Which is where most of us would have weakened, I expect. Not Mr.

Sturgis.

"Just a moment, Friend Ross," says he. "I suppose you know I have the P., B. & R. back of me, and it's more than likely that your neighbors have said things about us. There is some ground for prejudice too.

Our recent stock deals look rather bad from the outside. There have been other circ.u.mstances that are not in our favor. But I want to a.s.sure you that this enterprise is a genuine, honest attempt to benefit you and your community. It is my own. It is part of the general policy of the road for which I am quite willing to be held largely responsible. Why, I've had this project for a Palisades trolley road in mind ever since I came on here a poor boy, twenty-odd years ago, and took my first trip down the Hudson. This ought to be a rich, prosperous country here. It isn't. A good electric line, such as I propose to build, equipped with heavy pa.s.senger cars and running a cheap freight service, would develop this section. It would open to the public a hundred-mile trip that for scenic grandeur could be equaled nowhere in this country. Are you going to stand in the way, Mr. Ross, of an enterprise such as that?"

Yep, he was. He puffs away just as mulish as ever.

"Of course," goes on Percey, "it's nothing to you; but the one ambition of my life has been to build this road. I want to do for this district what some of our great railroad builders did for the big West. I'm not a city-bred theorist, nor a Wall Street stock manipulator. I was born in a one-story log house on a Minnesota farm, and when I was a boy we hauled our corn and potatoes thirty miles to a river steamboat. Then the railroad came through. Now my brothers sack their crops almost within sight of a grain elevator. They live in comfortable houses, send their children to good schools. So do their neighbors. The railroad has turned a wilderness into a civilized community. On a smaller scale here is a like opportunity. If you will let us have that fifty-foot strip----"

"Na, Mon, not an inch!" breaks in Ross.

How he could stick to it against that smooth line of talk I couldn't see. Why, say, it was the most convincin', heart-throbby stuff I'd ever listened to, and if it had been me I'd made Percey J. a present of the whole shootin' match.

"But see here, Mr. Ross," goes on Sturgis, "I would like to show you just what we----"

"Daddy! Daddy!" comes a pipin' hail from somewhere inside, and out dances a barefooted youngster in a faded blue and white dress. It's the little heroine of the lost nickel. For a second she gawps at us sort of scared, and almost decides to scuttle back into the house.

Then she gets another look at Percey J., smiles shy, and sticks one finger in her mouth. Percey he smiles back encouragin' and holds out a big, friendly hand. That wins her.

"Oh, Daddy!" says she, puttin' her little fist in Percey's confidential. "It's the mans what gimme the candy in the pitty box!"

As for Daddy Ross, he stares like he couldn't believe his eyes. But there's the youngster cuddled up against Percey J.'s knee and glancin'

up at him admirin'.

"Is ut so, Mon?" demands Ross husky, "Was it you give the la.s.s the sweeties?"

"Why, yes," admitted Sturgis.

"Then you shall be knowin'," goes on Ross, "that yon la.s.sie is all I have left in the world that I care a bawbee for. You've done it, Mon.

Tak' as much of the farm as you like at your own price."

Well, that's the way Percey J. Sturgis won out. A lucky stroke, eh?

Take it from me, there was more'n that in it. Hardly a word he says durin' the run back; for he's as quiet and easy when he's on top as when he's the under dog. We shakes hands friendly as he drops me uptown long after dark.

I had all night to think it over; but when I starts for Old Hickory's office next mornin' I hadn't doped out how I was goin' to put it.

"Well, what about Percey?" says he.

"He's the goods," says I.

"Couldn't scare him, eh?" says Old Hickory.

"Not if I'd been a mile high," says I. "He won't sell, either. And say, Mr. Ellins, you want to get next to Percey J. The way I look at it, this George Wesley Jones stiff ain't the man behind him; Percey is the man behind Jones."

"H-m-m-m-m!" says Old Hickory. "I knew there was someone; but I couldn't trace him. So it's Sturgis, eh? That being so, we need him with us."

