In a small office on the third floor of the City Bank Building Mr. Theodore Mix, broker and amateur politician, sat moodily intent upon his morning newspaper. For thirty years (he was fifty-five) Mr. Mix had been a prominent and a mildly influential citizen, and by great effort he had managed to keep himself excessively overrated. A few years ago he had even been mentioned as a candidate for Mayor, and the ambition was still alive within him, although fulfilment was never so distant. But despite his appearance, which was dignified, and despite his manner, which would have done for the diplomatic corps, and despite his connection with local charities and churches and civic committees, Mr. Mix was secretly a bit of a bounder; and although the past decade or two he had made a handsome income, he had contrived to get rid of it as fast as he conveniently 25 could, and by methods which wouldn’t always have stood analysis.

Lately, for no apparent cause, his best customers had edged away from him; he was gliding rapidly into debt, and he knew that unless he clambered out again within six or eight weeks, he should have considerable difficulty in preserving his reputation, both financial and ethical. And like all men in the same position, Mr. Mix was fiercely jealous of his prestige; by long practice he had warped himself into thinking that it belonged to him; and he was ready to defend it with every conceivable weapon.

For the moment, however, Mr. Mix was querulous rather than defensive. He was trying to place the blame for the past two seasons of misfortune, and when he observed that Pacific Refining was twelve points up from Saturday’s close, he sighed wearily and told himself that it was all a matter of luck. He had had an appointment, last Saturday at nine o’clock, with his friend John Starkweather, and he had meant to borrow something from him, if 26 possible, and to risk a few hundred shares of Pacific Refining on margin; but he had overslept, and Mr. Starkweather had left his office at nine fifteen and hadn’t come back again that day, so that the profit which might so easily have come to rest in Mr. Mix’s pockets was now in other quarters.

Luck! The most intangible of assets and the most unescapable of liabilities. On Saturday, Mr. Mix had arrived too late because he had overslept because his alarm-clock had been tinkered by a watchmaker who had inherited a taste for alcohol from a parent who had been ruined by the Chicago fire––and almost before he knew it, Mr. Mix had trailed the blame to Adam and Eve, and was feeling personally resentful. It was plain to him that his failure wasn’t in any sense his own fault.

As he resumed his paper, however, his querulousness yielded to a broad sunny optimism, and he turned to the sporting page and hunted out the news from the Bowie track. He had a friend at Bowie, and the friend owned a horse which he swore was the darkest three-year-old in captivity; he had wired Mr. Mix to 27 hypothecate his shirt, and bet the proceeds on the fourth race, this coming Saturday. The odds would be at least 10 to 1, he said, and he could place all the money that Mr. Mix might send him.

Mr. Mix leaned back and built a stable in the air. Suppose he could borrow a couple of thousand. Twenty thousand clear profit. Then a quick dash into the cotton-market (the price was certainly going to break wide open in another month) and the twenty would unfold, and expand, and become fifty. And if a shrewd, cold-blooded man went down to Wall Street with fifty thousand dollars, and played close to his chest, he ought to double his capital in four months. To be sure, Mr. Mix had been losing steadily for a dozen years, but he was confident that he had it in him to be a great and successful plunger. He felt it. Heretofore, he had been handicapped by operating on a shoestring; but with fifty thousand dollars to put his back against––

His stenographer announced a caller, and on the instant, Mr. Mix, put on his other personality, and prepared to silver his tongue. 28 The caller, however, came straight to Mr. Mix’s desk, and flipped out one sheet from a large portfolio. “Say,” he remarked brusquely. “What’s the matter with this bill? Ziegler and Company. Two ninety two sixty––dated November.”

Mr. Mix laughed genially, and offered a cigar. “Why, nothing’s the matter with it.”

“What’s the matter with Ziegler and Company? Aren’t they solvent?”

The visitor lighted his cigar, and mellowed. “Well it ain’t any of my funeral, but Ziegler he says if you don’t settle by the fifteenth, he’ll give it to his attorney.”

For the third time in a week, an attorney had been lugged into the conversation; more than that, Mr. Mix had received four letters from two different collection agencies. “In the words of the Good Book,” he said soothingly, “have patience and I will pay thee all.”

“What say? Will I come in next week sometime?”

“Now, that,” said Mr. Mix, with a rush of approval, “is a first-rate idea. That’s first-rate. Come in next week some time.”

