A Man and His Money

A Man and His Money, by
Frederic Stewart Isham

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Title: A Man and His Money
Author: Frederic Stewart Isham
Release Date: December 8, 2003 [EBook #10402]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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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
flourish to the tail of a note.
"Hold on," he said. "What's your hurry?" Sarcastically.
"Didn't know I was in a hurry!" There was no attempted levity in his
tone,--he spoke rather listlessly, as one who had found the world, or its
problems, slightly wearisome. The composer-publisher now arose; a
new thought had suddenly assailed him.
"You say you are looking for work. Why did you drift in here?"
"The place looked small. Those big places have no end of applicants--"
"Shouldn't think that would phase you. With your nerve!"
The visitor flushed. "I seem to have made rather a mess of it," he
confessed. "I usually do. Good day."
"A moment!" said Mr. Mackintosh. "One of my men"--he emphasized
"one," as if their number were legion--"disappointed me this morning. I
expect he's in the lockup by this time. Have you got a voice?"
"A what?"
"Can you sing?"
"I really don't know; haven't ever tried, since"--a wonderful
retrospection in his tones--"since I was a little chap in church and wore
white robes."
"Huh!" ejaculated the proprietor of the Saint Cecilia shop. "Mama's
angel boy! That must have been a