“And managed to loot the treasury3 of over a million in gold, they say, and got away with it all. The regular members of the Treasury Department were at the front, I suppose, with green hands in their places,” he read.
It was a great haul, indeed. Elliott glanced absently along the muddy street of the Nebraska capital, and his face hardened into an expression that was not usual. It was on the whole a good-looking face, deeply tanned, with a pleasant mouth and a small yellowish moustache that lent a boyishness to his whole countenance4, belied5 by the mesh6 of fine lines about the eyes that come only of years upon the great plains. The eyes were gray, keen, and alive with a spirit of enterprise that might go the length of recklessness; and their owner was, in fact, reflecting rather bitterly that during the past ten years all his enterprises had been too reckless, or perhaps not reckless enough. He had not had the convictions of his courage. The story of the stealings of a ring of Boer ex-officials had made him momentarily regret his own passable honesty; and it struck him that in his present strait he would not care to meet the temptation of even less than a million in gold, with a reasonable chance of getting away with it.
This subjective7 dishonesty was cut short by Margaret, who hurried down the veranda8 steps, holding up her brown riding-skirt. She surveyed the pinto with critical consideration.
“Warranted not to pitch,” Elliott remarked. “The livery-stable man said a child could ride him.”
“You’d better take him, then. I don’t want him,” retorted Margaret
“This one may be even more domestic. What in the world are you going to do with that gun?”
“Don’t let Aunt Louisa see it; she’s looking out the window,” implored10 Margaret, her eyes dancing. “I want to shoot when we get out of town. Put it in your pocket, please,—that’s against the law, you know. You’re not afraid of the law, are you?”
“I am, indeed. I’ve seen it work,” Elliott replied; but he slipped the black, serviceable revolver into his hip11 pocket, and reined12 round to follow her. She had scrambled13 into the saddle without assistance, and was already twenty yards down the street, scampering14 away at a speed unexpected from the maligned15 pinto, and she had crossed the union Pacific tracks before he overtook her. From that point it was not far to the prairie fields and the barbed-wire fences. The brown Nebraska plains rolled undulating in scallops against the clear horizon; in the rear the great State House dome9 began to disengage itself from a mass of bare branches. The road was of black, half-dried muck, the potent17 black earth of the wheat belt, without a pebble18 in it, and deep ruts showed where wagons19 had sunk hub-deep a few days before.
A fresh wind blew in their faces, coming strong and pure from the leagues and leagues of moist March prairie, full of the thrill of spring. Riding a little in the rear, Elliott watched it flutter the brown curls under Margaret’s grey felt hat, creased20 in rakish affectation of the cow-puncher’s fashion. Now that he was about to lose her, he seemed to see her all at once with new eyes, and all at once he realized how much her companionship had meant to him during these past six months in Lincoln,—a half-year that had just come to so disastrous21 an end.
Margaret Laurie lived with her aunt on T Street, and gave lessons in piano and vocal22 music at seventy-five cents an hour. Her mother had been dead so long that Elliott had never heard her mentioned; the father was a Methodist missionary23 in foreign parts. During the whole winter Elliott had seen her almost daily. They had walked together, ridden together, skated together when there was ice, and had fired off some twenty boxes of cartridges24 at pistol practice, for which diversion Margaret had a pronounced aptitude25 as well as taste. She had taught him something of good music, and he confided26 to her the vicissitudes27 of the real estate business in a city where a boom is trembling between inflation and premature28 extinction29. It had all been as stimulating30 as it had been delightful31; and part of its charm lay in the fact that there had always been the frankest camaraderie32 between them, and nothing else. Elliott wished for nothing else; he told himself that he had known enough of the love of women to value a woman’s friendship. But on this last ride together he felt as if saturated33 with failure—and it was to be the last ride.
Margaret broke in upon his meditations34. “Please give me the gun,” she commanded. “And if it’s not too much trouble, I wish you’d get one of those empty tomato-cans by the road.”
“You can’t hit it,” ventured Elliott, as he dismounted and tossed the can high in the air. The pistol banged, but the can fell untouched, and the pinto pony35 capered36 at the report.
“Better let me hold your horse for you,” Elliott commented, with a grin.
“No, thank you,” she retorted, setting her teeth. “Now,—throw it up again.”
This time, at the crack of the revolver, the can leaped a couple of feet higher, and as it poised37 she hit it again. Two more shots missed, and the pinto, becoming uncontrollable, bolted down the road, scattering38 the black earth in great flakes39. Elliott galloped41 in pursuit, but she was perfectly42 capable of reducing the animal to submission43, and she had him subjected before he overtook her.
“It’s easier than it looks,” Margaret instructed him, kindly44. “You shoot when the can poises45 to fall, when it’s really stationary46 for a second.”
“Thank you—I’ve tried it,” Elliott responded, as they rode on side by side, at the easy lope of the Western horse. The wind sang in their ears, though it was warm and sunny, and it was bringing a yellowish haze47 up the blue sky.
