The Little Nugget

or you would have been badly hurt that night. I was getting scared how the thing would end. Buck’s a plain roughneck, and his gang are as bad as he is, and they had got mighty sore at you, mighty sore. If they had grabbed you, there’s no knowing what might not have happened. However, all’s well that ends well, and this little game has surely had the happy ending. I shall get that job, sonny. Old man Ford isn’t a fool, and it won’t take him long, when he gets to thinking it over, to see that I’m right. He’ll hire me.”

“Aren’t you rather reckoning without your partner?” I said. “Where does Buck MacGinnis come in on the deal?”

Sam patted my shoulder paternally.

“He doesn’t, sonny, he doesn’t. It was a shame to do it⁠—it was like taking candy from a kid⁠—but business is business, and I was reluctantly compelled to double-cross poor old Buck. I sneaked the Nugget away from him next day. It’s not worth talking about; it was too easy. Buck’s all right in a rough-and-tumble, but when it comes to brains he gets left, and so he’ll go on through life, poor fellow. I hate to think of it.”

He sighed. Buck’s misfortunes seemed to move him deeply.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if he gave up the profession after this. He has had enough to discourage him. I told you about what happened to him that night, didn’t I? No? I thought I did. Why, Buck was the guy who did the Steve Brodie through the roof; and, when we picked him up, we found he’d broken his leg again! Isn’t that enough to jar a man? I guess he’ll retire from the business after that. He isn’t intended for it.”

We were approaching the two automobiles now, and, looking back, I saw Mr. and Mrs. Ford walking up the drive. Sam followed my gaze, and I heard him chuckle.

“It’s all right,” he said. “They’ve fixed it up. Something in the way they’re walking tells me they’ve fixed it up.”

Mrs. Drassilis was still sitting in the red automobile, looking piqued but resigned. Mrs. Ford addressed her.

“I shall have to leave you, Mrs. Drassilis,” she said. “Tell Jarvis to drive you wherever you want to go. I am going with my husband to see my boy Oggie.”

She stretched out a hand towards the millionaire. He caught it in his, and they stood there, smiling foolishly at each other, while Sam, almost purring, brooded over them like a stout fairy queen. The two chauffeurs looked on woodenly.

Mr. Ford released his wife’s hand and turned to Sam.

“Fisher.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve been considering your proposition. There’s a string tied to it.”

“Oh no, sir, I assure you!”

“There is. What guarantee have I that you won’t double-cross me?”

Sam smiled, relieved.

“You forget that I told you I was about to be married, sir. My wife won’t let me!”

Mr. Ford waved his hand towards the automobile.

“Jump in,” he said briefly, “and tell him where to drive to. You’re engaged!”

XVIII

“No manners!” said Mrs. Drassilis. “None whatever. I always said so.”

She spoke bitterly. She was following the automobile with an offended eye as it moved down the drive.

The car rounded the corner. Sam turned and waved a farewell. Mr. and Mrs. Ford, seated close together in the tonneau, did not even look round.

Mrs. Drassilis sniffed disgustedly.

“She’s a friend of Cynthia’s. Cynthia asked me to come down here with her to see you. I came, to oblige her. And now, without a word of apology, she leaves me stranded. She has no manners whatever.”

I offered no defence of the absent one. The verdict more or less squared with my own opinion.

“Is Cynthia back in England?” I asked, to change the subject.

“The yacht got back yesterday. Peter, I have something of the utmost importance to speak to you about.” She glanced at Jarvis the chauffeur, leaning back in his seat with the air, peculiar to chauffeurs in repose, of being stuffed. “Walk down the drive with me.”

I helped her out of the car, and we set off in silence. There was a suppressed excitement in my companion’s manner which interested me, and something furtive which brought back all my old dislike of her. I could not imagine what she could have to say to me that had brought her all these miles.

“How do you come to be down here?” she said. “When Cynthia told me you were here, I could hardly believe her. Why are you a master at this school? I cannot understand it!”

“What did you want to see me about?” I asked.

She hesitated. It was always an effort for her to be direct. Now, apparently, the effort was too great. The next moment she had rambled off on some tortuous bypath of her own, which, though it presumably led in the end to her destination, was evidently a long way round.

“I have known you for so many years now, Peter, and I don’t know of anybody whose character I admire more. You are so generous⁠—quixotic in fact. You are one of the few really unselfish men I have ever met. You are always thinking of other people. Whatever it cost you, I know you would not hesitate to give up anything if you felt that it was for someone else’s happiness. I do admire you so for it. One meets so few young men nowadays who consider anybody except themselves.”

She paused, either for breath or for fresh ideas, and I took advantage of the lull in the rain of bouquets to repeat my question.

“What did you want to see me about?” I asked patiently.

“About Cynthia. She asked me to see you.”

“Oh!”

“You got a letter from her.”

“Yes.”

“Last night, when she came home, she told me about it, and showed me your answer. It was a beautiful letter, Peter. I’m sure I cried when I read it. And Cynthia did, I feel certain. Of course, to a girl of her character that letter was final. She is so loyal, dear