the morning of the fifth of october was keen and crisp; a hint of frost lay on the grass and the air was filled with decks of light. it was a beautiful country that the “r. and q.” passed through—hills and valleys, long stretches of wood and wide sweeps of grain, and slopes where the orchards crept to the sky, the trees gold and green, and burdened with fruit.
to the directors of the “r. and q.,” looking out from their comfortable parlor cars on the trees and fields as they sped toward bayport, it seemed a land of fatness and dividends. tetlow would attend to all those trees. he had never failed them since the first day he laid his nervous, wiry hand upon the road; he had wrested the last cent from it; and the road—trees, barns, elevators—jingled into their pockets. they beamed upon the fertile land as they journeyed through, noting the signs of plenty with philanthropic eye.... there had been rumors of trouble, complaints, shortage of cars. what wonder—with branches loaded to the ground, or propped with staves, and the grain bending with its weight. they smiled at each other. they knew their man—a giant—keen-sighted and far-reaching—feared through the country up and down. when he lifted his hand, the little animals scudded to their holes, and lesser men made way for him. if the directors did not put the figure into words, they felt it—through all their comfortable being, as they slid along. simeon tetlow—great man-prosperous “r. and q.”—fortunate directors!
they felt it as they took their way to the offices of the “r. and q.” and seated themselves in the capacious chairs about the green table. tetlow was a little late—they looked inquiringly toward the door. he was not often late... sometimes hurried and driven, but never late.... was simeon tetlow late! the door opened and he came in with a little flurry, dipping subtly to left and right, in short brusque greeting, and taking his seat. they settled back in their chairs, scarcely noting the short, square young man, a little to the left, who followed in his wake.
but when simeon was seated, the young man remained standing and they took him in with careless glance.
their eyes returned to tetlow. but he motioned with a slight gesture to the young man and they looked at him again.
he stepped forward with a little smile. “president tetlow cannot speak,” he said.
they looked with startled eyes at the president of the road. he nodded reassuringly and touched his throat with his hand. he opened his lips as if to speak, but no sound came. he shook his head.
then they understood. he had lost his voice—a cold, probably, or unusual strain upon it. they nodded their sympathy to him, as if they, too, were suddenly struck dumb. he smiled acknowledgment and touched his throat and motioned to the boy.
he had stood with eyes lowered, waiting while the pantomime went on; it was the only part that he feared. he had drilled his patient carefully. but his breath came a little fast.... so many things might happen. ... then he looked up and met the directors’ gaze fixed upon him expectantly. he consulted the paper in his hand and bent to the pile that lay on the table before him.
“president tetlow wishes to present first the report as a whole.” he took up a handful of the papers. “he has had duplicate copies made for further reference.” he passed the handful of papers to the senior director at the right of the board.
it was a thrifty device—thought out in the night watches while he could not sleep... simeon had never before allowed written reports. this was unexpected convenience.
the senior member reached out his hand with a bland smile, swinging his gold eyeglasses to his nose and surveying the figures. he nodded affably.
the young man stood watching with slow look while the papers traveled down the length of the table.... it was only a guess at human nature. ... would it work? would they study the figures—or simeon tetlow’s face? there was too much written on it for them not to see if they sat there and looked at it. his eyes deepened as he watched them, waiting respectfully on their convenience. the last paper reached the hand stretched out for it and he glanced swiftly up and down the double row of faces.... every eye buried in a paper.
he drew a quick breath and began to read in clear, even tone. there was no sense of hurry in the voice, but the words passed in swift flow. he knew to a minute how long it would take and how long simeon tetlow would keep the cool, inscrutable smile.
he was listening, his head a little bent, to the even flow of words. john did not dare to think ahead or see more than one minute at a time. for two weeks his one thought had been to get through this meeting.... he had planned, the day carefully.... it was after the periods of heavy sleep that simeon was most like himself and he had wakened him from a long nap this morning, brushing his clothes and placing the papers in his hand.
“it is the fifth, sir,” he had said.
and simeon had looked at him with a bit of the old, keen smile.
