Not until nearing the middle of September did the intense heat wavering over the hoof-marked asphalt of the streets give way to the refreshing coolness of the light breezes that preceded the infrequent and gentle rains of early autumn.

David chafed at his monotonous routine of morning walks, afternoon drives, and “Evening Transcripts.” The tang of the air, coming briskly round a corner, set his pulses throbbing with a desire “to pack his kit and trek,” anywhere, so long as it would take him away from the tunnel-like walls of brick and brownstone and the geometrical accuracy of grass-plot, curb, and sidewalk. At times this desire to flee from the questionable “advantages” of civilization to the unquestionable sanity and freedom of the forest became unendurable, especially when October’s crisp, invigorating mornings wakened him to gaze across the clustered chimney-pots to where the river rippled, bronze-cold, in the early sun.

“If it were not for Aunt Elizabeth, I’d go to-morrow,” he said, as he returned from his shower one morning, ruddy from head to foot with vigorous toweling. “By Jove, I know what I’ll do. I’ll get hold of Wallie and have it out with him. That ought to be exciting enough to satisfy me for a day or two at least. I’m getting altogether too healthy to stand this sort of life. I need room to move round in—town’s too small for me.”

As he dressed, he noticed his rifle standing in the corner. Its soiled and worn canvas case looked grim and businesslike, contrasted with its quiet-colored and orderly surroundings. As he knotted his tie carefully, he caught the reflection of the rifle in the glass. Without waiting to put on vest or coat, he strode to the corner, stripped the case from the gun, and eyed it enthusiastically. A faint smell of wood-smoke came to him. He balanced the rifle in his hands and then raised it to his shoulder abruptly, sighting at a particularly ghoulish looking chimney-pot. He cocked the Winchester, centred the bead on the unoffending chimney-pot, and without dreaming that the rifle was loaded, pulled the trigger.

The prisoned roar of the explosion of the heavy .45 stunned him for a moment. “Great Caesar! And that thing’s been loaded ever since—ever since—well, I guess I was a bit off to leave a cartridge in that gun. Heavens! I hope Aunt Bess isn’t frightened.”

But his aunt’s white face in the doorway was a silent accusation that brought him to her as shamefaced as a reprimanded schoolboy.

“Davy! Davy! what did you do?”

“I’m awfully sorry. It was stupid and foolish of me, but I couldn’t resist the temptation to sight at one of those chimney-pots—and I had no idea the rifle was loaded.”

“I didn’t know what had happened, David.”

Her tone implied more than she was aware of, as his countenance showed. He flushed and looked away from her, as the full meaning of her remark came to him.

“Don’t worry, Aunt Bess. It’s nothing like that; simply a superabundance of October air. Please go to your room. It’s drafty here.”

He finished dressing, glancing at intervals, toward the rifle, which he finally slid into the case and stood in the corner. Before going downstairs he went to the window and looked out, withdrawing his head with a boyish grin as he saw the shattered top of the chimney-pot.

“Hit it anyway,” he said, as he came down to the dining-room.

After breakfast he went out, walking briskly toward town, unconscious, as he enjoyed the keen edge of the morning, that a troubled face had watched him from the drawing-room window until the intervening houses hid him from view.

When he arrived at Bascomb’s office he found that both Wallie and his father were out. Leaving a note he betook himself to a bookstore and made several purchases, which he addressed and carried to an express office.

Then he idled along the street, gazing casually at the store windows. Finally he stopped at a display of sportsmen’s supplies and entered the shop. After an overhauling of the many-colored coats submitted to his exacting inspection, he selected a heavy fine-textured garment, fawn-colored, and with an edging of tiny blue squares. He again entered the express office, where an obliging but mystified clerk waited upon him, asking his companion at the desk if “Swickey” was a Polish name or what? David overheard the question and said quite seriously, “No, young man, it’s Andalusian for gypsy.”

On his way to Bernard, White & Bascomb’s offices, he paused frequently, engrossed with the plan he was formulating, which was to make Wallie a point-blank offer to join him, eliminate the elder Bascomb from the Northern Improvement Company, and work the proposed plant together with the capital already subscribed. “It looks like piracy, but from what Dr. Leighton tells me, old man Bascomb is on his last legs financially, and that means—well, Bessie is used to luxury; besides, Wallie’s not half bad if he would only brace up and dig in. Perhaps the old man will be glad to sit back and let Wallie go ahead when he finds that he can’t swing it himself. I’ll do it for Bess, anyway, and probably get sat upon for offering.”

“Well, here goes,” he said, as he entered the corridor of the office building. “It smells like bribery and looks like corruption, but I’ll risk it.”

As he waited for the descending elevator, Wallie Bascomb entered the street door.

