Part 8

They talked for some time of Dr. King and of the city and its changes; then there came a tap upon the door, and the affable clerk put in his head.

"Mr. Clark, of the _Starry Cross_, sir, when you are at leisure."

"I'll speak to him in a few moments." Then, as the clerk withdrew, Charles said to Anthony. "The skipper of one of my tea ships. He reached port while I was away."

"I'm afraid I've come in on you at a time when your attention is much engaged." Anthony got up. "Perhaps to-morrow or next day you'll not be so pressed."

"Sup with me to-night," said Charles, putting his arm about Anthony's shoulders. "I want you to make the acquaintance of Captain Weir."

"I've met the captain already," said the young man.

"You've not wasted your time, at any rate," smiled his uncle. "But sup with me, anyhow; there's thousands of questions I want to ask, and to answer."

"Thank you," said Anthony. "I shall be glad to."

He shook hands with Charles once more and then left the counting-house. At the Half Moon, he encountered the round-faced coachman, seated upon his bench in the passage.

"Good even, sir," said the man. "I suppose they are well settled by this." And then, as Anthony looked at him questioningly, he added. "I mean Mr. Lafargue and his daughter--in their new place."

"New place!" said Anthony. "Have they gone?"

"Why, yes; this morning," said the coachman. "And all their luggage with them. But I couldn't say where. Seeing as they're friends of yours, I thought you knew."

"No," said Anthony, "I didn't."

And then he went, in a heavy-footed way, up the stairs to his room.

XI

The house of Charles Stevens stood in Ninth Street, close to Chestnut. The building was set back from the street and in the midst of a garden which even now, in the bareness of the autumn, looked pleasant with its tall trees, its neat walks, its sun-dial and dove-cote. A black servant in a livery coat admitted the young man; and from the passage he heard the voices of his uncle and Dr. King.

He was shown into a large room on the second floor. This was crowded with rare furniture; its hangings were rich and delightful to the eye; upon stands and shelves were examples of bronze and gold and pottery such as Anthony had never seen before. Charles greeted him.

"James," said the merchant to Dr. King, "here he is, come to visit me like a good fellow, forgetting all about how I've neglected him."

Dr. King shook Anthony's hand, smiling.

"At any rate," said he, "he shows the right disposition. And we should be glad enough to have him back."

As Anthony settled into a chair, Charles limped up and down the room in mounting excitement.

"I've heard of your damned goings-on," stated he, eagerly. "To-day, when you'd told me you'd been in the city almost a week, I was on the verge of commiserating you on your loneliness; and here I learn that you've left a trail of very active devilment strung out behind you." He paused in front of Anthony and clutched his shoulder exultantly. "So you pummeled that infernal sneering fire-eater, Tarrant, did you? What for?"

"He intruded upon me, and refused to give an account of himself," said Anthony. "And, I suppose, I was in no humor to listen to him."

Once more Charles limped up and down; his eyes blazed with excitement.

"A porter saw you pitch him out!" cried Charles. "He saw you pitch him into the passage, and has told it all over town." Here Charles filled the room with his laughter. "He saw you throw his hat after him," he gasped between bursts; "and he had to help the damned villain to his feet, and down the stairs." For a moment he choked back his mirth. "Out into the passage!" he said. "And with his hat after him! Oh, what a picture!" And again he laughed consumedly.

"You know him, then?" said Anthony.

His uncle composed himself, took a seat in a big chair, and nursed his lame foot.

"I have known him these five years," said he. "And in that time I've found him to be a knave and a cheat. It's true he once served aboard a United States frigate, and with some distinction; but a thing like that doesn't light a man through a whole lifetime of roguery. His open doings are of that rakehell kind countenanced by many honest people as the outcomes of a large nature and high spirit. But his connections with the money-lenders and slimy shipping-agents of the Algerian coast are kept out of view and are known to only a few, and even those few don't know enough to speak publicly against him. But," and he looked at Anthony with narrowed eyes, "what of this answer you made to his challenge?"

