The Short Line War | Page 6

Harvey thrust the
half-read note back into his pocket. "No time for that sort of thing this
morning," he thought. "I wonder how soon I'll be able to run down to
see her." A moment later he was walking rapidly toward the
Dartmouth.
The men he saw and nodded to glanced round at him enviously. "Case
of luck," growled somebody. That was true. Harvey was lucky; lucky
first and foremost in that Ethel Harvey was his mother. He got his
mental agility as well as his indomitable cheeriness from her. He was a
healthy, sane young fellow who found it easy to work hard, who could
loaf most enjoyably when loafing was in order, and who had the knack
of seeing the humorous side of a trying situation. He had always had
plenty of money, but that was not the reason he got more fun out of his
four years in college than any other man in his class. He "got down to
business" very quickly after his graduation, and now at the end of
another four years he was private secretary to Jim Weeks. That of
course wasn't luck. The fact that Jim had fallen in love with Ethel
Harvey thirty years before might account for his friendly interest in her
son, but it would not explain Harvey's position of trust. He knew that
he could not hold it a day except by continuing to be the most available
man for the place.
It is probable that on this morning, the contents of the pale blue note
contributed largely to his cheerfulness. It was evident that Miss Porter
liked him, and Harvey liked to be liked.
Wing's office on the sixth floor of the Dartmouth was a beautifully
furnished suite, presided over by a boy in cut-steel buttons. Wing
himself was a dapper little man, a capitalist by necessity only, for his
money had been left to him. His one ambition was to collect all the
literature in all languages on the game of chess; a game by the way
which he himself did not play. "Mr. Wing had gone out to lunch about
an hour before," said the boy in buttons. "Would Mr. West wait?"

Harvey, who knew Mr. Wing's luncheons of old, said no, but he would
call again in the afternoon. As he walked back to the elevator his eye
fell upon another office door which bore the freshly painted legend,
"Frederick McNally, Attorney-at-law."
Harvey lunched at the Cafe Lyon, which is across the street from the
main entrance to the Dartmouth. The day was warm for late September,
and he selected a seat just inside the open door. From his table he could
see people hurrying in and out of the big office building. He watched
the crowd idly as he waited for his lunch, and finally his interest shifted
to the big doors, which seemed to have something human about them,
as they maliciously tried to catch the little messenger boys who rushed
between them as they swung.
Suddenly his attention came back to the crowd, centring on a party of
four men who turned into the great entrance. Three of them he knew,
and the fact that they were together suggested startling possibilities.
They were Wing, Thompson and William C. Porter of Chicago and
Truesdale, First Vice-President of the C. & S.C. and, this was the way
Harvey thought of him, father of the Miss Katherine Porter whose
name was at the bottom of the note in the blue envelope. Thompson, a
fat, flaccid man with a colorless beard, was laboriously holding the
door open for Mr. Porter, then he preceded little Mr. Wing. The fourth
man was a stranger to Harvey.
He was starting to follow them when the waiter came up with his order.
That made him pause, and a moment's reflection convinced him that he
had better wait. He decided that if the meeting of Porter with the two M.
& T. directors were not accidental they would be likely to be in
consultation for some time, and he would gain more by inquiring for
Mr. Wing at the expiration of a half hour than by doing it now. So he
lunched at leisure and then went back to the sixth floor of the
Dartmouth.
He was met by a rebuff from Buttons. "No, Mr. Wing had not come
back yet," and again "Would Mr. West wait?" Harvey could think of
nothing better to do, so he sat down to think the matter out. He was
puzzled, for the three men were in the building, he felt sure. Then it

came to him. "Jove," he murmured, "McNally! McNally was that
fourth man." He sat back in his chair and tried to decide what to do.
Meanwhile four men sat about the square