Didactic fiction; Men -- United States -- Fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
For in the short space of time which had elapsed since his eyes first
rested upon Ruth's brother, he had entirely altered his plan. His
well-arranged arguments and explanations about the place in New York in
connection with his California scheme--all these he had abandoned;
something must be invented which would require no argument at all,
something which should attract Jared so strongly that he would of his
own accord accept it on the spot, and start northward the next morning.
"Once in New York, in our big house there, with Gen (for I shall
telegraph her to come on) and Ruth and the best doctors, perhaps the
poor chap can be persuaded to give up, and take a good long rest," he
thought.
For he had been greatly shocked by the change in Jared's appearance.
When he had last seen him, the naval officer had been gaunt; but now he
was wasted. His eyes had always been sad; but now they were deeply
sunken, with dark hollows under them and over them. "He looks _bad_,"
Chase said to himself, emphatically. "This sort of life's been too much
for him, and Gen's got a good deal to answer for!" The only ornament of
the whitewashed wall was a large photograph of the wife; her handsome
face, with its regular outlines and calm eyes, presided serenely over
the attic room of the lonely husband.
To have to contrive something new, plausible, and effective, in two
minutes' time, might have baffled most men. But Horace Chase had never
had a mind of routine, he had always been a free lance; original
conceptions and the boldest daring, accompanied by an extraordinary
personal sagacity, had formed his especial sort of genius--a genius
which had already made him, at thirty-nine, a millionaire many times
over. His invention, therefore, when he unrolled it, had an air of
perfect veracity. It had to do with a steamer, which (so he represented)
a man whom he knew had bought, in connection with what might be called,
perhaps, a branch of his own California scheme, although a branch with
which he himself had nothing whatever to do. This man needed an
experienced officer to take the steamer immediately from San Francisco
to the Sandwich Islands, and thence on a cruise to various other islands
in the South Pacific. "The payment, to a navy man like you, ought to be
pretty good. But I can't say what the exact figure will be," he went on,
warily, "because I'm not in it myself, you see. He's a good deal of a
skinflint" (here he coolly borrowed a name for the occasion, the name of
a capitalist well known in New York); "but he's sound. It's a _bona
fide_ operation; I can at least vouch for that. The steamer is
first-class, and you can pick out your own crew. There'll be a man
aboard to see to the trading part of it; all _you've_ got to do is to
sail the ship." And in his driest and most practical voice he went on
enumerating the details.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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