"It was the answer I'd make to any man's challenge."

"You are not afraid, then," and the eyes of the uncle devoured him, "of being thought a coward?"

Anthony smiled.

"The man who is afraid of being thought one, is one," said he.

"By God!" said Charles. "That's what your grandfather would have said! They are the very words."

Here Captain Weir was shown in, and after greeting Anthony he sat down at the far end of the room with the merchant, while Anthony talked with Dr. King.

"Well," said the physician humorously, "he seems to approve your doings, even though they've been a trifle heady."

"At any rate," said the young man, "he is no friend of Tarrant's; and that is in my favor."

Dr. King lost his jocular expression, and shook his head gravely.

"The time was when the American merchant had only the elements, falling markets, and an occasional corsair to contend with," said he. "But, now that he is growing prosperous and takes his share of the world's wealth, the birds of prey have gathered. Let him show a sign, however slight, of financial weakness; then his sky is dark with them, their beaks whetted to pick his bones. This is the first hint I've had that Tarrant is concerned with the filthy tribe; but I shouldn't wonder if it were true."

"I can understand money-lenders and note-shavers thriving in a port like New Orleans," said Anthony; "for under the hands of the Spanish governors honesty must always pay a toll. But in a city as well managed as this, where banks are numerous, why should a merchant in need of funds go to a usurer?"

Dr. King smiled and shook his head.

"After you are here a while,--if you make up your mind to stay,--you may learn that even a soberly governed place like this has its public tricksters. There are many things a money-lender dare not do--openly. But it is the habit of some of them--as your uncle just now said of Tarrant--to carry on certain operations underground."

The dining-room of Charles Stevens on the floor below was appointed with the same high-pitched taste as the others Anthony had seen; indeed, so lavish had become the exhibition of treasure that it resembled the heaped-up loot of a commercial conqueror.

"Every ship of ours that enters port carries something that I cannot find it in me to sell. It may be a rug, or a gold cup, a cushion, a bolt of rare silk, or an ivory or bronze carving. I have amulets and arms and precious stones from places that are in the books of few traders," added Charles, who had read his nephew's look. "Unfortunately," and he laughed a little ruefully, "I am a collector, as well as a merchant."

There was a soup of terrapin, into which a deft cook had introduced the faint fragrance of a very old sherry. Sturgeon steaks followed, with a wonderful sauce, and with them deviled oysters and a Johannisberger that made Anthony's palate curl in rapture.

"So Siddons is appalled," smiled Charles; he looked at Anthony, but addressed Weir. "Poor fellow, it does not take much to frighten him. Because he is asked to add some feet to his ship ways, he acts as though we required him to enlarge the solar system."

"Perhaps," observed Captain Weir, "it would be well to reconsider the thing, and put it into the hands of the Carters; they are younger and have moved with the times."

But Charles smiled and shook his head.

"No," said he. "The Siddons yard builds honest craft; they built the first my father designed, and so they'll build these for me. Properly prodded, they'll do well enough; on launching-day you'll find us in possession of a pair of well-found ships that'll out-stow and perhaps outsail anything that carries the United States flag. Dick Siddons has always complained, but he has never failed me."

While other matters of food were being brought in, Charles Stevens talked. He was a fascinating talker; all history seemed at his finger ends, and especially the history of shipping. He drew dazzling pictures; events as recorded in his mind were always striking. He followed, at one period of the talk, the great movements of the armed world in the track of each fresh discovery of iron. The greed behind these movements, their terrifying injustices, the gross world fat they accumulated, the merciless labor they brought upon those who had no share in what their work produced, never seemed to present themselves to Charles. He saw only the surge of the thing, the sharp-pointing, definite track, the panoply and power that came into life, the romance in the thought that, snuggling beneath the surface, in places unthought of, except by a venturesome few, there lay the thing that made men great.

