“You’re in the same line that I am, I understand,” said Justin, who had been eating while the other talked.
“Why, yes, you might call it that, I guess both machines started in Connecticut. A cousin of mine owned one, he said Warford stole his idea and got it patented first—I don’t know. When he died he left me what money he had, and I took up the concern. I’ve got a Yankee side to me as well as a Southern side; sometimes I get tuckered out tryin’ to combine ’em.”
“You say that trade is looking up now?” asked Justin.
“Well, yes, it is. The public is beginning to learn the value of time as recorded by the timoscript.” His eyes twinkled. “Our machine is put together better than the Warford. I feel it my duty to say that, Mr. Alexander. It’s simpler, for one thing—there ain’t so many little cogs to catch and get out of order. No complex mechanism; a child can run it—that’s what my circulars say. I believe in advertising, same as you; I don’t object to your booming trade. The more people there are, now, who know there is a time-machine, the more there’ll be to find they’ve had a long-felt want for one, no matter what you call it. And—you shouldn’t hurry over your luncheon so, Mr. Alexander,” for Justin had thrown down his napkin and was rising.
“I’ve got to be back at the office by two,” said Justin, glancing at the clock, which showed five minutes of the hour.
“Oh, you can walk it in three minutes; but of course you’re not down to that yet. I’m glad to have met up with you, sir, and I hope to see you often. I reckon this town’s big enough for two of a kind.”
“Thank you,” said Justin, glad to escape. He had been telling himself during the conversation that he would take care to avoid Mr. Angevin L. Cater’s favorite haunt for the future, but he was surprised to find a change gradually stealing over him after he had left the man. There are some persons, distinctly agreeable at first, whose absence materializes an unexpected aversion to their further acquaintance; others, whose company one has found tedious, leave a wholesome flavor, after all, behind them. Mr. Cater appeared to be of the latter class. Justin found himself smiling with real kindness once or twice as he thought of his opposite neighbor.
But there was little time for turning aside during the afternoon—the evening as well as the morning were component parts of that golden day. The orders that came in gave a wonderful effect of luck, although they were largely the legitimate outcome of well-planned efforts. Justin thought the work of the last six months was bringing its fulfillment now, but this clear stream of accomplishment showed him the way to a mighty ocean. Power, power, power! The sense of it was in his finger-ends as he focused his mind on world-embracing schemes; with that impelling current of strength, he could have turned even failure to success, and he knew it.
The hours were all too short for transacting the business that had to be done, and for all the consultations as to ways and means. It would take some time to put these preparations on a larger scale.
Justin was ready to leave at six o’clock, with a bundle of price-lists under his arm to look over when he got home. The last mail was handed to him just as he was locking his desk.
“There is no use in my looking over these to-night, Harker,” he said. “You can get at them the first thing in the morning. I will be down even earlier than to-day. Stay—” His eye had caught sight of an envelope with the name of a well-known Chicago firm on it. He tore it open, ran his eye rapidly over the contents, and then handed it, with a gesture as of abdication, to Harker. The bookkeeper was the first to break the silence.
“I thought we were getting along pretty rapidly to-day,” he said, “but it seems that we haven’t even started. This tops all! We’ll have to get a big move on, Mr. Alexander. They’re giving us very short time.”
“Yes,” said Justin. He lingered irresolutely, and then laid down his papers with the hat which he held ready to put on, and went over to the safe. He took from it five new ten-dollar bills and tucked them into his waistcoat pocket. They sent a glow to his heart, for they were intended as a little gift to his wife; it seemed to him that this last good fortune had given him the right to make her a visible sharer in it.
As he ran up the steps of his home, he collided with a small boy who was holding a bicycle with one hand and proffering a yellow envelope through the open doorway with an outstretched arm. Lois was taking it. She and Justin read the telegram at the same moment, before it fell fluttering to the ground between them, as both hands dropped it.
“I cannot possibly go,” he said, staring at her.
“Oh, Justin! I will, then—some one must.”
“No, no, you can’t; that’s nonsense. Great heavens! for this to come at such a time!” He broke off again, staring helplessly before him. Leverich was in St. Louis, Martin at his home ill. “Why didn’t the girl start last week, as she intended?”
“Oh, the poor child—don’t blame her. The accident must have been so terrible!”
“Yes—yes, indeed.” He sat down in the hall chair, while his wife signed the telegraph-book which the boy incidentally held open for her as he chewed gum. When she finished, she saw that Justin was pouring over the time-table in an evening paper; he laid it down to say:
“If I start back for town in ten minutes I can catch the eight-thirty train south, and get home again to-morrow night or the morning after, if Theodosia is able to travel. That will only make me lose one day.” One day! He shook his head in bitter impatience.
“Oh, I hate to have you go in this way! Shall I send word to the office for you?”
“No; I’ll write some telegrams on the way in. I’ll run up-stairs and put a few things in the bag, and kiss the children good night—I hear them calling.” He put his hand in his pocket and hurriedly drew out the crisp roll of bills, and looked at them ruefully.
“I brought this money for you, Lois, but I’ll have to take it with me, I’m afraid, for I might run short.” He put his arm around her for a brief instant, in answer to her exclamation. “No, don’t get me anything to eat; I haven’t time, I tell you. I’ll get what I want later, on the train.” In the strong irritation which he was curbing he felt as if he would never want to eat again. He was in reality by nature both kind and compassionate, but the worst sting of trouble lies often in the fact that it is so inopportune.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Are we near New York?”
“Yes,” said Justin, smiling encouragement at his young companion. He stood up and took down from the rack above them Dosia’s jacket, which had been reclaimed from the wreck soaked and torn, and a boy’s cap in lieu of her missing hat.
“You had better put these on now, and then you can rest again for a little while before we have to move.”
It was unavoidable that after the enforced journey the sight of Dosia’s white face and imploring eyes should have filled him with a rush of tender compassion which completely blotted out the previous reluctance from his memory. Few men spend their time regretting past stages of thought, and he had naturally accepted her tremulous thankfulness for his solicitude.
After the long