“you are to meet the directors,” said john close in his ear, “you remember?” he looked at him anxiously.
simeon had nodded reassuringly. “i know. i ’m all right—i can look all right.” he had said it almost like himself.
and then john had taken him by the arm and led him to the door of the room and pushed him in. only at the door had he dared release his hold.
but he need not have feared. to the president of the “b. and q.” road, the green table—with those mighty, iron-bounded men around it—was like a challenge. he had entered the room with positive eclat; and now he sat with quiet face listening to the report, a little cynical smile edging his lips.
it was the look the directors knew well
they trusted it as they looked up from their paper.....it was the old, dividend look.
john’s eye dropped to it for a moment and his voice quickened a little. he had come to a difficult part of the report. it was delicate treading here—“equipment for the coming year: thirty-nine new engines will be needed—twelve of the big pacific type, the numbers running from 3,517 to 3,528, and ten combination fast freight and passenger engines of the 2,000 series. the other seventeen....”
he felt the hoard quiver subtly. they stirred in their places. he knew, without looking up, the inquiring glances gathering on the impassive face at the head of the table.... “the other seventeen will be switching engines and the heaviest kind of freight engines...” the voice went quietly on, but his hand had dropped ever so lightly on the shoulder beside him as he turned a page of the report. the shoulder straightened beneath the touch.
the president of the road looked up and nodded to the swift, darting glances—once—twice, the old, keen, reassuring look—intrepid and cool.
the directors turned the pages with easier fingers, but a new alertness was in the air. these were details that any one could grasp—with their implications.... “six hundred box cars—forty passenger coaches, each to cost $6,500.” the look of sleepy content was banished from the board.
but the president of the road met the glances that traveled toward him, with steady front. the figures had startled the directors, but they seemed as music in his ears. “thirty-nine engines—twelve of the big pacific type—” sang to him! he sat a little straighter, his quick nod assenting to each detail and vouching for items that might so easily have stirred a challenge.
the directors had no eyes for the young man taking the papers from tetlow’s hand, reading them one by one. he was hardly more than a voice. they did not note that the stubby hand as it reached out to take a paper from the trembling one closed upon it firmly for a minute and that the hand ceased to shake. when the next item was read, the hand lifted itself from the table with a little gesture of pride and assent. the proposed improvements and equipment would cost a round million,—but the road could stand a million dollars—and more.... the lifted hand had said this eloquently before it dropped.
the room breathed more easily, and into the voice that read the items there crept a quiet note of relief.
twenty minutes more.
ten minutes—now...
five minutes....
the president of the road swayed a little toward the table. he might be consulting the paper in his hand—it was the last one—before he handed it to the sturdy young man beside him to read.
the young man leaning toward him to take it, blotted out for a moment the thin, bent figure. when his shoulders straightened themselves again, the president of the “r. and q.” was erect in his chair, his inscrutable face turned toward the directors.
the young man read rapidly from the paper. it was a summary of items. they had the substance of it already. this only gathered it into smaller compass for them, the quiet voice seemed to assure them, as it went swiftly to the end.
“there is one point not included in the formal report that the president intended to speak to you about.” he had laid down the paper and was looking at them.
they returned the glance, finding a certain pleasure in this sturdy young man.
simeon looked up with a little, startled glance.... the hand touched his arm carelessly and rested there while the voice went on speaking.
“it had been president tetlow’s wish to ask for a leave of absence—to take effect at your pleasure—”
the arm beneath the hand stirred and simeon ’s mouth opened with an inarticulate sound.
the directors glanced at him with sympathetic, humorous smile.
the senior director was on his feet proposing a motion—three other directors, all on their feet, were seconding it—it was carried with a little informal hurst of enthusiasm.
simeon rose to his feet. it was as if he thought that he could respond.
the directors were looking at him with expectant faces.
he bowed toward them and opened his lips—and broke into a long, deep, helpless cough.
john put up his hand to the directors, smiling, and escorted him swiftly to the door....
there was a pleasant hurry of sound among the directors, a getting into light overcoats and shaking of hands, a murmur of dividends, and a rush for trains.
up in the little office simeon tetlow stood by the window. he held up his hand—groping, trembling toward the light—he looked at it, and tried to hold it still—and still looked at it—the light falling faintly through it.... “they trust me, john! they trust me! but how dare they trust me!” the shaking hand flickered its quivering, helpless dance against the light.
the young man drew it down, covering it with his own. “they trust you, sir, because you’ve never failed them,” he said quietly.