"He looks upon it," thought Anthony, "as the old Spaniards of the gulf must have regarded the idea of the fountain of life. It is a sort of magic."

Charles talked of ships and storms, of fabrics and ports, of men and nations, of ideas, prophecy, and signs in the heavens. Anthony followed his flowing words, enthralled by his enthusiasm and the rich color of his thought. But at the same time there was a spot in the young man's brain which remained alert and which the golden flood could not sweep away. And at this spot was an alert sentry, a direct inheritance from old Rufus; and this sentry watched and listened unemotionally. He saw a man moving with joy among the mountain-tops, drinking the thin, strong air as one would drink a heady wine; he saw the long leaps, spectacular and full of grace, from peak to peak, the flashing symbols of victory upon victory. But he did not once see him set foot upon the level earth where the plodders sweated in obscurity. The man's dream was a soaring one, full of color and gorgeousness; he caught lightly at wonders which those who moved in the lower levels did not even see; but, once seized, he threw the wonders to the plodders, and seldom thought of them again.

"To this man," reported the sentry posted by old Rufus in Anthony's brain, "life is all heights. There are no depths. To him, great deed follows upon the heels of noble effort; magnificent achievement springs full-armored into being, glory is a thing made by a single motion. The romance of commerce, as Dr. King called it, he holds to his heart; the reality he leaves to others." Anthony followed this report soberly, for the sentry was one in whom he had great faith. And before he closed his wicket for the night the sentry added, "And I wonder who these people are, through whose hands the realities pass?"

There was a space, after the plates had been removed and the wine and tobacco were brought in, in which Charles took Dr. King into a room adjoining, to point out an example of the work of a Persian artist for whom he expressed great admiration, and Anthony was left with Captain Weir. There was a silence for a moment, and then Weir said:

"Your uncle is in one of his talkative moods to-night." His level gaze was fixed upon Anthony with inquiry, but from his mask no indication was to be had of what was in his mind. "When a man talks we are often able to get a definite impression of him," said Weir.

Anthony nodded, but said nothing. The other waited; then he proceeded.

"I talked with Dr. King for some time to-day. He told me that he had tried to induce you to remain in the city and go into Rufus Stevens' Sons. I agreed with him that this was a thing greatly to be wished."

"What," asked Anthony, "do you think I could do that another could not?"

"I don't know," said Weir. "But I have a feeling that you are needed, and that the house is your natural place."

"But," said Anthony, "I do not know my uncle's attitude."

"He means to ask you to resume where your father stepped out. He's told me so." There was another short pause. "What answer will you give?" asked Weir.

"I'll do it," said Anthony.

And Weir, leaning across the table, gripped his hand.

"That's what I expected you to say," said he. "And I am very glad."

But as he turned away his head there was a glint in the green, stone-like eyes, a glint that Anthony did not see.

XII

A crier with a bell advanced through Dock Street; as the tongue monotonously _galing-galanged_ against the sides of the bell, the man chanted with equal monotony:

"A hogshead of rum! To whom it may concern: a hogshead of fine Jamaica rum will be sold at vendue at the warehouse of William Stone, in Mulberry Street, at two o'clock to-day."

"Another damned cutthroat must be asking for his pound of flesh!" grumbled a gentleman, whose bulbous nose was pinched blue with the snap of the cold. "Stone's interest is no doubt due, and he's forced to send out a crier and sell a hogshead of liquor to keep the shark from turning over on his back."

Mr. Sparhawk, who bore the blue-nosed gentleman company, smiled dryly.

"Mr. Stone, from what I hear of his affairs, need not bother himself. He's so safely in the hands of Bulfinch and his handsome sons that he has no more chance of escape, Mr. Stroude, than the north star has of falling out of the sky."

Mr. Stroude swore eloquently.

"Bulfinch is a villain," announced he. "And I wish his sons were at the devil!"

