Dorado was no mere poet's dream, and that Tom Tiddler's Ground,
where one might stand picking up gold and silver, was as definite a
locality as Brooklyn or the Bronx. At last, after years of patient
waiting, he stood like Moses on the mountain, looking down into the
Promised Land. He had come to where the Big Money was.
The captain was now reading the little note-book wherein he kept a
record of his investments, which were numerous and varied. That the
contents were satisfactory was obvious at a glance. The smile on his
face and the reposeful position of his jaw were proof enough of
that. There were notes relating to house-property, railroad shares,
and a dozen other profitable things. He was a rich man.
This was a fact that was entirely unsuspected by his neighbors, with
whom he maintained somewhat distant relations, accepting no
invitations and giving none. For Mr. McEachern was playing a big
game. Other eminent buccaneers in his walk of life had been content
to be rich men in a community where moderate means were the rule.
But about Mr. McEachern there was a touch of the Napoleonic. He
meant to get into society--and the society he had selected was that
of England. Other people have noted the fact--which had impressed
itself very firmly on the policeman's mind--that between England and
the United States there are three thousand miles of deep water. In
the United States, he would be a retired police-captain; in England,
an American gentleman of large and independent means with a
beautiful daughter.
That was the ruling impulse in his life--his daughter Molly. Though,
if he had been a bachelor, he certainly would not have been
satisfied to pursue a humble career aloof from graft, on the other
hand, if it had not been for Molly, he would not have felt, as he
gathered in his dishonest wealth, that he was conducting a sort of
holy war. Ever since his wife had died, in his detective-sergeant
days, leaving him with a year-old daughter, his ambitions had been
inseparably connected with Molly.
All his thoughts were on the future. This New York life was only a
preparation for the splendors to come. He spent not a dollar
unnecessarily. When Molly was home from school, they lived together
simply and quietly in the small house which Molly's taste made so
comfortable. The neighbors, knowing his profession and seeing the
modest scale on which he lived, told one another that here at any
rate was a policeman whose hands were clean of graft. They did not
know of the stream that poured week by week and year by year into
his bank, to be diverted at intervals into the most profitable
channels. Until the time should come for the great change, economy
was his motto. The expenses of his home were kept within the bounds
of his official salary. All extras went to swell his savings.
He closed his book with a contented sigh, and lighted another cigar.
Cigars were his only personal luxury. He drank nothing, ate the
simplest food, and made a suit of clothes last for quite an unusual
length of time; but no passion for economy could make him deny
himself smoke.
