Part 16 (2/2)
”Well, sir, when it comes to old madeira”--
”I earned it, I bought it, and I can drink it, too. And as for your Wall Street whippersnappers that haven't pedigree enough to get a taste for wine, and drink champagne, and don't know an honest man when they see one--it's so seldom”--
”Seriously, what do you suppose he wanted with the gold?”
”I don't know, sir, and I don't care. But since you're spying round, come in!” and Mr. Bowdoin led his son into the vault. ”There, sir, there's the confounded box,” tapping with his cane the old chest that lay on the top shelf.
”I see, sir,” said Mr. James, taking his cue.
”And as for its contents, the firm of James Bowdoin's Sons are responsible. Perhaps you'd like to poke your nose in there?”
”Oh no, sir,” said Mr. James. And that chest was never opened by James Bowdoin or James Bowdoin's Sons.
”When the pirate wants it, he can have it,--in h.e.l.l or elsewhere,”
ended Mr. Bowdoin profanely.
But coming out, and after Mr. James had gone away, the old gentleman went to Jamie McMurtagh's desk. Poor Jamie had seen them enter the vault, and his heart stood still. But all Mr. Bowdoin said was to ask him if his salary was sufficient. For once in his life the poor old man had failed to meet his benefactor's eye.
”It is quite enough, sir. I--I deserve no more.”
But Mr. Bowdoin was not satisfied. ”Jamie,” he said, ”if you should ever need more money,--a good deal of money, I mean,--you will come to me, won't you? You could secure it by a policy on your life, you know.”
Jamie's voice broke. ”I have no need of money, sir.”
”And Mercedes? How is she?”
”It is some time since I heard, sir; the last was, she had gone with her husband to Havana.”
”Havana!” shouted Mr. Bowdoin; and before Jamie could explain he had crushed his beaver on his head and rushed from the bank.
Jamie's head sank over the desk, and the tears came. If only this cup could pa.s.s from him! If Heaven would pardon this one deceit in all his darkened, upright life, and let him restore the one trust he had broken, before he died! And then he dried his eyes, and took to figuring,--figuring over again, as he had so often done before, the time needed, at the present rate, to make good his theft. Ten years more--a little less--would do it.
But old Mr. Bowdoin ran to the counting-room, where he found his son and Harley in that gloomy silence that ends an unsatisfactory communication.
”Say what you will, you'll never make me believe old Jamie is a thief,” said Harley.
”Thief! you low-toned rascal!” cried Mr. Bowdoin. ”Thief yourself!
He's just told me Mercedes is in Havana. Of course he wants Spanish gold!”
”Of course he does!” cried Harley.
”Of course he does!” cried James.
Their faces brightened, and each one inwardly congratulated himself that the others had not thought how much easier it would have been for Jamie to send her bills of exchange.
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