“Right-o. Only Ziegler, he’s pretty hard-boiled, Mr. Mix.... Say, why don’t you gimme a check now, and save me from gettin’ flat-footed? Two ninety two sixty? Why for you that’s chicken-feed.”

“Bill hasn’t been audited yet,” said Mr. Mix, with all the grandeur of an industrial chieftain. “Come in next week.”

The visitor went out, and Mr. Mix scowled at the bill, threatened to tear it, and finally put it away in a drawer where it had plenty of companionship. To think that after his lifetime as an important citizen––generally supposed to be well-to-do if not actually rich––he couldn’t pay a trifling account of less than three hundred dollars because he didn’t have three hundred dollars in the bank. Collection agencies and the warning of suits––and impertinence from young ruffians who were hired to dun him! He scowled more heavily, and then gave his shoulders an upward movement of rancour and disgust.

And yet––the lines receded from his forehead––and yet there was always John Starkweather, and the friend at Bowie. Mr. Mix rose, and 30 went out to the corridor, and down it to a door which was lettered with Mr. Starkweather’s name, followed by the inscription: Real Estate and Insurance, Mortgage Loans. And as he entered, and remembered that thirty years ago he and John Starkweather had occupied adjoining stools at the same high desk, and broken their back over the same drudgery, and at the same wage, he was filled with an emotion which made his cheeks warm. Side by side, only thirty years ago, and separated now by the Lord knew what, and the Lord knew why. Mr. Mix knew that he was brainier than John Starkweather; he admitted it. Brainier, smoother, quicker of wit, and more polished. But Starkweather’s office handled the bulk of local realty transactions; it wrote more insurance than all of its competitors in a mass; it loaned almost as much money, on mortgage, as the Trust and Savings. And Mr. Mix, Broker, was on the verge of bankruptcy. Luck! No question about it.

At the swinging gate there was a girl-clerk who smiled up at him, flirtatiously. “Want to 31 see the boss? He’s busy for a coupla minutes.”

“All right,” said Mr. Mix in an undertone. “I’ll stay here and talk to you.”

“The nerve of some folks! Think I’m paid to listen to your line of hot air? Not ’till they double my salary. You go sit down and have a thought. Exercise’s what you need.”

Mr. Mix rolled his eyes heavenward. “So young, and so heartless!” he murmured, and went sedately forward to the reception room.

The door of the private office was not quite closed; so that the voices of two men were faintly audible. Mr. Mix cast about him, made sure that he was unobserved, and dignifiedly changed his seat––nearer that door.

“Yes,” said a voice which at first he couldn’t recognize. “The deed’s recorded. So legally, Henry owns the property now.” Mr. Mix nodded triumphantly; the voice belonged to Mr. Archer, a leading lawyer and Mr. Starkweather’s closest friend.

“That’s the idea.” This was in Mr. Starkweather’s familiar bass. “Now how’d you fix the will?”

“Why, it was very simple. Your point was that you didn’t want everybody to know what was going on. So––”

“No. And if I put a lot o’ conditions like that in a will, why just as soon as it was probated, Henry and Mirabelle’d both get an awful lot o’ bum publicity. They’d both be sore, and I’d look like a nut.... Naturally, I don’t plan to die off as soon as all this, but better be safe. I just want to fix it up so Henry’ll get the same deal no matter what happens.”

“Very wise, very wise,... Well, here’s what I’ve done. I’ve changed the will so that the entire residuary estate is left to me in trust for your sister and nephew to be administered according to the trust-deed we’re executing today. They can probate that until they’re black in the face, but nobody’s going to find out any more than we want them to.”

“Sounds all right so far, but don’t you have to take a trust agreement like that into Court, too?”

“Sooner or later, yes. But you’ll notice that I’ve covered it so that unless Henry or Miss Starkweather says something, nobody’s going 33 to know until the year’s out, and I make the accounting. Now for the trust agreement itself––if Henry demonstrates to me that within a year––”

“A year from August first. The lease don’t expire ’till then, and Henry won’t be home ’till then. August to August’s what I’m goin’ to put up to him.”

“Correct. If he demonstrates to me that within the calendar year he’s made a net profit of ten thousand dollars from the property––by the way, isn’t that rather steep?”