"There are a great many who are equally pious with regard to them," said Mr. Sparhawk, "but at the same time the stairs leading to their den are wearing thinner and thinner under the tread of these same gentlemen's feet."

"I have merchandise to the value of eight thousand dollars," protested Mr. Stroude gloomily, "and with it I have a good name in business. But can I borrow two thousand dollars in a reputable way? I can't! Will any institution in the city take my note on any terms that correspond with my position as a merchant? They will not! And why?" demanded Mr. Stroude of the world, as he swept it with his eye. "Why not? It is because the law permits them but a fair interest, but if they can force me to go to their secret co-worker, Bulfinch, they can make me pay as many times that as my necessity compels."

"Bulfinch is, I know, much favored among some financial people," admitted Mr. Sparhawk, with the perky manner of a small bird. "He has at command any sum that can be reasonably asked of him. And, for an accommodation like that, he feels bound to make his demands."

"But my heart's blood!" said Mr. Stroude, his nose going a very deep blue, indeed. "Must he have that?"

"Perhaps," soothed Mr. Sparhawk, "he will not go so far. At any rate, here we are, and you shall soon know."

Off Dock, at Third Street, was a group of old buildings, none in very good repair; through these a brick-paved thoroughfare cut its way. This was Harmony Court, and here a second group of buildings crouched behind the first, as though to avoid the full glare of day. There were a number of shabby tin signs upon a shutter, and perhaps the shabbiest of all bore the inscription: "Amos Bulfinch, Broker."

"So it's here our gentleman keeps himself," grumbled Mr. Stroude. "I knew it was in this neighborhood, but I didn't think it would give quite so dirty a promise."

Mr. Sparhawk led the way into a dim passage which smelt musty, and the walls of which were greasy with the touch of generations. When the perky gentleman said the steps leading to the place of business of Amos Bulfinch had been thinned by the tread of his patrons, he spoke the truth; for thin they were, and very dirty as well. A dim oil lamp, on a landing, lighted the way; and at the top of the steps was a door upon which the money-lender's name occurred once more. They went in.

"Good morning," said Mr. Sparhawk, to a gangling-looking man who sat at a table upon which was spread a quantity of much-handled papers. "This is Mr. Nathaniel Bulfinch, son of Amos," to Stroude.

"Yes, I know," said Stroude. "Glad to see you."

Mr. Nathaniel Bulfinch smiled; his teeth were large, and there were wide spaces between them; his hands were enormous and covered with freckles; he had outstanding ears, an unruly thatch of coarse hair, and pale, watchful eyes.

"What name?" asked Mr. Nathaniel, as he shuffled eagerly among the dirty documents. "Is something due? Eh?"

"Not yet," said Stroude. "No, not yet."

"But," insinuated Mr. Sparhawk, "Mr. Stroude is hopeful."

Mr. Nathaniel laughed.

"They are always that," said he. "It's surprising how much hope is brought into this place."

"And very little is ever taken out again, I'll venture," mumbled Stroude, to himself. He looked about at the dirty walls, the worn furniture, the dusty files of papers hanging from hooks; the air of mean sordidness chilled him. "No," he thought, "no one ever took anything out of this place, unless it was a curse."

"I do not see your brother," said Mr. Sparhawk, of Nathaniel. "Where is Rehoboam?"

"He is going his rounds," said Nathaniel. "No one pays unless they're made to, and Rehoboam is apt at explaining the law. He knows its regulations very well," admiringly. "There are few solicitors who have a defter turn for it. He can tell to the breadth of a hair how much a man may delay in the matter of a debt before the prison keepers may put their hands upon him."

"A pretty talent!" said Stroude. Then, in his thoughts, he added, "I wonder what length of time a man must serve as the devil's acolyte before he reaches so much wisdom as that."

Sparhawk and Stroude sat down, and Nathaniel began thumbing his dirty papers with much the same enjoyment a gourmand shows in eating a dainty dish. There was a soothing voice lifted in an inner room, dimly heard, yet full of assuring sweetness.