“‘Weh, weh, der Wind!’”
hummed Margaret, softly.
“‘Frisch weht der Wind der Heimath zu;
Mein Irisch Kind, wo weilest Du——?’”
“What a truly Western combination,—horses, Wagner, and gun-play!” remarked Elliott.
“Of course it is. Where else in the world could you find anything like it? It’s the Greek ideal—action and culture at once.”
“It may be Greek. But I know it would startle the Atlantic coast.”
“I don’t care for the Atlantic coast. Or—yes, I do. I’m going to tell you a great secret. Do you know what I’ve wanted more than anything else in life?”
“Your father must be coming home from the South Seas,” Elliott hazarded.
“Dear old father! He isn’t in the South Seas now; he’s in South Africa. No, it isn’t that. I’m going to Baltimore this fall to study music. I’ve been arguing it for weeks with Aunt Louisa. I wanted to go to New York or Boston, but she said the Boston winter would kill me, and New York was too big and dangerous. So we compromised on Baltimore.”
“Hurrah!” said Elliott, with some lack of enthusiasm. “Baltimore is a delightful town. I used to be a newspaper man there before I came West and became an adventurer. I wish I were going to anything half so good.”
“You’re not leaving Lincoln, are you?” she inquired, turning quickly to look at him.
“I’m afraid I must.”
“When are you going, and where?” she demanded, almost peremptorily48.
“I don’t exactly know. I had thought of trying mining again,” with a certain air of discouragement.
Margaret looked the other way, out across the muddy sheet of water known locally as Salt Lake, where a flock of wild ducks was fluttering aimlessly over the surface; and she said nothing.
“I suppose you know that the bottom’s dropped out of the land boom in Lincoln,” Elliott pursued. “I’ve seen it dropping for a month; in fact, there never was any real boom at all. Anyhow, the real estate office of Wingate Elliott, Desirable City Property Bought and Sold, closed up yesterday.”
“You don’t mean that you have—”
She began to laugh, and then stopped, looking at him half-incredulously.
“You don’t appear to mind it much, at least.”
“No? Well, you see it’s happened so often before that I’m used to it. Good Lord! it seems to me that I’ve left a trail of ineffectual dollars all over the West!”
“You do mind it—a great deal!” exclaimed Margaret, impulsively50 putting a hand upon his bridle51. “Please tell me all about it. We’re good friends—the very best, aren’t we?—but you’ve told me hardly anything about your life.”
“There’s nothing interesting about it; nothing but looking for easy money and not finding it,” replied Elliott. He was scrutinizing52 the sky ahead. “Don’t you think we had better turn back? Look at those clouds.”
The firmament53 had darkened to the zenith with a livid purple tinge54 low in the west, and the wind was blowing in jerky, powerful gusts55. A growl56 of thunder rumbled57 overhead.
“It’s too early for a twister, and I don’t mind rain. I’ve nothing on that will spoil,” said Margaret, almost abstractedly. She had scarcely spoken when there was a sharp patter, and then a blast of drops driven by the wind. A vivid flash split the clouds, and with the instantaneous thunder the patter of the rain changed to a rattle58, and the black road whitened with hail. The horses plunged59 as the hard pellets rebounded60 from hide and saddle.
“We must get shelter. The beasts won’t stand this,” cried Elliott, reining61 round. The lumps of ice drove in cutting gusts, and the frightened horses broke into a gallop40 toward the city. For a few moments the storm slackened; then a second explosion of thunder seemed to bring a second fusilade, driving almost horizontally under the violent wind, stinging like shot.
Across an unfenced strip of pasture Elliott’s eye fell upon the Salt Lake spur of the union Pacific tracks, where a mile of rails is used for the storage of empty freight-cars. He pulled his horse round and galloped across the intervening space, with Margaret at his heels, and in half a minute they had reached the lee of the line of cars, where there was shelter. He hooked the bridles62 over the iron handle of a box-car door that stood open, and scrambled into the car, swinging Margaret from her saddle to the doorway63.
It was a perfect refuge. The storm rattled64 like buckshot on the roof and swept in cloudy pillars across the Salt Lake, where the wild ducks flew to and fro, quacking65 from sheer joy, but the car was clean and dry, slightly dusted with flour. They sat down in the door with their feet dangling66 out beside the horses, that shivered and stamped at the stroke of chance pellets of hail.
“This is splendid!” said Margaret, looking curiously67 about the planked interior of the car. “Why do you want to leave Lincoln?” she went on in a lower tone, after a pause.
“I don’t want to leave Lincoln.”
“But you said just now—”
“It seems to me, by Jove, that I’ve done nothing but leave places ever since I came West!” Elliott exclaimed, impatiently. “That was ten years ago. I came out from Baltimore, you know. I was born there, and I learned newspaper work on the Despatch68 there, and then I came West and got a job on the Denver Telegraph.”
