Part 21 (2/2)

”I am very sorry too,” he said; and he sighed and looked astern eastwards, and thought of the golden hours he had spent on that broad track stretching away behind. Margaret leaned down, resting her chin on her hands, and presently she unfolded them, and her fingers stole upwards and covered her face, and she bent her head. There was a mighty beating in Claudius's breast, and a thousand voices in the air cried to him to speak and to say what was in his heart to say. But he would not, for he had given the woman at his side the promise of his faith. At last she looked up and turned toward him. They were alone on the deck in the faintness of the gathering twilight.

”Claudius, you have kept your promise truly and well. Keep it--keep it always.” She held out her ungloved hand.

”Always, my queen and my lady,” and he kissed the white fingers once.

”Hullo!” shouted the Duke, emerging from the cuddy. ”Upon my word! Why, it's dinner time.”

CHAPTER X.

How they left the good yacht _Streak_, and how they bade a hearty farewell to that old sea lion Captain Sturleson, and how they went through the hundred and one formalities of the custom-house, and the thousand and one informalities of its officials, are matters of interest indeed, but not of history. There are moments in a man's existence when the act of conveying half a dozen sovereigns to the pocket of that stern monitor of good faith, the bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned custom-house officer with the tender conscience, is of more importance to salvation than women's love or the Thirty-nine Articles. All this they did. Nor were they spared by the great tormentor of the West, who bristleth with the fretful quill, whose ears surround us in the night-time, and whose voice is as the voice of the charmer, the reporter of the just and the unjust, but princ.i.p.ally of the latter. And Mr. Barker made an appointment with the Duke, and took a tender farewell of the three ladies, and promised to call on Claudius in the afternoon, and departed. But the rest of the party went to a famous old hotel much affected by Englishmen, and whose chief recommendation in their eyes is that there is no elevator, so that they can run upstairs and get out of breath, and fancy themselves at home. Of course their apartments had been secured, and had been waiting for them a week, and the Countess was glad to withdraw for the day into the sunny suite over the corner that was hers. As for Miss Skeat, she went to the window and stayed there, for America was quite different from what she had fancied. Claudius descended to the lower regions, and had his hair cut; and the cook and the bar-keeper and the head ”boots,”

or porter, as he called himself, all came and looked in at the door of the barber's shop, and stared at the huge Swede. And the barber walked reverently round him with scissors and comb, and they all agreed that Claudius must be Mr. Barnum's new attraction, except the head porter--no relation of an English head porter--who thought it was ”Fingal's babby, or maybe the blessed Sint Pathrick himself.” And the little boy who brushed the frequenters of the barber's shop could not reach to Claudius's coat collar, so that the barber had to set a chair for him, and so he climbed up.

The Duke retired also to the depths of his apartments, and his servant arrayed him in the purple and stove-pipe of the higher civilisation. And before long each of the ladies received a large cardboard box full of fresh-cut flowers, sent by Mr. Barker of course; and the Duke, hearing of this from his man, sent ”his compliments to Lady Victoria, and would she send him a rose for his coat?” So the Duke sallied forth on foot, and the little creases in his clothes showed that he had just arrived.

But he did not attract any attention, for the majority of the population of New York have ”just arrived.” Besides, he had not far to go. He had a friend in town who lived but a few steps from the hotel, and his first move on arriving was generally to call there.

Claudius waited a short time to see whether Mr. Barker would come; but as Claudius rarely waited for anybody, he soon grew impatient, and squeezing himself into a cab, told the driver to take him to Messrs.

Screw and Scratch in Pine Street. He was received with deference, and treated as his position demanded. Would he like to see Mr. Silas B.

Barker senior? Very natural that he should want to make the acquaintance of his relative's old friend and partner. Mr. Screw was out, yes--but Mr. Scratch would accompany him. No trouble at all. Better ”go around right off,” as Mr. Barker would probably go to Newport by the boat that evening. So they went ”around right away,” and indeed it was a circular journey. Down one elevator, through a maze of corridors, round crowded corners, through narrow streets, Claudius ploughing his way through billows of curbstone brokers, sad and gay, messenger-boys, young clerks, fruit vendors, disreputable-looking millionaires and gentlemanly-looking scamps, newspaper-boys, drunken Irishmen, complacent holders of preferred, and scatterbrained speculators in wild-cat, an atmosphere of tobacco smoke, dust, melons, and unintelligible jargon--little Mr.

Scratch clinging to his client's side, nodding furiously at every other face he saw, and occasionally shouting a word of outlandish etymology, but of magic import. Claudius almost thought it would be civil to offer to carry the little man, but when he saw how deftly Mr. Scratch got in a foot here and an elbow there, and how he scampered over any little bit of clear pavement, the Doctor concluded his new acquaintance was probably used to it. More elevators, more pa.s.sages, a gla.s.s door, still bearing the names ”Barker and Lindstrand,” and they had reached their destination.

The office was on the second floor, with large windows looking over the street; there were several people in the room they first entered, and the first person Claudius saw was Mr. Barker junior, his friend.

”Well,” said Barker, ”so you have found us out. That's right. I was coming round to see you afterwards, for I did not suppose you would like to face 'the street' alone. Father,” he said, turning to a thickset man with white hair and bushy eyebrows, ”this is Dr. Claudius, Mr.

Lindstrand's nephew.”

The old gentleman looked up keenly into Claudius's face, and smiled pleasantly as he put out his hand. He said a few words of cordial welcome, and seemed altogether a st.u.r.dy, hearty, hardworking man of business--rather a contrast to his son. He hoped that Claudius would come on to Newport with Silas, as he wanted to have a long talk with him. The old gentleman was evidently very busy, and his son took Claudius in charge.

”What is that?” asked the Doctor, looking curiously at a couple of wheels that unwound unceasingly long strips of white paper. The paper pa.s.sed through a small instrument, and came out covered with unintelligible signs, coiling itself in confusion into a waste-basket below.

”That has driven more men to desperation, ruin, and drink, than all the other evils of humanity put together,” said Barker. ”That is the ticker.”

”I perceive that it ticks,” said Claudius. And Barker explained how every variation in the market was instantly transmitted to every place of business, to every club, and to many private houses in New York, by means of a simple arrangement of symbols--how ”Gr. S.” meant Green Swash, and ”N.P. pr.” ”North Pacific, preferred,” and many other things.

Claudius thought it an ingenious contrivance, but said it must be very wearing on the nerves.

”It is the pulse of New York,” said Barker. ”It is the croupier calling out from morning till night 'trente-sept, rouge, impair,' and then 'Messieurs faites votre jeu--le jeu est fait.' When stock goes down you buy, when it goes up you sell. That is the whole secret.”

”I think it is very like gambling,” said Claudius.

”So it is. But we never gamble here, though we have a ticker to see what other people are doing. Besides, it tells you everything. Horse-racing, baseball, steamers, births, deaths, and marriages; corn, wheat, tobacco, and cotton. n.o.body can live here without a ticker.”

And after this they went out into the street again, and Mr. Scratch took off his hat to Claudius, which is the highest token of unusual esteem and respect of which ”the street” is capable, and in a moment the heels of his boots were seen disappearing into the dense crowd. Claudius and Barker walked on, and crossed Broadway; a few steps farther, and the Doctor was brought face to face with the triumph of business over privacy--the elevated railway. He had caught a glimpse of portions of it in the morning, but had supposed the beams and trestles to be scaffoldings for buildings. He stood a few moments in profound thought, contemplating and comprehending this triumph of wheels.

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