IT was the day of celebration at the Speedway. It was the anniversary of its first opening and Max Lepende had ordained that once a year high revel should hold sway in commemoration of the foundation of his fortunes. The Speedway was to Beacon Glory what the Casino is to Monte Carlo. It was perhaps a good deal more. But then, Monte Carlo is in the eyes of society and Beacon Glory had somehow contrived a position on the map more or less unrecorded. On the whole the “Glory” citizens, as they loved to call themselves, were well enough satisfied with their position. It was convenient for many reasons, not the least of which was the feeling of security it gave to most of them, and the general immunity they enjoyed from the legitimate consequences of offences committed against society in earlier life.

Max, being of Italian extraction and flamboyant in temperament, had built and designed it in the manner that most appealed to him. The place was literally a Bacchanalian temple, lavish with white and gold and brilliant lights. It was gaudy with red furnishings and glittering glass, and, generally speaking, was as good an example of a whited sepulchre as the riot of debased human passions, and the lavish brush of the decorator could make of otherwise perfectly innocent woodwork.

The place stared out on the city’s main thoroughfare two blocks below the Plaza Hotel, a wide-fronted, be-pillared edifice of two stories. In the brilliant summer sunlight its whitened walls looked dispiritedly grey and shabby, but in the dark months of winter its blaze of electric light transformed it into a lure which the people of Beacon Glory found impossible to resist.

Max had named it “The Palace of Pleasure.” But then Max wore a pointed beard which concealed a pair of full, red, something sensuous lips. Furthermore, he wore the rest of his hair long, and a large, flowing black cravat adorned the evening clothes he always appeared in when presiding over the nightly orgy obtaining in his establishment. Beacon Glory, being frank, apt and unashamed in its downrightness of phraseology, had promptly dubbed it “The Speedway,” and, in the end, the ultra-artistic mind of its founder had to yield, and as the “Speedway” it was known throughout the length and breadth of southern Alaska.

Max’s annual celebration was not lightly to be missed, and, generally speaking, Beacon Glory was not given to missing anything at other people’s expense. Besides, Max would be offended if his available customers absented themselves on this his especial night. Then, too, why should it be missed? There would be a dinner of exceptional quality in the grand dining-hall—free to invited guests. There would be a flood of wine of the best quality. The company, for once, would smoke the best cigars and lap up expensive, sticky cordials. And it would all be free. Oh, no. There was no missing it by those men favoured with an invitation.

There would be no women at the dinner; that was where Max displayed his fineness of discrimination. He knew his men. And perhaps his women—some of them. The women would be there for the dance afterwards—they would be given a good time, but Max sternly demanded that this, his evening of evenings, should start—fair. Whatever the later developments, the night should at least start with such dignity and decorum as an assorted line in evening clothes could impress upon the manhood of a more or less disreputable out-world city.

The Plaza was unusually full in the late afternoon on this day of celebration. The weather was hot and windless, and the spring mosquitoes were merciless. But the open verandah, overlooking the main avenue, was liberally patronised. Mosquitoes were part of the daily life of Beacon Glory, and their worst torture was insufficient to disturb its citizens out of their routine.

Jubilee Hurst and his partner, Burt Riddell, were amongst those foregathered. They were nominally gold men of the type which is drawn from the big cities of civilisation. They come at the call of adventure and easy money, and in the end, generally seek the latter by means of an active application of wit rather than of muscle. Then there was the well-liked, amiable and indifferent Doctor Finch, Beacon’s leading man of medicine. He was reposing his rotund figure in a chair of doubtful stability, tilted at a perilous angle, while his heavily-booted feet decorated the rail of the verandah. Abe Cranfield, the Plaza’s esteemed proprietor, short, stout, and with a thrusting chin whisker, was squatting on a low stool many sizes too small for him. And, reposing comfortably in a prolonged cane deck chair, with a Rye highball on an adjacent table easily within reach, reclined Victor Burns of the Occidental Bank.

None of them had as yet disguised themselves under the uniform required for the evening’s entertainment to which they were all invited. That was an evil they preferred to postpone till the last minute. They one and all preferred to remain the plain examples of Beacon’s citizenship they really were as long as possible.

