And so, for forty years afterward, we find Jacob illuminated with the sudden thought that if he could make restitution of this sum of money to the heirs or assigns of the unlucky miner, respite and Nepenthe might be his.
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And now must come swift action, for we have here some four thou- sand words and not a tear shed and never a pistol, joke, safe, nor bottle cracked.
Old Jacob hired a dozen private detectives to find the heirs, if any exis-
ted, of the old miner, Hugh McLeod.
Get the point? Of course I know as well as you do that Thomas is go- ing to be the heir. I might have concealed the name; but why always hold back your mystery till the end? I say, let it come near the middle so people can stop reading there if they want to.
After the detectives had trailed false clues about three thousand dol- lars—I mean miles—they cornered Thomas at the grocery and got his confession that Hugh McLeod had been his grandfather, and that there were no other heirs. They arranged a meeting for him and old Jacob one morning in one of their offices.
Jacob liked the young man very much. He liked the way he looked straight at him when he talked, and the way he threw his bicycle cap over the top of a rose-colored vase on the centre-table.
There was a slight flaw in Jacob's system of restitution. He did not con- sider that the act, to be perfect, should include confession. So he repres- ented himself to be the agent of the purchaser of the land who had sent him to refund the sale price for the ease of his conscience.
"Well, sir," said Thomas, "this sounds to me like an illustrated post- card from South Boston with 'We're having a good time here' written on it. I don't know the game. Is this ten thousand dollars money, or do I have to save so many coupons to get it?"
Old Jacob counted out to him twenty five-hundred-dollar bills.
That was better, he thought, than a check. Thomas put them thought-
fully into his pocket.
"Grandfather's best thanks," he said, "to the party who sends it."
Jacob talked on, asking him about his work, how he spent his leisure time, and what his ambitions were. The more he saw and heard of Tho- mas, the better he liked him. He had not met many young men in Bag- dad so frank and wholesome.
"I would like to have you visit my house," he said. "I might help you in investing or laying out your money. I am a very wealthy man. I have a daughter about grown, and I would like for you to know her. There are not many young men I would care to have call on her."
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"I'm obliged," said Thomas. "I'm not much at making calls. It's gener- ally the side entrance for mine. And, besides, I'm engaged to a girl that has the Delaware peach crop killed in the blossom. She's a parlor maid in a house where I deliver goods. She won't be working there much longer, though. Say, don't forget to give your friend my grandfather's best re- gards. You'll excuse me now; my wagon's outside with a lot of green stuff that's got to be delivered. See you again, sir."
At eleven Thomas delivered some bunches of parsley and lettuce at the Spraggins mansion. Thomas was only twenty-two; so, as he came back, he took out the handful of five-hundred-dollar bills and waved them carelessly. Annette took a pair of eyes as big as creamed onion to the cook.
"I told you he was a count," she said, after relating. "He never would
carry on with me."
"But you say he showed money," said the cook.
"Hundreds of thousands," said Annette. "Carried around loose in his
pockets. And he never would look at me."
"It was paid to me to-day," Thomas was explaining to Celia outside. "It came from my grandfather's estate. Say, Cele, what's the use of waiting now? I'm going to quit the job to-night. Why can't we get married next week?"
"Tommy," said Celia. "I'm no parlor maid. I've been fooling you. I'm Miss Spraggins—Celia Spraggins. The newspapers say I'll be worth forty million dollars some day."
Thomas pulled his cap down straight on his head for the first time
since we have known him.
"I suppose then," said he, "I suppose then you'll not be marrying me
next week. But you can whistle."
"No," said Celia, "I'll not be marrying you next week. My father would never let me marry a grocer's clerk. But I'll marry you to-night, Tommy, if you say so."
Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make of it you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you unsub- sidized fiction; had it been a street car I could have told you its voltage and the number of wheels it had. Jacob called for his daughter; he had bought a ruby necklace for her, and wanted to hear her say what a kind, thoughtful, dear old dad he was.
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There was a brief search in the house for her, and then came Annette, glowing with the pure flame of truth and loyalty well mixed with envy and histrionics.
"Oh, sir," said she, wondering if she should kneel, "Miss Celia's just this minute running away out of the side gate with a young man to be married. I couldn't stop her, sir. They went in a cab."
"What young man?" roared old Jacob.
"A millionaire, if you please, sir—a rich nobleman in disguise. He car- ries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only to blind us, sir. He never did seem to take to me."
Jacob rushed out in time to catch his car. The chauffeur had been
delayed by trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
"Here, Gaston, or Mike, or whatever you call yourself, scoot around the corner quicker than blazes and see if you can see a cab. If you do, run it down."
There was a cab in sight a block away. Gaston, or Mike, with his eyes half shut and his mind on his cigarette, picked up the trail, neatly crowded the cab to the curb and pocketed it. "What t'ell you doin'?" yelled the cabman. "Pa!" shrieked Celia.
"Grandfather's remorseful friend's agent!" said Thomas. "Wonder
what's on his conscience now."
