Flowing Gold | Page 4

in at any minute."
A shadow of regret crossed the caller's face. "I'm sorry, but I've
arranged to call on the mayor, and I've no time to lose. What unit was
your son with?"
"The Ninety-eighth Field Artillery."
The shadow fled. Mr. Gray was vexed at the necessity for haste, but he
would look forward to meeting the young hero later.
"And meanwhile," Roswell, senior, said, warmly, "if we can be of
service to you, please feel free to call upon us. I dare say we'd be safe
in honoring a small check." He laughed pleasantly and clapped his
caller on the back.
A fine man, Gray decided as he paused outside the bank. And here was
another offer to cash a check--the second this morning. Good address
and an expensive tailor certainly did count: with them as capital, a man
could take a profit at any time. Gray's fingers strayed to the small
change in his trousers pocket and he turned longing eyes back toward
the bank interior. Without doubt it was a temptation, especially
inasmuch as at that moment his well- manicured right hand held in its
grasp every cent that he possessed.
This was not the first time he had been broke. On the contrary, during
his younger days he had more than once found himself in that condition
and had looked upon it as an exciting experience, as a not unpleasant
form of adventure. To be strapped in a mining camp, for instance, was
no more than a mild embarrassment. But to find oneself thirty-eight
years old, friendless and without funds in a city the size of Dallas--well,
that was more than an adventure, and it afforded a sort of excitement

that he believed he could very well do without. Dallas was no
open-handed frontier town; it was a small New York, where life is
settled, where men are suspicious, and where fortunes are slow in the
making. He wondered now if hard, fast living had robbed him of the
punch to make a new beginning; he wondered, too, if the vague plans at
the back of his mind had anything to them or if they were entirely
impracticable. Here was opportunity, definite, concrete, and spelled
with a capital O, here was a deliberate invitation to avail himself of a
short cut out of his embarrassment. A mere scratch of a pen and he
would have money enough to move on to some other Dallas, and there
gain the start he needed--enough, at least, so that he could tip his waiter
and pay cash for his Coronas. Business men are too gullible, any how;
it would be a good lesson to Roswell and Haviland. Why not--?
Calvin Gray started, he recoiled slightly, the abstracted stare was wiped
from his face, for an officer in uniform had brushed past him and
entered the bank. That damned khaki again! Those service stripes!
They were forever obtruding themselves, it seemed. Was there no place
where one could escape the hateful sight of them? His chain of thought
had been snapped, and he realized that there could be no short cut for
him. He had climbed through the ropes, taken his corner, and the gong
had rung; it was now a fight to a finish, with no quarter given. He
squared his shoulders and set out for the hotel, where he felt sure he
would find a reporter awaiting him.
CHAPTER II
The representative of the Dallas Post had anticipated some difficulty in
interviewing the elusive Calvin Gray--whoever he might be--but luck
appeared to be with him, for shortly after his arrival at the hotel the
object of his quest appeared. Mr. Gray was annoyed at being
discovered; he was, in fact, loath to acknowledge his identity. Having
just returned from an important conference with some of the leading
financiers of the city, his mind was burdened with affairs of weight,
and then, too, the mayor was expecting him--luncheon probably--hence
he was in no mood to be interviewed. Usually Mr. Gray's secretary saw
interviewers. However, now that his identity was known, he had not the

heart to be discourteous to a fellow journalist. Yes! He had once owned
a newspaper--in Alaska. Incidentally, it was the farthest-north
publication in the world.
Alaska! The reporter pricked up his ears. He managed to elicit the fact
that Mr. Gray had operated mines and built railroads there; that he had
been forced into the newspaper game merely to protect his interests
from the depredations of a gang of political grafters, and that it had
been a sensational fight while it lasted. This item was duly jotted down
in the reportorial memory.
Alaska was a hard country, quite so, but nothing like Mexico during the
revolution. Mexican sugar and mahogany, it transpired, had occupied
Mr. Gray's attention