Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

Kitty poled on. It was dreamily, lazily glorious. Trees crowded down to the edge of the narrow stream, breaking now and again to show gleams of still water where arms of the river invaded the front line of the land’s defenses. There was sunshine striking down through the trees in shafts of light like the sun’s rays in a great cathedral. Flies danced across the shimmering surface of the water, and only little splashings and wood sounds disturbed the quietness.

“This,” said Jim, “is the life. Why fellows want to slave in offices and factories long after their youth is spent, amassing millions, I never can tell. There can only be a negative satisfaction in dying in harness and knowing that your decease will be anounced on the placards and that somebody will write your obituary. The paths of fortune hunting lead only to the grave.”

Kitty looked at him quickly. “Is that poetic outlook — sufficient for the day, a loaf of bread, a bottle of beer, and thou beside me singing in the midst of the buttercups on a sunny day — or is it just a facile expression of laziness?”

“Both,” grinned Jim. “But, honestly, I believe in work when you’re young and fit for it. But I reckon there’s something wrong with a fellow who goes on like mad piling up cash — for the sake of cash and — power. That’s what it is, you know. Power.

“When a rich man dies they all tell the old, old story of how his enterprise and his initiative gave work to thousands. Probably they did. But did he go on just for the sake of giving work to thousands? Not on your sweet and gentle life, old girl. He went on because he’d got hold of power with both hands — and loved it.”

“You’re probably right; but it doesn’t destroy the fact that his initiative and whatever else you said did give work to thousands. There’s something to be said for the big capitalist, the man with the driving force and the restless get on or get out spirit.

“He possesses at least one great and admirable quality which is not always recognized by his street corner detractors, and that is a tremendous courage. But still, we can’t argue on a day like this. And neither of us is a capitalist. What made you take to secretarial work, Jim? Weren’t you born in the East?”

“Yes.” Jim dangled his hand in the water and looked away. “My father held an official position out East. He had a good salary, I believe — quite an important man in a small way. He sent me to Cambridge. I was to go in for the diplomatic service. But — he died. My mother never survived me.”

There was a short silence. Kitty was eying Jim curiously, and in her expression was something Jim, had he looked at her, would not have easily been able to read.

He added: “When my father’s affairs were cleared up, it was found that he was in a financial mess. He had put all his money into some gold business over there — Che Fiang Gold Mines, or something. It’s a concession territory. I’ve got all the script of the stock now; but it’s hardly worth the paper it’s written on.

“My father was evidently one of the prime movers in it, because he had a great many founders’ shares, and they give me a large amount of control. But I’ve often contemplated selling them. I expect the concession will be revoked and what little is left will go by the board. It’s happened out there before. His death prevented me getting into the service, and so when Bordington offered me this job I took it.”

“I shouldn’t sell,” said Kitty quietly.

Jim looked up sharply. “Why?” The monosyllable was jerked, as though her advice was unusually startling.

“Oh — I don’t know. On the principle of never say die, I suppose. I believe in hanging on, you know. But have I surprised you?”

“No” — slowly. “Only — it’s rather curious, your saying that. Of course, Bordington knows I hold this stock; and last night, when he came back from London, he asked me about it. He never mentions it in the ordinary way. Although he seemed so worried, he — perhaps I was mistaken — kind of forced himself to geniality.

“You know what I mean. You can usually read that sort of thing in a man. He spoke in a fatherly fashion — the middle-aged, successful man taking an interest in the striving lad. He said he should like a gamble in Che Fiangs, and was willing to risk a bit. He offered me eighteen pence a share for my holdings.

“The London Stock Exchange quotation is eight pence. It seems rather decent of him. He’s always been decent to me, and I take it as a kind of friendly lift. He thinks there’s a slim chance of their pulling round, but a bigger chance of their dropping, and he considers he can afford to help me out.”

Kitty nodded. “May be.” She looked slightly puzzled, and said no more.

They reached the little quay beside the meadow, just beyond the fringe of the trees, and Jim helped Kitty ashore.

“Well,” he said, as he held her hand after she had stepped on to the bank. “What about selling?”