Flowing Gold | Page 7

of official routine. I felt sure he was a loyal American
citizen."
"Exactly. But he makes more of the incident than you do, and he gave
me my instructions. So--what can I do for you on his behalf? You have
only to ask."
Gray pondered the unexpected offer. He was still a bit shaken, for a
moment ago he had been more deeply stirred even than Haviland
suspected, and the emotional reaction had left him weak. After all the
hollow pretense of this day a genuine proffer of aid was welcome, and
the temptation to accept was strong. Herman Dietz was indeed indebted
to him, and he believed the old German- American would do anything,
lend him any amount of money, for instance, that he might ask for.
Gray wondered why he had not thought of Dietz before he came to
Texas; it would have made things much easier. But the offer had come
too late, it seemed to him; at this moment he could see no means of

profiting by it without wrecking the flimsy house of cards he had that
very day erected and exposing himself to ridicule, to obloquy as a rank
four-flusher. The scarcely dry headlines of that afternoon paper ran
before his eyes--"Famous Financier Admits Large Oil Interests Behind
Him." Probably there were other things in the body of the article that
would not harmonize with an appeal to Haviland for funds, nor sound
well to Mr. Dietz, once he learned the truth. The more Gray pondered
the matter, the more regretfully he realized that he had overplayed his
hand, as it were.
Here was a situation indeed! To be occupying the most expensive suite
in the hotel of a man who wished to lend him money, to be unable to
pay one day's rent therefore, and yet to be stopped from accepting aid.
There was a grim irony about it, for a fact. Then, too, the seed he had
sown in banking circles, and his luncheon with the mayor! Haviland
had a sense of humor; it would make a story too good to keep--the new
oil operator, the magnificent and mysterious New York financier, a
"deadhead" at the Ajax. Oh, murder!
"Well, name your poison! Isn't there something, anything we can do for
you?" Haviland repeated.
"There is, decidedly." Gray smiled his warm appreciation of the tender.
"If it is not too great a drain upon the Dietz millions, you may keep a
supply of cut flowers in my room. I'm passionately fond of roses, and I
should like to have my vases filled every morning."
"You shall dwell in a perfumed bridal bower."
Gray paused at the door to light one of those sixty-cent cigars and
between puffs observed: "Please assure Mr. Dietz that--his obligation is
squared and that I am--deeply touched. I shall revel in the scent of
those flowers."
That evening, when Calvin Gray, formally and faultlessly attired,
strolled into the Ajax dining room he was conscious of attracting no
little attention. For one thing, few of the other guests were in evening
dress, and also that article in the Post, which he had read with a

curiously detached amusement, had been of a nature to excite general
notice. The interview had jarred upon him in only one respect--viz., in
describing him as a "typical soldier of fortune." No doubt the reporter
had intended that phrase in the kindest spirit; nevertheless, it implied a
certain recklessness and instability of character that did not completely
harmonize with Gray's inchoate, undeveloped banking projects.
Bankers are wary of anything that sounds adventurous--or they pretend
to be. As a matter of fact, Gray had learned enough that very day about
Texas bankers to convince him that most of them were good, game
gamblers, and that a large part of the dividends paid by most of the
local institutions of finance were derived from oil profits. However, the
newspaper story, as a whole, was such as to give him the publicity he
desired, and he was well content with it.
Its first results were prompt in coming. Even while the head waiter was
seating him, another diner arose and approached him with a smile. Gray
recognized the fellow instantly--one of that vast army of casuals that
march through every active man's life and disappear down the avenues
of forgetfulness.
After customary greetings had been exchanged, the newcomer, Coverly
by name, explained that he had read the Post article not five minutes
before, and was delighted to learn how well the world had used Gray.
He was dining alone; with alacrity he accepted an invitation to join his
old friend, and straightway he launched himself upon the current of
reminiscence. In answer to Gray's inquiry, he confessed modestly
enough:
"Oh, I'm not in your class, old man. I'm no