley agreed, boldly eyeing the girl and showing no desire to relieve them of his presence. One of Barton’s Western brother-rookies would have accused the young exquisite of “horning in.” “I’m suah if I’d ever seen--er--the lady here before I should have remembered her.”

Ethel was plainly ruffled; but Frank Barton burst into hearty laughter. He considered Morry quite harmless.

“Miss Clayton, I am sure, will allow me to introduce you, Copley,” he said cordially, and then smiled at Ethel. “Mr. Copley comes from our town, Miss Clayton.”

“Bah Jove! I saw you before in a tea room once,” Morry burst out. “Suah I did! I was with Miss Fuller, you know. I wonder I did not recognize you before. You weren’t dressed the same, you know.”

“If it was on a working day I am sure she was not dressed the same,” Barton said, looking frankly his approval of Ethel’s Sunday appearance.

And yet, as she stood bandying light conversation with the two men, Ethel Clayton was secretly hurt. Would Frank Barton have so casually introduced Helen Fuller, for instance, to any companion-in-arms who had forced himself upon them as Morry Copley had? The thought stung her pride.

Really Copley seemed more than a little interested in her. He rattled on boldly, and there was not a chance for her to divert his attention that she might speak seriously and personally to the man she had come to see.

The latter was unfeignedly glad to see her; but he seemed to consider her visit merely a social one. And that did not altogether please Ethel Clayton. She had come strictly on business. At least, so she had been assuring herself. Yet all Barton seemed to care about the factory and its affairs was expressed in a perfunctory:

“Everything going on all right at the works, Miss Clayton? Though of course that is a superfluous question with such capable people as you and Mayberry on the job. I knew it would be that way.”

“Really, Mr. Barton, you must not assume too much,” she hesitated, unable to approach clearly before Morry Copley the matter that so troubled her and that had brought her to Quehasset.

“I say,” drawled the latter, “you don’t mean to say Miss Clayton is one of these really industrious people--like yourself, Barton? Is she, too, a prop and support of the Hapwood-Diller Company?”

“She most certainly is!” smiled the general manager. “But I believe she brings me nothing but good news. How about it, Miss Clayton?”

It was her chance--perhaps the best one she would have to get him away from this chattering, inconsequential Morry Copley. “I have one puzzle to consult you about, Mr. Barton,” she began, when, with a whir and clash of released gears, a big touring car whirled around the corner and halted almost directly before the shack.

“Oh, Jimminy Christmas, see who’s here!” ejaculated Copley.

“Miss Fuller! Welcome to our city!” joined in Barton, and hastily descended to the car.

Morry Copley remained lounging beside Ethel, greeting the girl in the car with merely the semaphore sign of good comradeship. Helen was alone, having dropped her mother and father at the Staff Headquarters. As had been said, Grandon Fuller had once borne the title of “Colonel” and played the fact now for all it was worth.

“Don’t let me keep you, Mr. Copley,” Ethel said significantly.

“No chance!” drawled Morry. “Miss Fuller has no use for me when Barton’s around. They talk nothing but war and nursing. Gee! I hate to think of folks getting all mussed up so.”

“Why, for pity’s sake, did you ever join this camp?” Ethel asked, in astonishment.

“I rawther fancied myself in the uniform, don’t you know,” he declared, but with twinkling eyes. “I say!” he added, “they’re not going for a spin without us?”

Ethel leaped to her feet and anger flashed from her eyes, although Morry did not see it. Miss Fuller was evidently trying to urge Barton to get into the car. She had punched her starter button and the car began to throb.

But Barton turned back to the two on the plank porch of the shack. “Do come, Miss Clayton,” he urged. “I promised I would take luncheon with Miss Fuller to-day at the Mannerly Arms, and she has not much time. It will be quite all right, I am sure. If you have something to say to me----”

“My errand is strictly business, Mr. Barton,” Ethel replied shortly.

“I am sure Miss Fuller will wait----”

“Oh, bring her along, _do_!” exclaimed Helen from the car and with impatience. “Come on, Morry. I know _you_ are dying to take her. You’ll excuse me for not getting out and begging you myself, Miss Clayton,” she added carelessly. “I suppose it is sometimes necessary to mix business with pleasure. If you really _have_ to consult Mr. Barton----”

“I will not detain him long, Miss Fuller,” Ethel said, pale but firm. “I have neither time nor inclination to go to lunch with you--and Mr. Copley. She dismissed the latter with a curt nod, and he strolled down to the car, grumbling, while Barton, a little vexed, took his place beside the girl who he acknowledged was so capable an assistant in the factory office.

“I am sorry to interfere in any way with your affairs, Mr. Barton,” Ethel hastened to say. “Had I not believed the occasion serious----”

“Serious for me?” he asked quickly, eyeing her curiously.

“Serious to the Hapwood-Diller Company,” she replied stiffly. “Of course I have a double interest in the welfare of the company. My mother’s income depends upon its profits.”

“I know that your mother holds some of our stock,” he said patiently.

“Therefore my particular interest may perhaps be excused.” Ethel could not help saying this, if it was a mite catty. She could not feel in any angelic mood at the moment. “In addition, Mr. Barton, you asked me to keep a watchful eye on things in the office.”

