A Man of Means | Page 8

flying about all night--that French ass lost his
bearings--and my suit is thin. Can you direct me to a hotel?"
"Hotel? Nonsense." Mr. Windlebird spoke in the bluff, breezy voice which at many a
stricken board-meeting had calmed frantic shareholders as if by magic. "You're coming
right into my house and up to bed this instant."
It was not till he was between the sheets with a hot-water bottle at his toes and a huge
breakfast inside him that Roland learned the name of his good Samaritan. When he did,
his first impulse was to struggle out of bed and make his escape. Geoffrey Windlebird's
was a name which he had learned, in the course of his mercantile career, to hold in
something approaching reverence as that of one of the mightiest business brains of the
age.
To have to meet so eminent a man in the capacity of invalid, a nuisance about the house,
was almost too much for Roland's shrinking nature. The kindness of the
Windlebirds--and there seemed to be nothing that they were not ready to do for
him--distressed him beyond measure. To have a really great man like Geoffrey
Windlebird sprawling genially over his bed, chatting away as if he were an ordinary
friend, was almost horrible. Such condescension was too much.
Gradually, as he became convalescent, Roland found this feeling replaced by something
more comfortable. They were such a genuine, simple, kindly couple, these Windlebirds,
that he lost awe and retained only gratitude. He loved them both. He opened his heart to
them. It was not long before he had told them the history of his career, skipping the
earlier years and beginning with the entry of wealth into his life.

"It makes you feel funny," he confided to Mr. Windlebird's sympathetic ear, "suddenly
coming into a pot of money like that. You don't seem hardly able to realize it. I don't
know what to do with it."
Mr. Windlebird smiled paternally.
"The advice of an older man who has had, if I may say so, some little experience of
finance, might be useful to you there. Perhaps if you would allow me to recommend
some sound investment----"
Roland glowed with gratitude.
"There's just one thing I'd like to do before I start putting my money into anything. It's
like this."
He briefly related the story of his unfortunate affair with Muriel Coppin. Within an hour
of his departure in the aeroplane, his conscience had begun to trouble him on this point.
He felt that he had not acted well toward Muriel. True, he was practically certain that she
didn't care a bit about him and was in love with Albert, the silent mechanic, but there was
just the chance that she was mourning over his loss; and, anyhow, his conscience was
sore.
"I'd like to give her something," he said. "How much do you think?"
Mr. Windlebird perpended.
"I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll send my own lawyer to her with--say, a thousand
pounds--not a check, you understand, but one thousand golden sovereigns that he can
show her--roll about on the table in front of her eyes. That'll console her. It's wonderful,
the effect money in the raw has on people."
"I'd rather make it two thousand," said Roland. He had never really loved Muriel, and the
idea of marrying her had been a nightmare to him; but he wanted to retreat with honor.
"Very well, make it two thousand, if you like. Tho I don't quite know how old Harrison is
going to carry all that money."
As a matter of fact, old Harrison never had to try. On thinking it over, after he had cashed
Roland's check, Mr. Windlebird came to the conclusion that seven hundred pounds would
be quite as much money as it would be good for Miss Coppin to have all at once.
Mr. Windlebird's knowledge of human nature was not at fault. Muriel jumped at the
money, and a letter in her handwriting informed Roland next morning that his slate was
clean. His gratitude to Mr. Windlebird redoubled.
"And now," said Mr. Windlebird genially, "we can talk about that money of yours, and
the best way of investing it. What you want is something which, without being in any
way what is called speculative, nevertheless returns a fair and reasonable amount of

interest. What you want is something sound, something solid, yet something with a bit of
a kick to it, something which can't go down and may go soaring like a rocket."
Roland quietly announced that was just what he did want, and lit another cigar.
"Now, look here, Bleke, my boy, as a general rule I don't give tips--But I've taken a great
fancy to you, Bleke, and I'm going to break my rule. Put your money--"