“Well, Davy, but you’re looking fit and sleek enough to worry the duennas. How are you making it?”

“Making what, Walt?”

“Everything, anything, trouble, feminine anxiety—Say, Davy, I’m right glad to see you around again. You know that little Flossie faithful at the hospital wouldn’t let me see you. Doctor’s orders, you know.”

“Which one?” asked David, stepping to one side as a worried-looking individual dashed into the elevator.

“Insulting attorney,” said Bascomb, with a gesture toward the rapidly ascending car. “He has his troubles, too.—Which one? Oh, yes; the little one with the complexion and the starry orbs that make you want to say things to her. I called several times. Got used to being refused admittance to the repair shop. She was all to the lovely, though.”

David noticed Bascomb’s healthy color and remarked upon it.

“Yes. Been up among the fuzzies again. N. M. & Q. Were you going up to see the pater?”

“Don’t intend to, now I have seen you. Can you spare a little of your valuable time, Walt?”

“Sure! Glad to cut off a slice for you. How’ll you have it, hot or cold?”

“It will be—cold, I think,” replied David.

The Saturn was all but deserted, and they found a secluded corner where Bascomb, after giving an order, sank comfortably into one of the wide leather chairs.

“Sizz, Davy?” he asked, as a squat, emblazoned bottle and its accompanying siphon were placed at his elbow.

“Thank you—but it’s a trifle too early for me.”

Ross watched Bascomb as he manipulated the bottles with a practiced hand. Wallie’s genial countenance expressed such unruffled satisfaction and good-will that David found it difficult to begin. He accepted a proffered cigar, bit it tentatively, turned it in his fingers, and without lighting it, began abruptly.

“Wallie, about that asbestos—” He paused as Bascomb looked up quickly from the glass he held. “Do you know of any reason why we should continue to fight this thing out in the dark?”

Bascomb tapped the glass with his finger-nails. “Not now,” he replied coolly.

“Was there ever any good reason for it?”

Bascomb shifted his position, turning toward the window with an absent stare. “Yes, I think there was.”

“Of course, it was practically your find, or Harrigan’s,” said David; “but don’t you think your last trip to Lost Farm was playing it a trifle raw, under the circumstances?”

“Of your being in the hospital?”

“Yes.”

Bascomb colored slightly, smiled as he recalled his use of a similar expression in speaking to Ross once, and replied,—

“Governor’s orders, Davy.”

David ignored his companion’s quibble. “You said there was a reason—?”

“There was—and is.” He faced David squarely. “Maybe you have heard rumors of it, Davy, and you’re the first and last man that I’ll ever tell this to—and it’s as straight as—you are.”

“Thanks,” said David, a bit briefly.

“The pater’s dipped. Every cent he has is tied up in the N. M. & Q., and the road’s costing more to build than he figured on. Bernard, White & Bascomb are stung, and that’s all there is to it. It isn’t the first time either. The Interurban contract, two years ago, panned out bad. The pater tried to recoup on the market. You can guess the rest. His personal account wouldn’t pay my laundry bill. When I wrote to him about the asbestos on Lost Farm, he jumped at the chance to float that scheme and organized the Northern Improvement Company, on his nerve and a little business prestige. To come down to the ghastly, Davy, Northern Improvement capital has been paying our current expenses. If that deal falls through,”—Bascomb’s lips curled sarcastically,—“it’s the front page in the Yellow Horrors for us, and God knows what they’ll do to the pater. Of course I can dig up something out of the wreck, but Bessie—”

“I’m glad you told me,” interrupted David. “Now I appreciate your position—and my own. It makes it less difficult for me to go ahead with my scheme.”

“I knew you would,” replied Bascomb, misunderstanding him. “In fact, I told the pater that nothing this side of flowers and little Davy in the front carriage would stop you. So you’re going to put your deal through?”

“Yes, if I can swing it, but that depends on you and your father.”

“Correct, my jewel. Of course it’s a big thing for you. To buck the pater and his illustrious son takes nerve, doesn’t it, Davy?”

“More than that. But see here, Walt, my partnership with Avery means nothing more than a working interest. I don’t own a foot of the land. I’m here to interest capital, though. Then mine the stuff and market it. Of course I expect to make something, and I’m willing to risk what little capital I have.”

“I have told Bessie about all there is to tell,” said Bascomb, watching David’s face closely. “She said she knows you won’t give it up, even if it indirectly sends us to the bread-line.”

“That doesn’t sound just like you, Walt. Besides, I just don’t like Bessie’s name mentioned in this connection.”

“Of course not. I appreciate that, Davy, and I’ll be good.”

“Well, you needn’t be sarcastic, Walt. It’s not your most becoming style.”