“I did,” he said with gentleness.

She flushed more deeply. It was plain that he was quite aware she had been hurt by Miss Fuller’s manner; and that but increased Ethel’s vexation. As though it really mattered what Helen Fuller did or said!

He noted the flush and looked disturbed.

“Are you not feeling well?” he asked kindly.

“Oh, yes, I am perfectly well,” she returned quickly.

“You look as if you might have a headache, or something like that.”

“It wouldn’t matter if I did have,” she replied, not knowing what else to say.

“Oh, yes, it would. I don’t want you to work if you are not well.”

“Here is the situation,” and she rushed on to state the matter of the Bogata order with her usual brisk explicitness.

Barton now gave close attention, and his changing expression betrayed the value he put upon her story. At its conclusion he demanded:

“But what’s the matter with Jim? He must know that we all agreed those people were not to be trusted.”

“He did not agree to that, it is evident,” Ethel said dryly. “In fact, his remembrance seems to be hazy regarding the whole matter. Seems to think you would have spoken to him about it again had you not intended to accept the order.”

Barton made an impatient gesture. “That’s Jim all over. Stubborn as a mule!” he exclaimed. “And yet that very stubbornness makes him of value in many circumstances.”

It was plain he had no real suspicion of Mayberry. And Ethel was determined not to put forward just at that time her own belief in the superintendent’s treachery.

“And what have you done about the matter before coming to me?” Barton asked with a curiosity that Ethel thought she understood. He was not at all sure whether she had the initiative to balk this thing which she believed was all wrong.

“Something wholly feminine, I fear,” she replied, and told him of the accident to the order addressed to the factory supply people.

Barton laughed shortly. Evidently he was not displeased.

“I can see you have a very good reason for not quarreling with Mayberry. Quite right. Things would by no means go so smoothly if you two could not work together. You retarded the order so that you could see me to-day?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you expect me to do?”

“If that Bogata order is not to be filled, you can telegraph the stock people to hold our order for correction.”

“Right! You certainly have a grasp of the situation, as you always have, Miss Clayton,” he said promptly. “I will dictate that telegram. You can send it from the railroad station as you go back, if you will.”

“Yes, Mr. Barton,” she responded, whipping out her book and pencil.

He smiled covertly. She was all business now.

“Your suspicions are quite correct,” Barton observed. “Somebody tampered with that letter and order. I did not see the letter or the carbon copy of it after signing the former. The Bogata people must have a friend in our offices. Have you any idea----”

“No!” she exclaimed almost harshly.

If Barton could not see Jim Mayberry’s hand in the affair surely it was not her place to tell him. He seemed to ignore utterly the possibility of the superintendent’s being the person guilty.

“The Bogata people cannot hold us to any such terms,” Barton went on to say. “We did not accept the order. Business--especially as important a matter as this--is not so easily done. Their letter was a good deal of a bluff as it stood. I should have felt justified in throwing it and the schedule of their order into my wastebasket. Jim Mayberry is green yet. I’ll have you take word to him----”

“Oh, Mr. Barton! if you do that you will make my position terribly difficult,” she cried.

“True,” he admitted. “I suppose that is so. I will communicate with Hammerly. He knows all about the affairs of the Bogata people. We will let him break the news to Jim,” and he laughed a little.

“You see, Miss Clayton, we must expect such mistakes as this to creep in when a fellow is like Jim. He has all the knowledge of the business that is necessary, I am sure. But he is likely to make mistakes--at first.”

She looked at the manager in wonder. Was it possible that his old-time interest in Jim Mayberry, and the fact that they had been friends for so long, utterly blinded Barton to the superintendent’s faults?

“You have a quicker mind than Jim,” went on Barton, easily, “and you haven’t his stubbornness. I really would not dare accept my lieutenancy and ask for active duty if Jim had not you at his elbow. I know you will not let him make any serious error.”

“But, Mr. Barton!” she cried, under her breath, “you do not expect really to leave the country so quickly?”

“Perhaps. I have offered my services. I have got my commission. Really, my work here has been somewhat like a review of former studies. And officers are needed----”

“Not _over there_?” Ethel gasped.

He did not chance to see her face as he replied quietly: “So we expect. We are not supposed to talk of it. Certain movements of the War Department are kept secret. But whatever happens to me I am confident you and Jim will conduct the affairs of the Hapwood-Diller Company successfully. Why, this proves it! What he overlooks you will not miss. Now, will you take a letter to Mr. Hammerly?”

She held her pencil poised in readiness and nodded. Surely at that moment she could not have uttered a word. He began to dictate, and the letter was couched in such terms as to show his belief that Jim Mayberry was perfectly innocent of all guile in the matter. However, when it was concluded, Barton said reflectively:

“But there is a traitor in the offices, Miss Clayton. That we know it must put you and Mayberry both on guard. I depend on you particularly to watch for the guilty party.”

“And suppose I find him?” she demanded quickly.

“If you cannot reach me,” Barton gravely told her, “then--then go to Mr. Hammerly. Cross-grained as he is, he is perfectly honest. Besides,” he added, “next to Mr. Grandon Fuller, he owns more stock in the Hapwood-Diller Company than anybody else.”