"That," whispered Sparhawk to Stroude, "is old Amos."

"I know," nodded Stroude. "I've heard him before, though he's never had occasion to use his honey on me."

Answering the money-lender was a quavering voice, decidedly French in accent, and pitched to a note of anxiety.

"I am not known here," said the quavering voice, "except by Rufus Stevens' Sons. With them I have moneys invested. But there are reasons why I should ask no favors of them."

"To get a name upon the back of a note is no favor," explained the sweet voice. "No favor at all. It is a matter of business."

"There is no one but them; and to them I will not go," said the quavering voice, with a deal of native decision. "I am sorry to have intruded upon you, monsieur, and taken your time."

There was a scraping of chair-legs upon the floor; then the money-lender was heard to say:

"Wait! do not be in haste, Monsieur Lafargue. Let us consider. Mr. Tarrant sent you here, and Mr. Tarrant is my very good friend. I would go greatly out of my way to oblige him. Of course, to have Rufus Stevens' Sons upon your note would be desirable; but as this is an exceptional case we'll say no more about it. What sum did you say you required?"

Nathaniel paused in his thumbing of his documents; his wide mouth hung open, surprisedly, as he listened.

"What?" whispered Stroude. "What? Old Bulfinch lend money without a sponsor?"

But Sparhawk, whose perky manner seemed suddenly frozen into one of interest, motioned him to be still.

"One thousand dollars," said Monsieur Lafargue, "for six months."

"It is a good sum," said the money-lender. "It's a round sum. But, as Mr. Tarrant speaks for you--"

"Wait," said the old Frenchman. "Let it be understood, sir, that Mr. Tarrant does not vouch for me. My acquaintance with him has been quite brief."

"Mr. Tarrant _vouch_ for you!" the money-lender was heard to laugh; and his gangling son, outside, giggled, and winked his pale eyes in great enjoyment. "No, I understand that, monsieur. But I have heard that you were this nation's friend when it needed a friend in France during our days of struggle; also it's been said that you helped forward the cause of the people in your own country; and these things mean a deal to a republican like me."

Stroude seemed stupefied by these virtuous sentiments; Sparhawk pursed up his lips and closed his eyes reflectively. The jaw of Nathaniel once more hung open in surprise.

"Sign your name to that," resumed the money-lender, "and you shall have the money in hand."

There was a sound of some one getting up, the snapping back of locks, and the groaning of heavy hinges. Papers rustled and gold chinked on a table. Then the strong box was closed and the bolts were re-shot into their sockets.

"Well, now," said the soothing voice, "that is done with. There I have your note of hand, monsieur, and you have my money."

"With the conditions what they are," said Monsieur Lafargue, "I am astonished at your generous treatment of me. We do not transact business upon such principles in France."

"No more do we here," said the money-lender, "except upon such occasions as this. But we must do our best by our French friends, more especially when they, in turn, are friends of so distinguished a patriot as Citizen Genêt." Sparhawk, who had continued to sit with closed eyes, now opened them, narrowly; his breath all but stopped. "You are a friend of the citizen's, are you not?" asked the money-lender in his sweetest voice.

"We have known each other many years," said Lafargue.

"To know a patriot like that must give a deal of satisfaction," said the money-lender. "A great deal of satisfaction, indeed."

A few moments later the door of the inner room opened, and Monsieur Lafargue, infirm but holding his white head up with his customary air, came out. Following him was Amos Bulfinch.

"Mr. Sparhawk," said the latter with a little bow, "I'm pleased to see you here. And you, sir," urbanely, to the frowning Stroude. Then turning to Nathaniel, he added, "My son, the stairs are dark and not quite safe for a gentleman of Monsieur Lafargue's years. Will you go with him, down into the court?"

Monsieur Lafargue protested; but Nathaniel reared himself up to his gangling height and took one of the old Frenchman's arms in his clutch.