The Fighting Chance

Fighting Chance, The

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Title: The Fighting Chance
Author: Robert W. Chambers
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[Illustration: “She was standing beside the fire with Quarrier, one foot
on the fender.”]

The Fighting Chance
By Robert W. Chambers
Author of “Cardigan,” “The Maid at Arms,” “The Firing Line,” etc.

DEDICATED TO MY FATHER

CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
Acquaintance II. Imprudence III. Shotover IV. The Season Opens V. A
Winning Loser VI. Modus Vivendi VII. Persuasion VIII. Confidences
IX. Confessions X. The Seamy Side XI. The Call of the Rain XII. The

Asking Price XIII. The Selling Price XIV. The Bargain XV. The
Enemy Listens

THE FIGHTING CHANCE
CHAPTER I
ACQUAINTANCE
The speed of the train slackened; a broad tidal river flashed into sight
below the trestle, spreading away on either hand through yellowing
level meadows. And now, above the roaring undertone of the cars, from
far ahead floated back the treble bell-notes of the locomotive; there
came a gritting vibration of brakes; slowly, more slowly the cars glided
to a creaking standstill beside a sun-scorched platform gay with the
bright flutter of sunshades and summer gowns.
“Shotover! Shotover!” rang the far cry along the cars; and an absent-
minded young man in the Pullman pocketed the uncut magazine he had
been dreaming over and, picking up gun case and valise, followed a
line of fellow-passengers to the open air, where one by one they were
engulfed and lost to view amid the gay confusion on the platform.
The absent-minded young man, however, did not seem to know exactly
where he was bound for. He stood hesitating, leisurely inspecting the
flashing ranks of vehicles--depot wagons, omnibusses, and motor cars
already eddying around a dusty gravel drive centred by the
conventional railroad flower bed and fountain.
Sunshine blazed on foliage plants arranged geometrically, on scarlet
stars composed of geraniums, on thickets of tall flame-tinted cannas.
And around this triumph of landscape gardening, phaeton, Tilbury,
Mercedes, and Toledo backed, circled, tooted; gaily gowned women,
whips aslant, horses dancing, greeted expected guests; laughing young
men climbed into dog-carts and took the reins from nimble grooms;
young girls, extravagantly veiled, made room in comfortable

touring-cars for feminine guests whose extravagant veils were yet to be
unpacked; slim young men in leather trappings, caps adorned with
elaborate masks or goggles, manipulated rakish steering-gears;
preoccupied machinists were fussing with valve and radiator or were
cranking up; and, through the jolly tumult, the melancholy bell of the
locomotive sounded, and the long train moved out through the
September sunshine amid clouds of snowy steam.
And all this time the young man, gun case in one hand, suit case in the
other, looked about him in his good-humoured, leisurely manner for
anybody or any vehicle which might be waiting for him. His amiable
inspection presently brought a bustling baggage-master within range of
vision; and he spoke to this official, mentioning his host’s name.
“Lookin’ for Mr. Ferrall?” repeated the baggage-master, spinning a
trunk dexterously into rank with its fellows. “Say, one of Mr. Ferrall’s
men was here just now--there he is, over there uncrating that there bird-
dog!”
The young man’s eyes followed the direction indicated by the grimy
thumb; a red-faced groom in familiar livery was kneeling beside a
dog’s travelling crate, attempting to unlock it, while behind the bars an
excited white setter whined and thrust forth first one silky paw then the
other.
The young man watched the scene for a moment, then:
“Are you one of Mr. Ferrall’s men?” he asked in his agreeable