Captains Courageous - Rudyard Kipling (the rosie project .TXT) 📗

Whatever his private sorrows may be, a multimillionaire, like any other workingman, should keep abreast of his business. Harvey Cheyne, senior, had gone East late in June to meet a woman broken down, half mad, who dreamed day and night of her son drowning in the gray seas. He had surrounded her with doctors, trained nurses, massage-women, and even faith-cure companions, but they were useless. Mrs. Cheyne lay still and moaned, or talked of her boy by the hour together to any one who would listen. Hope she had none, and who could offer it? All she needed was assurance that drowning did not hurt; and her husband watched to guard lest she should make the experiment. Of his own sorrow he spoke little—hardly realized the depth of it till he caught himself asking the calendar on his writing-desk, “What’s the use of going on?”

There had always lain a pleasant notion at the back of his head that, some day, when he had rounded off everything and the boy had left college, he would take his son to his heart and lead him into his possessions. Then that boy, he argued, as busy fathers do, would instantly become his companion, partner, and ally, and there would follow splendid years of great works carried out together—the old head backing the young fire. Now his boy was dead—lost at sea, as it might have been a Swede sailor from one of Cheyne’s big teaships; the wife dying, or worse; he himself was trodden down by platoons of women and doctors and maids and attendants; worried almost beyond endurance by the shift and change of her poor restless whims; hopeless, with no heart to meet his many enemies.

He had taken the wife to his raw new palace in San Diego, where she and her people occupied a wing of great price, and Cheyne, in a veranda-room, between a secretary and a typewriter, who was also a telegraphist, toiled along wearily from day to day. There was a war of rates among four Western railroads in which he was supposed to be interested; a devastating strike had developed in his lumber camps in Oregon, and the legislature of the State of California, which has no love for its makers, was preparing open war against him.

Ordinarily he would have accepted battle ere it was offered, and have waged a pleasant and unscrupulous campaign. But now he sat limply, his soft black hat pushed forward on to his nose, his big body shrunk inside his loose clothes, staring at his boots or the Chinese junks in the bay, and assenting absently to the secretary’s questions as he opened the Saturday mail.

Cheyne was wondering how much it would cost to drop everything and pull out. He carried huge insurances, could buy himself royal annuities, and between one of his places in Colorado and a little society (that would do the wife good), say in Washington and the South Carolina islands, a man might forget plans that had come to nothing. On the other hand—

The click of the typewriter stopped; the girl was looking at the secretary, who had turned white.

He passed Cheyne a telegram repeated from San Francisco:

Picked up by fishing schooner ‘We’re Here’ having fallen off boat great times on Banks fishing all well waiting Gloucester Mass care Disko Troop for money or orders wire what shall do and how is Mama Harvey N. Cheyne.

The father let it fall, laid his head down on the roller-top of the shut desk, and breathed heavily. The secretary ran for Mrs. Cheyne’s doctor who found Cheyne pacing to and fro.

“What—what d’ you think of it? Is it possible? Is there any meaning to it? I can’t quite make it out,” he cried.

“I can,” said the doctor. “I lose seven thousand a year—that’s all.” He thought of the struggling New York practice he had dropped at Cheyne’s imperious bidding, and returned the telegram with a sigh.

“You mean you’d tell her? ‘May be a fraud?”

“What’s the motive?” said the doctor, coolly. “Detection’s too certain. It’s the boy sure enough.”

Enter a French maid, impudently, as an indispensable one who is kept on only by large wages.

“Mrs. Cheyne she say you must come at once. She think you are seek.”

The master of thirty millions bowed his head meekly and followed Suzanne; and a thin, high voice on the upper landing of the great white-wood square staircase cried: “What is it? What has happened?”

No doors could keep out the shriek that rang through the echoing house a moment later, when her husband blurted out the news.

“And that’s all right,” said the doctor, serenely, to the typewriter. “About the only medical statement in novels with any truth to it is that joy don’t kill, Miss Kinzey.”

“I know it; but we’ve a heap to do first.” Miss Kinzey was from Milwaukee, somewhat direct of speech; and as her fancy leaned towards the secretary, she divined there was work in hand. He was looking earnestly at the vast roller-map of America on the wall.

“Milsom, we’re going right across. Private car—straight through—Boston. Fix the connections,” shouted Cheyne down the staircase.

“I thought so.”

The secretary turned to the typewriter, and their eyes met (out of that was born a story—nothing to do with this story). She looked inquiringly, doubtful of his resources. He signed to her to move to the Morse as a general brings brigades into action. Then he swept his hand musician-wise through his hair, regarded the ceiling, and set to work, while Miss Kinzey’s white fingers called up the Continent of America.

“K. H. Wade, Los Angeles The ‘Constance’ is at Los Angeles, isn’t she, Miss Kinzey?”

“Yep.” Miss Kinzey nodded between clicks as the secretary looked at his watch.

“Ready? Send ‘Constance,’ private car, here, and arrange for special to leave here Sunday in time to connect with New York Limited at Sixteenth Street, Chicago, Tuesday next.”

Click-lick-lick! “Couldn’t you better that?”

“Not on those grades. That gives ‘em sixty hours from here to Chicago. They won’t gain anything by taking a special east of that. Ready? Also arrange with Lake Shore and Michigan Southern to take ‘Constance’ on New York Central and Hudson River Buffalo to Albany, and B. and A. the same Albany to Boston. Indispensable I should reach Boston Wednesday evening. Be sure nothing prevents. Have also wired Canniff, Toucey, and Barnes. —Sign, Cheyne.”

Miss Kinzey nodded, and the secretary went on.

“Now then. Canniff, Toucey, and Barnes, of course. Ready? Canniff, Chicago. Please take my private car ‘Constance’ from Santa Fe at Sixteenth Street next Tuesday p. m. on N. Y. Limited through to Buffalo and deliver N. Y. C. for Albany.—Ever bin to N’ York, Miss Kinzey? We’ll go some day.—Ready? Take car Buffalo to Albany on Limited Tuesday p. m. That’s for Toucey.”

“Haven’t bin to Noo York, but I know that!” with a toss of the head.

“Beg pardon. Now, Boston and Albany, Barnes, same instructions from Albany through to Boston. Leave three-five P. M. (you needn’t wire that); arrive nine-five P. M. Wednesday. That covers everything Wade will do, but it pays to shake up the managers.”

“It’s great,” said Miss Kinzey, with a look of admiration. This was the kind of man she understood and appreciated.

“‘Tisn’t bad,” said Milsom, modestly. “Now, any one but me would have lost thirty hours and spent a week working out the run, instead of handing him over to the Santa Fe’ straight through to Chicago.”

“But see here, about that Noo York Limited. Chauncey Depew himself couldn’t hitch his car to her,” Miss Kinzey suggested, recovering herself.

“Yes, but this isn’t Chauncey. It’s Cheyne—lightning. It goes.”

“Even so. Guess we’d better wire the boy. You’ve forgotten that, anyhow.”

“I’ll ask.”

When he returned with the father’s message bidding Harvey meet them in Boston at an appointed hour, he found Miss Kinzey laughing over the keys. Then Milsom laughed too, for the frantic clicks from Los Angeles ran: “We want to know why-why-why? General uneasiness developed and spreading.”

Ten minutes later Chicago appealed to Miss Kinzey in these words: “If crime of century is maturing please warn friends in time. We are all getting