"But ain't he tied up with Jones?" says I.

"Jones is a dead dog," says Old Hickory. "At least, he will be inside of a week."

That was some prophecy, eh? Read in the papers, didn't you, how G.

Wesley cables over his resignation from Baden Two Times? Couldn't stand the strain. The directors are still squabblin' over who to put in as head of the P., B. & R.; but if you want to play a straight inside tip put your money on Percey J. Uh-huh! Him and Old Hickory have been confabbin' in there over an hour now, and if he hadn't flopped to our side would Mr. Ellins be tellin' him funny stories?

Anyway, we're backin' that Palisades line now, and it's goin' through with a whoop.

Which is earnin' some int'rest on a pound of choc'lates and a smile.

What?

CHAPTER XVI

HOW WHITY GUNKED THE PLOT

I knew something or other outside of business was puttin' hectic spots in Old Hickory's disposition these last few days; but not until late yesterday did I guess it was Cousin Inez.

I expect the Ellins family wasn't any too proud of Cousin Inez, to start with; for among other things she's got a matrimonial record.

Three hubbies so far, I understand, two safe in a neat kept plot out in Los Angeles; one in the discards--and she's just been celebratin' the decree by travelin' abroad. They hadn't seen much of her for years; but durin' this New York stopover visit she seemed to be makin' up for lost time.

About four foot eight Cousin Inez was in her French heels, and fairly thick through. Maybe it was the way she dressed, but from just below her double chin she looked the same size all the way down. Tie a Bulgarian sash on a sack of bran, and you've got the model. Inez was a bear for sashes too. Another thing she was strong on was hair.

Course, the store blond part didn't quite match the sandy gray that grew underneath, and the near-auburn frontispiece was another tint still; but all that added variety and quant.i.ty--and what more could you ask?

Her bein' some pop-eyed helped you to remember Inez the second time.

About the size of hard-boiled eggs, peeled, them eyes of hers was, and most the same color. They say she's a wise old girl though,--carries on three diff'rent business propositions left by her late string of husbands, goes in deep for cla.s.sical music, and is some kind of a high priestess in the theosophy game. A bit faddy, I judged, with maybe a few bats in her belfry.

But when it comes to investin' some of her surplus funds in Corrugated preferred she has to have a good look at the books first, and makes Cousin Hickory Ellins explain some items in the annual report. Three or four times she was down to the gen'ral offices before the deal went through.

This last visit of hers was something diff'rent, though.

I took the message down to Martin, the chauffeur myself. It was a straight call on the carpet. "Tell Cousin Inez the boss wants to see her before she goes out this afternoon," says I, "and wait with the limousine until she comes."

Old Hickory was pacin' his private office, scowlin' and grouchy, as he sends the word, and it didn't take any second sight to guess he was peeved about something. I has to snicker too when Cousin Inez floats in, smilin' mushy as usual.

She wa'n't smilin' any when she drifts out half an hour later. She's some flushed behind the ears, and her complexion was a little streaked under the eyes. She holds her chin up defiant, though, and slams the bra.s.s gate behind her. She'd hardly caught the elevator before there comes a snappy call for me on the buzzer.

"Boy," says Old Hickory, glarin' at me savage, "who is this T. Virgil Bunn?"

Almost had me tongue-tied for a minute, he shoots it at me so sudden.

"Eh?" says I. "T. Virgil? Why, he's the sculptor poet."

"So I gather from this thing," says he, wavin' a thin book bound in baby blue and gold. "But what in the name of Sardanapalus and Xenophon is a sculptor poet, anyway?"

"Why, it's--it's--well, that's the way the papers always give it," says I. "Beyond that I pa.s.s."

"Humph!" grunts Old Hickory. "Then perhaps you'll tell me if this is poetry. Listen!

"'Like necklaces of diamonds hung About my lady sweet, So do we string our votive area All up and down each street.

They shine upon the young and old, The fair, the sad, the grim, the gay; Who gather here from far and near To worship in our Great White Way.'