“If I had anything to bet,” replied Bascomb, “I’d lay three to one you’ll win out,—marry the siren child,—suppress the Cyclops, and become one of our ‘most influential,’ etc.”

“You would probably lose. Especially on the siren child, as you call her. By the way, where’s Smoke?”

“Reasonable question, my son, but unanswerable. We parted company somewhere near Tramworth, without explanations or regrets, on Smoke’s part anyway. That dog’s cut out for a bushwhacker. Boston’s too tame for him after that ‘Indian Pete’ affair. Wonder whom he’ll massacre next? I was beginning to get a bit shy of him myself.”

“He probably felt it, and vamoosed,” said David.

“He probably felt hungry,” replied Bascomb, with an unpleasant laugh. “A man’s in a bad way when his dog won’t stick to him. Perhaps he smelt the wolf at the door of the house of Bascomb.”

“You’re drawing it pretty fine, Wallie.”

“Oh, damn the dog, and you, too.”

“See here, Walt,”—David stood up and straightened his shoulders. “I’ll take that from you, but you’d better retract about the dog. And that reminds me, now you’re stripped for action, how much did you give Harrigan for his find—the asbestos?”

“That, Mr. Claymore-and-Kilts, is none of your damned business.”

“Good!” exclaimed David. “Now, you’re more like your real self than I’ve seen you yet. The Saturn is a hospitable club. I think I’ll put up my name some day.”

“Speaking of sarcasm,” began Bascomb, but the expression of David’s face checked him. “My God, Davy, you don’t realize what it means to tell a chap what I’ve told you and get turned down as—”

“I think I do, Walt,” interrupted David. “I’m not going to insult either of us by saying I’m sorry, but if you want to come into this thing—help me organize a company independent of the N. M. & Q., you understand, I have a few friends who are willing to go in with me, and I’d like to make you one of them.”

Bascomb’s astonishment held him speechless for a moment.

“But my father!” he exclaimed.

“That’s for you to decide.”

“Hang it, you old pirate, I’d like to at that if I can get the governor to see it. I’ll put it up to him to-night. But, Great Scott, man, it’s charity!”

“Not a bit of it. It may look that way to you, but I came here with the intention of making some such proposition. Don’t you see it will mean less work for me in the end? The Northern Improvement money is as good as any. I’ll take over your father’s stock till he gets on his feet, or you can take it, and we’ll cover any deficits with my money, and no one will be the wiser. The asbestos will be a paying thing in a year or two. In the mean time we’ll manage to get along.”

“Well, for cool, canny head-work, Davy, you’ve got a Boston lawyer faded to a whisper. And for unadulterated decency you’ve got a vestal virgin—”

“Tush,” said David, as they walked toward the vestibule. “It’s one o’clock, and I promised Aunt Elizabeth I’d be home at twelve.”

That afternoon, some hours later, Bascomb was in his father’s office, where they talked over Ross’s proposition. Finally, the elder man, who had been gazing out of the window, turned in his chair and faced his son.

“All right, Walter. Go ahead. I’ll have the stock transferred. Ross will make a go of it if any one will. I didn’t expect this of him, though. It took more moral courage for him to do it than most men have. I didn’t know he thought so much of you.”

“Oh, it isn’t altogether on my account, Dad. You might know that; and as for moral courage, I think it was a pretty classy piece of Morganeering.”

“Which one?” queried the elder Bascomb, smiling.

“Does that make any difference?” asked Wallie. “But, say, Dad, you don’t think I’m a deserter, do you? My going over to the enemy seems to be about the only way out of our trouble; besides, your stock will be in my name, and really, it’s only Davy’s way of being a friend. Bess, you know—”

“Yes,” interrupted the elder man wearily, “I understand. I’ve worked for thirty years, and here I am practically accepting charity from a young fellow who wanted to marry my daughter and didn’t because I objected to his sentimental idea about going into the woods to make his mark. Well, I’ve arranged to go away—for a rest. You go ahead and do what you can.”

“What’s the matter, Dad?” Bascomb came to his father and laid his hand affectionately on his shoulder.

“The doctor says—”

“Doctor! Why, I didn’t know there was anything wrong with you that way.”

“The doctor says I need a rest,” continued the elder man. “I’m going to Florida for the winter, with Bessie. Sorry you can’t come, Wallie, but when things get straightened out—” He hesitated and glanced at his son.

“We’ll straighten ’em,” replied Wallie cheerfully. “But about that second survey?”

“That has been abandoned. It wasn’t—practical, you know.”

“Hum! Yes, I know. Well, I’m off to get Livingstone. See you at dinner, Dad.”

As the younger man waited for the elevator, he muttered, “Poor old pater—down and out completely. Well, it’s up to me to make good.”