A Man and His Money
Isham, Frederic Stewart
English
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A MAN AND HIS MONEY
_By_
FREDERIC S. ISHAM
_Author of_
Under the Rose, Half a Chance,
The Social Bucaneer, Etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
MAX J. SPERO
1912
A MAN AND HIS MONEY
CHAPTER I
THE COACH OF CONCORD
"Well? What can I do for you?"
The speaker--a scrubby little man--wheeled in the rickety office chair
to regard some one hesitating on his threshold. The tones were not
agreeable; the proprietor of the diminutive, run-down establishment,
"The St. Cecilia Music Emporium," was not, for certain well defined
reasons, in an amiable mood that morning. He had been about to reach
down for a little brown jug which reposed on the spot usually allotted
to the waste paper basket when the shadow of the new-comer fell
obtrusively, not to say offensively, upon him.
It was not a reassuring shadow; it seemed to spring from an
indeterminate personality. Mr. Kerry Mackintosh repeated his question
more bruskly; the shadow (obviously not a customer,--no one ever sought
Mr. Mackintosh's wares!) started; his face showed signs of a vacillating
purpose.
"A mistake! Beg pardon!" he murmured with exquisite politeness and began
to back out, when a somewhat brutal command on the other's part to "shut
that d---- door d---- quick, and not let any more d---- hot air out"
arrested the visitor's purpose. Instead of retreating, he advanced.
"I beg pardon, were you addressing me?" he asked. The half apologetic
look had quite vanished.
The other considered, muttered at length in an aggrieved tone something
about hot air escaping and coal six dollars a ton, and ended with: "What
do you want?"
"Work." The visitor's tone relapsed; it was now conspicuous for its want
of "success waves"; it seemed to imply a definite cognizance of
personal uselessness. He who had brightened a moment before now spoke
like an automaton. Mr. Mackintosh looked at him and his shabby garments.
He had a contempt for shabby garments--on others!
"Good day!" he said curtly.
But instead of going, the person coolly sat down. The proprietor of the
little shop glanced toward the door and half started from his chair.
Whereupon the visitor smiled; he had a charming smile in these moments
of calm equipoise, it gave one an impression of potential possibilities.
Mr. Mackintosh sank back into his chair.
"Too great a waste of energy!" he murmured, and having thus defined his
attitude, turned to a "proof" of new rag-time. This he surveyed
discontentedly; struck out a note here, jabbed in another there. The
stranger watched him at first casually. By sundry signs the caller's
fine resolution and assurance seemed slowly oozing from him; perhaps he
began to have doubts as to the correctness of his position, thus to
storm a man in his own castle, or office--even if it were such a
disreputable-appearing office!
He shifted his feet thoughtfully; a thin lock of dark hair drooped more
uncertainly over his brow; he got up. The composer dashed a blithe
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