“No. Man’s in there now’s made three thousand and manhandled it. Just horse-sense and some alterations and advertising’ll bring it up to ten.”

“You’re the doctor. If Henry makes ten out of it, then he receives from me, as trustee, the whole residuary estate, otherwise it goes to your sister. And during that trial year, she gets the whole income from it, anyway.”

Mr. Mix was sitting motionless as a cat.

“That’s right.”

“Well, then, if you’ll just read these over and make sure I’ve got your meaning, and then get 34 a couple of witnesses in here, we can clear the whole thing up and have it out of the way.”

Mr. Mix heard the scrape of chair-legs against the floor, and hastily, on tiptoe, he crossed the room to his original seat, and in passing the centre table he helped himself to a magazine which he was reading with much concentration when the door of the private office opened.

“Why, hello, Mix,” said Mr. Starkweather. “Been waitin’ long? Be with you in half a second.”

“Just got here,” said Mr. Mix, as though startled. He returned the magazine to the table, and was still standing when his friend came back, in convoy of young Mr. Robert Standish, his chief assistant.

“Come on in, Mix. Want you to witness a will.”

“Anything to oblige,” said Mr. Mix, with alacrity.

He spoke cordially to young Mr. Standish and in another moment, to the lawyer. With due solemnity he carried out the function which was assigned to him; he would have loved a peep at the body of the documents, but already 35 he was possessed of some very interesting information, and he kept his eyes religiously in the boat. Mr. Mix believed that in business and society, as well as in war, advance information is the basis of victory; and even while he was blotting his second signature, he was wondering how to capitalize what he had overheard. No inspiration came to him; so that methodically he stowed away the facts for reference.

“Stay right here, Mix. That’s all, ain’t it, Mr. Archer?”

“That’s all.” The lawyer was packing up his papers. “Good-morning, gentlemen.” He bowed himself away; Standish had long since vanished.

Mr. Starkweather mopped his face. “Hot, ain’t it?”

“You aren’t looking so very fit,” said Mr. Mix, critically. “Feel all right, do you?”

Mr. Starkweather pulled himself together. “Sure,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual heartiness. “I feel fine. Well, what can I do for you?”

Mr. Mix, delaying only to close the door (and to see that it latched) began with a foreword 36 which was followed by a preface and then by a prelude, but he had hardly reached the main introduction when Mr. Starkweather put up his hand. “To make a long story short, Mix––how much do you want?”

Mr. Mix looked pained. “Why, to tide me over the dull season, John, I need––let’s see––” He stole a glance at his friend, and doubled the ante. “About five thousand.”

Mr. Starkweather drummed on his desk. “Any security!”

Mr. Mix smiled blandly. “What’s security between friends? I’ll give you a demand note.”

At length, Mr. Starkweather stopped drumming. “Mix, I don’t quite get you.... You’ve had a good business; you must have made considerable money. You oughtn’t be borrowin’ from me; that’s what your bank’s for. You oughtn’t be borrowin’ money any way. You been too big a man to get in a hole like this. What’s wrong––business rotten?”

“Too good,” said Mr. Mix, frankly. “It’s taking all my capital to carry my customers. And you know how tight money is.”

“Oh, yes. Well––I guess your credit’s good 37 for five, all right. When do you have to have it? Now?”

“Any time that suits you, suits me.”

Mr. Starkweather shook his head. “No, it don’t, either. When a man wants money, he wants it. Wants it some particular day. When is it?”

“Why, if you could let me have it today, John, I’d appreciate it.”

“Make out your note,” said Mr. Starkweather, heavily, “Interest at six percent, semi-annually. I’ll have the cashier write you out a check.”

Ten minutes later Mr. Mix, patting his breast pocket affectionately, bestowed a paternal smile upon the girl at the wicket; and Mr. Starkweather, alone in his office, drew a prodigious breath and slumped down in his chair, and fell to gazing out over the roof-tops.

It was a fortnight, now, since Henry’s last letter. He wished that Henry would write oftener. He told himself that one of Henry’s impulsive, buoyant letters would furnish the only efficacious antidote to Mirabelle. And he 38 needed an antidote, and a powerful one, for during the past two weeks Mirabelle had been surpassing herself. That is, if one can surpass a superlative.