The irrepressible Jubilee Hurst made no pretence of his reluctance, and he was airing his views with that simple freedom which he claimed as his right at all times.

“You know, boys,” he said, smashing a bunch of mosquitoes on the back of his bull-like neck, “Max is mostly a decent citizen for all he’s a Dago. But his craze for patent shoes and hair oil gets me all the time. You know, there’s no sort of reason in a guy acting the way he does behind a bow-tie fit for a Dago revolutionary, and wearing a sheath-knife on his hip fit to carve up whale blubber. Maybe, with an elegant souse in prospect he fancies us boys fixed the way he gets us because most of our party suits were invented before the possibilities of the hip-pocket were guessed about. I’d say the Speeedway’s no sort of joint to fall into without a whole darn arsenal of weapons lying around to your hand most all the time, and, I’ll sure be feeling like a lamb at slaughter time settin’ around disguised like a first-class waiter, while he belches up his annual hash of the pleasure it hands him having us suckers around, and how grieved he is the cemetery’s added to its stock of fancy mausoleums by way of advertising the amenities of his darn booth.”

He smiled amiably round upon the company, and took half a highball at a gulp. And his black, twinkling eyes finally settled on his partner’s long and grievously unsmiling face.

“It’s all right, boy,” he said, grinning genially. “You needn’t to feel the way you’re lookin’. I got two boiled shirts, and seein’ you’re a partner of mine, I’ll share ’em with you for haf a dollar.”

Burt raked at the calf of one hairy leg exposed about his sock suspender to the attacking mosquitoes.

“Oh, beat it,” he cried irritably. “You wouldn’t miss a thing the Speedway could hand you, if Max reckoned to have you around in your underpants. You make me tired.” He turned to the banker. “I got around the ‘Glory Hole’ this morning. It’s burnt out stark.”

The banker sipped his highball and gazed thoughtfully out at the far hills.

“I’m glad,” he said quietly, after a moment’s deliberation.

It was coldly said and Abe Cranfield looked round at the speaker quickly.

“I can’t say I’m glad for any feller to get burnt out,” he exclaimed warmly. “The Aurora bunch are acting mighty gay. Wher’s it goin’ to stop? Is it the Plaza or the Speedway next? How am I to know when I’m offending their notions? Clancy Roscoe had been runnin’ his saloon since ever Beacon started. I can’t see——”

“It was a brothel,” Burns spoke sharply. Then he laughed quietly. “See here, Abe,” he said in a conciliatory fashion, “I guess you hold a brief for Clancy and his Glory Hole because he’s in your line of business—as far as liquor’s concerned. You sort of feel it’s interference with lawful liberty, and maybe, that way you’re right. But there’s no right-minded boy to this city’ll feel that the Clan has done anything but a service to the credit of our burg. Clancy was warned. He showed me his written warning two weeks back and he was right up in the air. And his warning was straight and right. It said, ‘Clear out your women and run your liquor joint straight.’ It gave him two weeks. Well, he refused. And I got my notions of the feller who makes his pay out of that sort of thing. He banks with me and I can’t help it. But I’m glad his shanty’s gone, and there are some more I’d like to see treated the same.”

“Sounds like he was the Chief Light of the Aurora,” laughed Jubilee.

Burns nodded.

“Maybe it does, boy. But think back to the days when you were your mother’s kid and you’ll think like me. No, I guess there’s a worry back of that Clan, but not when they burn up joints like the ‘Glory Hole.’”

Doc Finch nodded over his cigar stump.

“I’m with you, Victor,” he said seriously.

“I’m sure you are, Doc.”

“Well, what of Max’s show?” Abe was still considering possibilities from a personal point of view. “What of the women there? Are things better there when you get right down to bedrock? Say, I want to laff. Ther’s vice to the square inch right around that dance hall ’ud pave hell a furlong a minute. But then, Max could buy half the city,” he finished up bitterly.