"A thousand thunders," said Gaston, or Mike. "I have no other match." "Young man," said old Jacob, severely, "how about that parlor maid
you were engaged to?"
A couple of years afterward old Jacob went into the office of his
private secretary.
"The Amalgamated Missionary Society solicits a contribution of $30,000 toward the conversion of the Koreans," said the secretary.
"Pass 'em up," said Jacob.
"The University of Plumville writes that its yearly endowment fund of
$50,000 that you bestowed upon it is past due."
"Tell 'em it's been cut out."
"The Scientific Society of Clam Cove, Long Island, asks for $10,000 to
buy alcohol to preserve specimens."
"Waste basket."
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"The Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls
wants $20,000 from you to lay out a golf course."
"Tell 'em to see an undertaker."
"Cut 'em all out," went on Jacob. "I've quit being a good thing. I need every dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors of every company that I'm interested in and recommend a 10 per cent. cut in salaries. And say—I noticed half a cake of soap lying in a corner of the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the scrubwoman about waste. I've got no money to throw away. And say—we've got vinegar pretty well in hand, haven't we?'
"The Globe Spice & Seasons Company," said secretary, "controls the
market at present."
"Raise vinegar two cents a gallon. Notify all our branches."
Suddenly Jacob Spraggins's plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He walked over to the secretary's desk and showed a small red mark on his thick forefinger.
"Bit it," he said, "darned if he didn't, and he ain't had the tooth three weeks—Jaky McLeod, my Celia's kid. He'll be worth a hundred millions by the time he's twenty-one if I can pile it up for him." As he was leaving, old Jacob turned at the door, and said:
"Better make that vinegar raise three cents instead of two. I'll be back
in an hour and sign the letters."
The true history of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid relates that toward the end of his reign he wearied of philanthropy, and caused to be beheaded all his former favorites and companions of his "Arabian Nights" rambles. Happy are we in these days of enlightenment, when the only death war- rant the caliphs can serve on us is in the form of a tradesman's bill.
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THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
Habit—a tendency or aptitude acquired by custom or frequent repetition.
The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that one we are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the mas- ters of old they gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we strove to set forth real life they reproached us for trying to imitate Henry George, George Washington, Washington Irving, and Irving Bacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and they accused us of both Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our heart—and they said something about a disordered liver. We took a text from Matthew or—er—yes, Deutero- nomy, but the preachers were hammering away at the inspiration idea before we could get into type. So, driven to the wall, we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral, unassailable vade mecum—the unabridged dictionary.
Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle's. Hinkle's is one of the big down- town restaurants. It is in what the papers call the "financial district." Each day from 12 o'clock to 2 Hinkle's was full of hungry custom- ers—messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining stock, promoters, inventors with patents pending—and also people with money.
The cashiership at Hinkle's was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted and griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched (as good a word as "dined") many more. It might be said that Hinkle's breakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted to a horde.
Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a strong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at the bottom you thrust your waiter's check and the money, while your heart went pit-a-pat.
For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of a $2 bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could—Next!—lost your chance—please don't shove. She could keep cool and collected while she collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart, indicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent better than Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes to pepper an egg with one of Hinkle's casters.
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There is an old and dignified allusion to the "fierce light that beats upon a throne." The light that beats upon the young lady cashier's cage is also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the slang. Every male patron of Hinkle's, from the A. D. T. boys up to the curb- stone brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks they wooed her with every wile known to Cupid's art. Between the meshes of the brass railing went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows, invita- tions to dinner, sighs, languishing looks and merry banter that was waf- ted pointedly back by the gifted Miss Merriam.
There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young lady cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce; she is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and coin, lead- ing lady of love and luncheon. You take from her a smile and a Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining. You count the cheery word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures; and you pock- et the change for a five uncomputed. Perhaps the brass-bound inaccess- ibility multiplies her charms—anyhow, she is a shirt-waisted angel, im- maculate, trim, manicured, seductive, bright-eyed, ready, alert—Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you from your circulating medium after your sirloin medium.
The young men who broke bread at Hinkle's never settled with the cashier without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of them went to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre tickets and chocolates. The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms, generally withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem flats. One broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss Merriam more regularly than he ate.
During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam's conversation, while she
took money for checks, would run something like this:
"Good morning, Mr. Haskins—sir?—it's natural, thank you—don't be quite so fresh … Hello, Johnny—ten, fifteen, twenty—chase along now or they'll take the letters off your cap … Beg pardon—count it again, please—Oh, don't mention it … Vaudeville?—thanks; not on your mov- ing picture—I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on Wednesday night with Mr. Simmons … 'Scuse me, I thought that was a quarter … Twenty- five and seventy-five's a dollar—got that ham-and-cabbage habit yet. I see, Billy … Who are you addressing?—say—you'll get all that's coming to you in a minute … Oh, fudge! Mr. Bassett—you're always fool- ing—no—? Well, maybe I'll marry you some day—three, four and sixty-
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