Judge Barklay, of course, had taken the revelation like a man. Like a philosopher. He was fond of Henry personally; he had objected to him purely for the obvious reasons. He agreed, however, with Mr. Starkweather––marriage might awaken Henry to complete responsibility. Indeed he had Mr. Starkweather’s guaranty of it. To be sure a secret marriage was somewhat sensational, somewhat indecorous––

“Humph!” Mirabelle had interrupted. “I don’t know who’s insulted most––you or us. Still I suppose you’ve got one consolation––and that’s if two young fools marry each other instead of somebody else it only leaves just the two of ’em to repent at leisure instead of four.”

Mr. Starkweather recalled, with chagrin, his own and the Judge’s futile attempts at tact. Mirabelle was tact-proof; you might as well try subtle diplomacy on a locomotive. He took 39 another deep breath, and gazed abstractedly out over the roof-tops. He wished that Henry would write. Henry had his defects, but the house was not quite livable without him. Mr. Starkweather was swept by an emotion which took him wholly by surprise and almost overcame him; he sat up, and began to wonder where he could find some occupation which would chink up the crevices in his thoughts, and prevent him from introspection. Eventually he hit upon it, and with a conscious effort, he pulled himself out of his chair, and went over to Masonic Hall to meet his sister Mirabelle.

She had been attending a conference of the Ethical Reform League, and as Mr. Starkweather’s car drew in to the curb, the reformers were just emerging to the sidewalk. He surveyed them, disparagingly. First, there was a vanguard of middle-aged women, remarkably short of waist and long of skirt, who looked as though they had stepped directly from the files of Godey’s Lady’s Book; he recognized a few of them, and judged the others accordingly––these were the militants, the infantry, who bore the brunt of the fighting. Next, there was a 40 group of younger women, and of young men––the men, almost without exception, wore spectacles and white washable ties. These were the skirmishers and the reserves. At one side, there was a little delegation in frock-coats and silk hats, and as Mr. Starkweather beheld them, he lifted his eyebrows; some of those older men he hadn’t seen in public for a dozen years––he had forgotten that they were alive. But the majority of them were retired or retiring capitalists; men who in their day, had managed important interests, and even now controlled them. Mr. Starkweather reflected that life must have become very insipid to them; and he further reflected that their place in this organization must be as shock-troops. They would seldom go into action, but when they did, they had the power of consequence to give them an added momentum.

His sister caught sight of him, and waved her hand in greeting; and this astonished him all the more, because since Henry’s departure, she had behaved towards him as though his character needed a bath.

Mr. Starkweather made room for her. 41 “Thought I’d give you a lift back to the house,” he said.

There was an unusual colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant. “John, do you know what I am?”

Mr. Starkweather didn’t dare to hesitate. “No. What?”

“I’m the––president,” she said, and her voice was trembling with pride and bewilderment.

“President? Of the League?”

Transfigured, she nodded again and again. “The nominating committee reported this morning. I’m the only candidate....” She stared at him and stiffened. “Of course, I know you aren’t interested in anything helpful or progressive, so I don’t expect to be congratulated. Of course not.”

Mr. Starkweather made a dutiful struggle to be joyous about it, and succeeded only in producing a feeble smirk. “I’ll say one thing––you’ve got some money represented in that crowd. Those old codgers. I didn’t realize it.... Well, what’s your program?”

She unbent a little, and began to recite her platform, and as she skipped from plank to 42 plank, her own enthusiasm was multiplied, and Mr. Starkweather was correspondingly encased in gloom. As a mere active member of the League, a private in the ranks, Mirabelle had made his house no more cheerful as a mausoleum; and when he considered what she might accomplish as a president, in charge of a sweeping blue-law campaign, his imagination refused to take the hurdle.

Fortunately, he wasn’t expected to say anything. His sister was making a speech. She didn’t stop when the car stopped, nor when Mr. Starkweather climbed down stiffly, and held open the door for her, nor even when they had reached the portico of the big brick house. He told himself, dumbly, that if the world would ever listen to Mirabelle, it would certainly reform. Not necessarily in contrition, but in self-defence.

And yet when he sat opposite her, at lunch, his expression was as calm and untroubled as though she had fashioned for him an ideal existence. He was seeing a vision of Mirabelle as a soap-box orator; he was seeing humorous stories about her in the newspapers; he was 43 shuddering at all the publicity which he knew would be her portion, and yet he could smile across the table at her, and speak in his normal voice. Physically, he was distressed and joyless, but he found it easier to rise above his body than above his mind. His smile was a tribute to a dual heroism.