“I can’t stand for that,” the unsmiling face of Burt was suddenly transformed. He was grinning but in real earnest. “The Speedway’s the thing folks make it,” he said hotly. “It’s the only real joy spot in a city that’s forgot how to laff. You can help yourself to a portion of life there without a meal ticket. Ther’s light and laughter there if you don’t get around with a grouch. You can burn money there, or make a bunch, if you’re bright enough to beat the other feller. Ther’s women who’re foolish, and women who ain’t, and ther’s boys who’re a real imitation of men, and hogs disguised under a bank roll. If the Clan was to get after Max’s joint it ’ud be me for the coast and the first barge for the south. No, Abe, if ther’s any sort of method back of those guys in their white shirts and pointed sky-pieces you and Max can sit around without a worry. An’, anyway, this bum hotel couldn’t have claim to vice, even in the dreams of a bughouse inmate.”

Jubilee chuckled as a preliminary to one of his characteristic outbursts. Then he took in the whole company in his expansive, headlong way.

“Burt’s got a hell of a hunch, an’ I won’t have to charge him haf-a-dollar for that shirt,” he laughed delightedly. “My, Abe, but he got you plumb in the pit of the stomach. And he was right, sure. I guess you can throw all the dirt you fancy in Beacon without ever a chance of missin’ things. But the Speedway ain’t available for that playing without hurtin’ folks who’re mostly your friends. What ’ud we do without the Speedway? Why, die plumb to death setting around your verandah, smashin’ skitters. I can’t think of dying worse.”

The grin died out of his eyes, and a curious sort of earnestness replaced it as he went on:

“No, Abe,” he said, sitting up abruptly and spreading out his lean, tenacious hands, which were carefully manicured. “Get a grip on yourself and think of the women-folk who get glad there at night. Do you grudge ’em? No, sir, you don’t. You couldn’t. It’s not in you. You know a woman hasn’t a swell time in life when you think about her. And in Beacon she wouldn’t get any time at all.” He laughed again. “We’re told the first woman was made out of man’s ‘scrap.’ Maybe that’s how it comes she’s had to put up with man’s ‘left-over’ ever since.” He shook his head. “To my thinking, woman’s never had a better time than a yaller pup ever since she disappointed her folk with her sex. It seems to me a poor sort of life fixing a man’s hash so he don’t take too big a chance on his life policy. Think how she needs to smile every time a feller hands her out five cents to make vacation on, same as if she was pleased. Chores seem to be the limit of woman’s joy in life, and I guess she’ll go right on chasing kids’ noses with a swab till she jerks up at the graveyard. She’ll keep on trying to feed her whole bunch on the change out of a dollar, and the promises her man hands out to her like dead leaves in the fall. She’s got a hell of a life, even if it’s only she’s expected to swallow a man’s lies whole and sit around foolish waiting for ’em to come true. No, Abe, don’t you ever go for to rob her of a moment’s pleasure. She’ll mother you sick, and mother you well. She’ll lie for you and fight for you. And when she’s broke her heart keepin’ folks from lynching you, she’ll tidy you all she knows and pass you into the crematorium in the hope of making you a real sanitary proposition for the first time in your darn life. Ther’s all sorts of ’em find joy in the Speedway. Some are foolish, but,” he finished up, turning his perfectly serious eyes in the direction of the great dance hall, “ther’s those who—aren’t.”

At that instant a raucous honk! honk! echoed down the wide, dust-laden, unkempt thoroughfare, and every eye was turned in the direction.

Out of a dust cloud a high-powered automobile raced down towards them, rolling and bumping over the perilous unevennesses of the road, regardless of every consequence. It was painted a curious rich red, a big saloon body with black running gear and black roof. It contained only two women, both expensively clad, one of whom had a wealth of red hair that seemed to match the colour of the vehicle. Every man on the verandah was craning. Every eye was watching the car’s reckless progress. And as it passed, leaving them almost lost under a fog of dust, it was Doc Finch who, returning his feet to their resting-place on the verandah rail, voiced something of the thought that occurred to the mind of each.

“No,” he said, smiling amiably round on the company, “there’s no gang, or clan, or bunch of disorderly toughs in Beacon Glory that ’ud dare to do harm to the Speedway so long as St. Claire Carver is its patron saint.”

The banker nodded prompt agreement.

“That’s a cinch, Doc,” he said. “She’s got every man in Beacon just where any good woman could want him.”

Abe concurred promptly, if grudgingly.

