"Detectives!"

"Yes. To check up their habits. Suppose we found a man gambling on the sly; we'd hold that over his head and--"

"Humph! I don't like it much, but in a good cause it may be justifiable."

"And leaflets and circulars and one thing and another.... But if I have to go out and get permission from a finance committee before I can let go of a dime, I can't do _any_thing. I'd have to have the money so I could use it exactly as I needed it. And if I did, I'll bet I could get support you never dreamed of. Get outside people to bring pressure on the Council." He gazed at the ceiling. "Why, with a leeway of five thousand, I'd even have the Exhibitor's a.s.sociation with us.

I'd have--"

"Think so?"

"I _know_ so."

"How?"

"Because long before I was in the League, I was in politics. When I say I know, I _know_. Of course, the a.s.sociation's help would only go to show that they see the light in respect to their own business--it wouldn't cover all the whole scope of the amendment, but even so--"

"Theodore, you know politics and I don't. But both of us know the proverb about what you catch flies with. So we'll try both methods together. You can put out the mola.s.ses, and I'll put out the vinegar; and between us, we ought to get somewhere."

"We can't fail," said Mr. Mix, sitting on needles.

Mirabelle went over to her desk, and searched the pigeon-holes. "I've been told, Theodore, by--people I consider very reliable--that in August, dear John's money will be coming to me." This was the first time that she had ever broached the delicate subject. "I always meant to use some of it for the League." She had unearthed her check book, and was writing words and figures as angular as herself. "So really,--this is on account." She came over to hand him the check, and after a slight hesitation, she stooped and pecked him on the forehead, but immediately afterwards she relapsed into her consistently, non-romantic character. "You better give me an itemized account of how you spend it, though, Theodore. You better give me one every day.

We've got to be businesslike, even if we _are_--engaged."

CHAPTER XIII

For two-thirds of a year, Henry Devereux had lived contrary to his independent taste, and to his education. He had virtually cut himself adrift from the people he liked and the pleasures he loved; his sole luxury had been his membership in the Citizens Club; and he had laboured far more diligently and with far less respite than his uncle had ever intended. He had overcome great difficulties, of which the most significant was his own set of social fetiches, and he had learned his weaknesses by exercise of his strength. He had made new friends, and brought the old ones closer to him--and this by virtue of honest plugging, and determination. He was una.s.sumingly proud of himself, and he was prouder yet of Anna; he knew that the major portion of his accomplishment--and especially that part of it which had taken place within himself--was to be put down to Anna's credit.

But the spring was coming towards them, and Henry winced to think of it. Heretofore, the message of spring, in Henry's estimation, had been a welcome to new clothes, golf, horseback parties, and out-of-door flirtations; this season, it meant to him a falling-off in the motion-picture business.

The spring was calling to him, but Henry had to discipline his ears.

His working hours were from eleven in the morning until midnight; he sat, day after day, in his constricted office, and glued his mind upon his problems. The Orpheum was still a sporting proposition to him, but even in sport, there come periods in which the last atom of nerve and will-power are barely sufficient to keep the brain in motion. Henry's nerves were f.a.gged, his muscles were twitching, the inside of his head felt curiously heavy and red-hot; the spring was calling him, but he didn't dare to listen. The spirit of his Uncle John Starkweather was waiting to see if he came to the tape with his head down, and Henry was going to finish on his nerve.

As a matter of fact, he could easily have spared an hour of two each day for exercise and recreation, but he wouldn't believe it. He wouldn't yield to Anna when she implored him to get out of doors, to freshen his mind and tame his muscles.

The atmosphere of his office almost nauseated him; the endless parade of petty details was almost unbearably irksome; the book-keeping part of it alone was soul-disintegrating; but to Henry, ambition had become a monomania, and to it he was ready to make every conceivable sacrifice, including--if necessary--his health. There were days when he told himself that he would pay a thousand dollars merely to have green turf under his feet, blue sky above, and no worries in his soul--but he wouldn't sacrifice an hour of supervision over his theatre. There were days when he felt that he would give up his chance of salvation if only he could go away with Anna, up into the wooded country, for a week's vacation--but he wouldn't sacrifice a week from the Orpheum guardianship. The spring was calling him--the golf course, the bridle-paths, the lake, the polo--but Henry had put himself in high speed forward, and there was no reverse. Then, too, he was constantly thinking of Anna, who without the daily stimulus that Henry had, was cheerfully performing the function of a domestic drudge. One of his most frequently repeated slogans was that if Anna could stick it out, he could.

While the winter favoured it, his monopoly had brought him a splendid return, but the first warm days had signalled a serious loss of patronage, and Henry couldn't successfully combat the weather. The weather was too glorious; it called away Henry's audiences, just as it tried in vain to inveigle Henry. And then the monopoly had been double-edged; it had been a good risk--and without it, he wouldn't have had the slightest chance against the requirements--but it had been _too_ perfect, too prominent. In the beginning, everybody had hailed him as a Napoleon because he had vanquished his little world of compet.i.tors; but now that his laurel was old enough to wilt, he was receiving the natural back-lash of criticism. Naturally, his personal friends were still delighted, the older men at the club were still congratulating him for foresight and ingenuity, and Mr.

