Part 72

“It's too bad--too bad for a young fellow to turn down such an opportunity,” he sighed. “It can be done without you, Boyne, in another way. The same result will happen. But you might as well be in on it. Now let me tell you a few instances of how some of the big men in this country got their start.”

Mr. Fogg was an excellent raconteur with a vivid imagination, and it did not trouble his conscience because the narratives he imparted to this wide-eyed youth were largely apocryphal.

“You see,” he put in at the end of the first tale, “what a flying start will do for a man. Suppose that chap I've just told you about sat back and refused to jump when the road was all open to him! You don't hear anybody knocking that man nowadays, do you? And yet that's the trick he pulled to get his start.”

With a similar snapper did Mr. Fogg touch up each one of his stories of success.

“I--I didn't have any idea--I thought they managed it some other way,” murmured David Boyne.

“Your horizon has been limited; you haven't been out in the world enough to know, my son.”

“I have heard of all those men, of course. They're big men to-day.”

“You didn't think they got to be millionaires by saving the money out of clerks' salaries, did you? Of course, Boyne, I admit that in this affair you'll be up to a little sharp practice. But you're not stealing anything. Nobody can lug off steamships in a vest pocket. It's only a deal--and deals are being made every day.”

Fogg was a keen judge of his fellow-men. He knew weakness when he saw it. He could determine from a man's lower lip and the set of his nose whether that person were covetous. And he knew now what signified the flush on Boyne's cheeks and the light in his eyes. However, there was something else to reckon with.

“I will not betray Mr. Franklin's confidence in me. Positively, I will not,” said the young man. “He's sick, and that would make it worse.”

“How sick is he?”

“He is very, very ill. It was an operation, and he has had a relapse. But we hope he's coming out all right.”

“What hospital is he in?”

Boyne gave the name.

“I think I'll call up and ask when it is expected that he can see visitors,” announced Fogg, with business briskness. “I wish Franklin had been here on deck--Franklin, himself.”

“I don't believe Mr. Franklin would turn a trick of this sort,” asserted the clerk. “I'd hate to face him, after doing it myself.”

“Franklin would be able to see further into a financial deal than a young chap,” said Mr. Fogg, severely, and then he found his number and made his call. “Good heavens!” he blurted, after a question. “I am in his office. Yes, I'll tell Boyne.”

With a fine affectation of grief and surprise, he snapped the transmitter upon the hook and whirled on Boyne. His back had been toward the young man--he had spoken with hand across the receiver.

“He has just died--he's dead! Franklin has passed away.”

“I would have been notified,” gasped Boyne.

“They were just going to call you. You heard me say I'd inform you.”

“But I must call the hospital--offer my services. I must go up there.”

Mr. Fogg put out his hand and pressed the young man back into his chair. “A lulu must be played quick and the pot raked sudden,” he reflected.

“Just a moment, my son. Now you're standing on your own bottom. You won't have to explain to Mr. Franklin.”

He pointed to the clock. His stories had consumed time. The hour was ten-thirty-five.

“That annual meeting of the Vose line was called for ten of the clock to-day. Mr. Franklin was alive at that hour. He was the clerk of that corporation. What happens now will not embarrass you so far as he's concerned. Be sensible. Make a stroke for yourself. You're out of a job, anyway. Go to it, now.”

Fogg spoke sharply, imperiously. He exerted over the young man all the force of his personality.

“Five thousand dollars--protected by my interests--slipped out of sight for a few months--it's easy. Sit down there and make up your records; vote those proxies. Vote 'em, I say. This meeting was held at ten o'clock. Make up your records.”