“She’s a real dandy an’ a good spender,” he admitted, “and she’s got the whole fancy of Beacon as well as its luck——”

“Luck?” Victor Burns drained the remains of his highball to wash the dust of the automobile from his throat. “She’s made a pile that would set some of the Wall Street guys screaming. Say!” He laughed. Then he became serious. “And talking of gold and things,” he went on, “there’s colour coming in just now from outside. A boy bought himself a credit at my place this afternoon for eighty thousand odd, and it was the sort of dust they used to collect on ‘Eighty-Mile’ years back.”

The banker watched the almost electrical effect of his words on a company to whom gold was the beginning and end of everything. Discussion of the Speedway and its morals, and even of its beautiful patron saint, was forgotten. Every man at once sat agog. And even Jubilee Hurst, who was mainly a sheer gambler, who had been gazing down the avenue after the now-vanished automobile, eagerly sought information.

“Where did it come from?” he asked, without hesitation or scruple.

Burns shook his head.

“Search me,” he said with a laugh.

“Who’s the guy?” demanded Burt.

“Guess I’m a banker.”

“Can’t you hand us a thing?” inquired Abe.

“Not a thing but just that,” Burns said quietly. “It’s the third big bunch of dust come in from the same place, by the same boy, in six months. And there’s more coming. I wanted you fellows to know about it because it’s my job to collect the stuff, and the more folks know about it the more they’ll worry to get after it. There’s big gold coming into Beacon, and I guess that’s the best news you——”

He broke off. Ivor McLagan had appeared in the open glass doorway leading on to the verandah.

“Say,” he cried, after a moment’s pause, “I hadn’t a notion you were in town, Ivor.”

Jubilee laughed.

“You ain’t much of a guesser, Burns,” he interjected. “Why wouldn’t McLagan be along in? Is he missing Max’s show any more than you and me? But say, Mac, tell us about oil. We just been hearing gold from Burns and now we want oil. The oil king is right with us, folk. He’s right in our midst,” he cried, with his ready laugh. “The soft yellow stuff gets us all the time, but nice, black, sticky oil’s only a short cut to it. You’re the guy to grease the wheels of Beacon right. Gold won’t be a circumstance when you open out one of your gushers. Sit around, man, and hand us news that’ll help us digest Max’s Dago feast right. Talk to us of options and borings and coal mountains, and all that sort of truck you can’t eat and I’ll buy you a highball right now, and swear to set up a swell piece by way of epitaph on your mausoleum when you’ve got mired to death in the juice you’re going to flood Beacon with. You’re our only hope of——”

“And a darnation poor one, Jubilee,” McLagan interrupted, “that is, right up to now.” He pulled up a chair and leaned his great body over it, while his plain face smiled indulgently on the irrepressible man who never failed to amuse him. “But we’re right on oil. We’ve hit a—trickle. A hell of a fine—trickle.”

Abe sat up.

“Is that right?” he demanded, his eyes lighting.

Ivor nodded.

“It surely is, Abe. You’ll be re-building this hogpen in a year’s time and you’ll need to add a hundred rooms.”

Burns leant forward in his chair.

“Is it going to be big?”

“A real flood—if I’m not foolish.”

“Will you talk to-night at Max’s feed?” inquired Doc Finch, a staunch believer in publicity.

“Not a whisper.”

“Why not?” inquired Burt Riddell.

“Because I got a deal too much that’s worth saying,” McLagan laughed. “The only time it’s safe to talk is when you haven’t.”

Jubilee chuckled appreciatively.

“I’m buying that highball right away, Abe,” he cried. “And make it for the whole darn house, if it’s my last buck. McLagan’s right. Don’t shout till you want. Then shout like hell. Folk’ll hand it you if it’s only to keep you quiet while they shout. Oil? And it’s coming? Are there any options lying around? Are we to be in on the ground floor, Mac, or is the darn door bolted and locked?”

McLagan shook his head.

“Sure it’s locked and I’ve hidden up the key,” he said quietly. “My prospect’s a tight one. You see, it’s been a long trail and I’m taking no chances. Easy money’s fine for those who make it. But I’m not passing easy money to a soul. Guess I’ll go and clean up for Max’s party.” He laughed pleasantly. “And I’ll collect your highball on the way, boy. So long.”