Archer was still complimentary and confident: but the great ma.s.s of theatre-goers, and the ma.s.s of self-appointed arbiters of business ethics, were pointing to him as a follower of the G.o.ds of grasp and gripe. More disquieting than that, however, were the indications of a new crusade, led by Mr. Mix, and directed against the Council. The Mix amendment, which was so sweeping that it prohibited even Sunday shows for charity, would automatically checkmate Henry; and the worst of it was that money was being spent with some effectiveness. Of course, the amendment wouldn't ever be adopted _in toto_--it was too sweeping, too drastic--but even a compromise on the subject of Sunday entertainments would be fatal.

Despite the strain, he was outwardly as blithe and optimistic as usual. When Anna pleaded with him to take a vacation, he either laughed her off in his most jovial manner, or riposted that she needed a vacation far more than he did, which may have been true; when Judge Barklay attempted to reason with him, he responded with respectful humour. He had seen victory slip within his grasp, and slip out of it, so often that he was on the verge of complete demoralization, but he thought that he alone was aware of it, and because of his pride, Anna didn't disillusion him.

Nor did Bob Standish disillusion him. Standish tried to bolster him up with undergraduate slang, and to convey to Henry the fact that all the hill-folk were solidly behind him, but he knew better than to come out flat with commiseration. Then, too, Standish was conscious of a vague cloud which had come up to blur their relationship. He didn't suspect for an instant the true cause of it, which was his remark, some months ago, that he wouldn't employ in his office a friend such as Henry; but he felt it, and was keenly concerned about it. Nevertheless, his own unselfish interest never faltered, and he waited patiently, because he knew that between himself and Henry there could be no permanent misunderstanding.

Nor did Mr. Archer, Henry's firm friend and ally (insofar as Mr.

Archer could separate his personality into two separate ent.i.ties, one of which was ally, and the other was impartial trustee) disillusion him, although Mr. Archer had also eyes to see with. On the contrary, Mr. Archer put out numerous remarks which he intended as lifebuoys.

"There was a directors' meeting of the Trust and Deposit the other day, Henry, and somehow they got talking about your account. I shouldn't wonder--if you ever wanted to change your business--if they wouldn't give you the opportunity; and if they did, it wouldn't be so very long before they'd invite you on the Board."

Henry disparaged it. "What as--deputy a.s.sistant splinter?"

"You've made rather a hit with the older crowd, Henry. And even if you aren't a rich man by inheritance next August, I'm not worrying about your future."

"Neither am I. Not while I've got Anna to think up my best thoughts for me."

The lawyer nodded. "A girl in a thousand, Henry."

"That's the worst insult I ever heard! The population of the world's over two billion!"

Mr. Archer laughed, but his eyes showed approval. "It's simply something for you to keep in mind, my boy--about the bank. It's a possible career, unless you want to go on with the Orpheum. Of course, you'd have to start pretty low, at first, but you know as well as I do that n.o.body's asked to come into _that_ bank unless he's well thought of."

Henry didn't repeat this conversation to Bob Standish, because he thought it would sound too much like saying "Yah!" nor did he repeat it to his wife, because he thought it would sound too egotistical; but on the same day he collected another item of news which he unhesitatingly shared with her.

He said to Anna: "I saw something downtown that'll amuse you. Cigar store with a sign in front: Trading Stamps, Premium Coupons, and Orpheum Theatre Stubs Bought and Sold. If _that_ isn't a footprint on the sands of time I'm going to get measured for gla.s.ses."

She laughed a trifle recessively. "I'll be glad when it's all over, though. Won't you?"

Inspecting her, he realized with a little thrill of self-accusation, that Anna had worn herself out; she hadn't had a day's freedom from housework, and she had worked twice as hard as he thought necessary.

She was very tired, and she showed it; but he knew that when she wanted the year to be over, she wasn't thinking of herself, but of him. He paid her the compliment of accepting what she said, without tossing it back as though she had meant it for herself. "Well, I _told_ you I'd drag in the bearded lady and the wild man of Borneo, if I had to. What's the matter; don't you like the show business?"

"Of course, we didn't exactly go into it for _fun_."

"I seem to remember your calling it a lark, though."

"I didn't know it was going to be quite as awful as this."

"Awful?"

"You know what I mean--you're worn out, and you look _dreadfully_--and I _didn't_ know we'd have to do so much--" She fumbled for the word.

"What is it when a man stands outside, and tries to make people come in and look at the snake-charmer?"

"Ballyhoo. Would you have wanted me to stay out of it, if you'd known?"

She deliberated. "It's funny--but I don't think I would. In a way, it's been good for both of us. I'll just be glad when it's over....

What sort of house did you have?"

Henry put on his best smile. "Not too good. Fair."

"If we should fall down, after all we've done--oh, we _can't_! Henry, we just _can't_!"

"I used to know a poem," he said, "that kept asking the question 'Where are the snows of yesteryear?' Well, if I could find out, and have 'em shovelled back in the street, we'd be in a good position. But as soon as the snow melted, so did the big crowds. I'll never look a crocus in the face again. They've croaked us out of a couple of hundred a week, gross."

"If we _should_ fall down, do you know who I'd be sorry for? The managers of the other theatres. We'd just have been dogs in the manger. And every time I think about it, I don't feel nearly as smart as I did last January. Of course, I suppose it was _fair_ enough, but--"

"Fair? Oh, yes. That sort of thing'll always be fair--as long as there's any business. Queer, though, when you come to think of it.

_We_ hadn't any grudge against the other fellows; but they'd have stolen our idea, so we had to protect it. If they'd stolen our ten dollar bill, they'd have had to go to jail for it; but they could have stolen an idea worth ten _thousand_, and we'd just have had to stand back, and gibber. As long as _that's_ fair, then _we_ were fair."