“Got a little present for you,” said Mr. Starkweather, suddenly. He tossed a slip of paper to her, and watched her as she examined it. “There’s a string to it, though––I want you to hold it awhile.”

She looked up, sceptically. “Suppose it’s good?”

“Oh, it’s perfectly good. Mix is all right. Only I don’t want you to press him for awhile. Not for three, four months, anyhow.” He pushed away his dessert, untasted. “You know why I’m givin’ you these little dibs and dabs every now and then, don’t you? So if anything ever happens to me, all of a sudden, you’ll have somethin’ to draw on. Let’s see, I’ve put about forty in the little trust fund I been buildin’ up for you, and given you twelve––” He broke off abruptly; his own 44 symptoms puzzled him. As though somebody had tried to throttle him.

His sister had already been sitting bolt upright, but now she achieved an even greater rigidity. “Did you take my advice about your will? I don’t suppose you did.”

“I made some changes in it this morning,” said Mr. Starkweather, uncomfortably.

“Did you do what I told you to––about Henry?”

He was struggling to keep a grip on himself. “Well, no––not exactly.”

“Oh, you didn’t?” she said tartly. “Well, what did you do?”

“Mirabelle,” said her brother, “don’t you think that’s––just a little mite personal?”

“Well––I should hope so. I meant it to be. After the way Henry’s acted, he don’t deserve one bit of sympathy, or one dollar from anybody. And if I’ve got anything to say, he won’t get it, either.”

Mr. Starkweather’s round, fat face, wore an expression which his sister hadn’t seen before. He stood up, and held the back of his chair for support. “Mirabelle, you haven’t got a word 45 to say about it. I’ve made some changes in my will, but it’s nobody’s damned business outside of mine.”

She reached for her handkerchief. “John! To think that you’d swear––at me––”

He wet his lips. “I didn’t swear at you, but it’s a holy wonder I don’t. I’ve stood this just about as long as I’m goin’ to. Henry’s my own flesh and blood. And furthermore he wouldn’t waste my money a minute quicker’n you would. He’d do a damn sight better with it. He’d have a good time with it, and make everybody in the neighbourhood happy, and you’d burn it up in one of your confounded reform clubs. Well, all I’ve got’s a sister and a nephew, so I guess the money’s goin’ to be wasted anyhow. But one way’s as good’s another, and Henry’s goin’ to get a fair break, and don’t you forget it.” He took a glass of water from the table, and spilled half of it. “Don’t you forget it.”

At last, she had perception. “John, you don’t know what you’re saying! What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

He was swallowing repeatedly. “Yes, I am. Sick of the whole thing.” His eyes, and the 46 hue of his cheeks, genuinely alarmed her; she went to him, but he avoided her. “No, I don’t want anything except to be let alone.... Is the car out there?”

“But John––listen to me––”

He waved her off. “I listened to you the day Henry came home, Mirabelle. That’s enough to last me quite some time. I ain’t forgot a word you said––not a word. Where’s my hat?” He rushed past her, and out of the house, and left her gaping after him.

Half an hour later, young Mr. Standish telephoned to her.

“Miss Starkweather?... Your brother isn’t feeling any too well, and I’ve just sent him home. He looks to me as if he’s in pretty bad shape. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to have your doctor there, seems to me.”

She had the doctor there, and before the night was over, there was another doctor in consultation. There were also two nurses. And to both doctors, both nurses and Mirabelle, Mr. Starkweather, who knew his destiny, whispered the same message at intervals of fifteen minutes. “Don’t have Henry come back––don’t have 47 Henry come back––no sense his comin’ back ’till August. Tell him I said so. Tell him I want him to stay over there––’till August.”

And then, in the cool, fresh morning, Mr. Starkweather, who hadn’t stirred a muscle for several hours, suddenly tried to sit up.

“Postman!” said Mr. Starkweather, with much difficulty.

He was waiting for a letter from Henry, and when they put it into his hands, he smiled and was content. He hadn’t the strength to open it, and he wouldn’t let anyone else touch it; he was satisfied to know that Henry had written. And after that, there was nothing worth waiting for.