“At a high salary, I suppose.”
“So high that it seemed a sort of gold mine, after Eastern rates. But it didn’t last. The paper was sold and remodelled69 inside a year, and most of the reporters fired. I couldn’t find another newspaper job just then, so I went out with a survey party in Dakota for the winter and nearly froze to death, but when I got back and drew all my accumulated salary, I bought a half-interest in a gold claim in the Black Hills. Mining in the Black Hills was just beginning to boom then, and I sold my claim in a couple of months for three thousand. I made another three thousand in freighting that summer, and if I had stayed at it I might have got rich, but I came down to Omaha and lost it all playing the wheat market. I had a sure tip.”
“Six thousand dollars! That’s more money than I ever saw all at once,” Margaret commented.
“It was more money than I saw for some time after that; but that’s a fair specimen70 of the way I did things. Once I walked into Seattle broke, and came out with four thousand dollars. I cleaned up nearly twenty thousand once on real estate in San Francisco. Afterwards I went down to Colorado, mining. I could almost have bought up the whole Cripple Creek71 district when I got there, if I had had savvy72 enough, but I let the chance slip, and when I did go to speculating my capital went off like smoke. The end of it was that I had to go into the mines and swing a pick myself.”
“You were game, it seems, anyway,” said Margaret, who was listening with absorbed interest. The sky was clearing a little, and the hail had ceased, but the rain still swept in gusty73 clouds over the brown prairie.
“I had to be. It did me good, and I got four dollars a day, and in six months I was working a claim of my own. By this time I thought I was wise, and I sold it as soon as I found a sucker. I got ten thousand for it, and I heard afterwards that he took fifty thousand out of it.”
“What a fraud!” cried Margaret, indignantly.
“Anyhow, I bought a little newspaper in a Kansas town that was just drawing its breath for a boom. I worked for it till I almost got to believe in that town myself. At one time my profits in corner lots and things—on paper, you know—were up in the hundreds of thousands. In the end, I had to sell for less than one thousand, and then I came to Lincoln and worked for the paper here. That was two years ago, when I first met you. Do you remember?”
“I remember. You only stayed about four months. What did you do then?”
“Yes, it seemed too slow here, too far east. I went back to North Dakota, mining and country journalism74. I did pretty well too, but for the life of me I don’t know what became of the money. After that I did—oh, everything. I rode a line on a ranch16 in Wyoming; I worked in a sawmill in Oregon; I made money in some places and lost it in others. Eight months ago I had a nice little pile, and I heard that there was a big opening in real estate here in Lincoln, so I came.”
“And wasn’t there an opening?”
“There must have been. It swallowed up all my little pile without any perceptible effect, all but eighty-two dollars.”
“And now—?”
“And now—I don’t know. I was reading a letter just now from a man I know in South Africa telling of a theft of a million in gold from the Pretoria treasury during the confusion of the war. Do you know, I half-envied those thieves; I did, honour bright. A quick million is what I’ve always been chasing, and I’d almost steal it if I got the chance.”
“You wouldn’t do any thing of the sort. I know you better than that. You’re going to do something sensible and strong and brave. What is it to be?”
“But I don’t know,” cried Elliott. “There are heaps of things that I can do, but I tell you I feel sick of the whole game. I feel as if I’d been wasting time and money and everything.”
“So you have, dear boy, so you have,” agreed Margaret. “And now, if you’d let me advise you, I’d tell you to find out what you like best and what you can do best, and settle down to that. You’ve had no definite purpose at all.”
“I have. It was always a quick fortune,” Elliott remonstrated75. “I’ve got it yet. There are plenty of chances in the West for a man to make a million with less capital than I’ve got now. This isn’t a country of small change.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve heard men talk like that,” said Margaret, more thoughtfully. “But it seems to me that you’ve been doing nothing but gamble all your life, hoping for a big haul. Of course, I’ve no right to advise you. Nebraska is all I know of the world, but I don’t like to think of you going back to the ‘game,’ as you call it. Do you know that it hurts me to think of you making money and losing it again, year after year, and neglecting all your real chances? Too many men have done that. A few of them won, but nobody knows where most of them died. There are such chances to do good in the world, to be happy ourselves and make others happy, and when I think of a man like my father—”
“You wouldn’t want me to go to Fiji as a missionary?” Elliott interrupted. He was shy on the subject of her father, whom Margaret had seen scarcely a dozen times since she could remember, but who was her constant ideal of heroism76, energy, and virtue77.
“Of course not. But don’t you like newspaper work?”
“I like it very much.”
“And isn’t it a good profession?”
“Very fair, if one works like a slave. That is, I might reach a salary of five thousand dollars a year. The best way is to buy out a small country daily and build it up as the town grows. There’s money in that sometimes.”
“Why not do it, then? It’s not for the sake of the money. I hate money; I’ve never had any. But I don’t believe any one can be really happy after he’s twenty-five without a definite purpose and a kind of settled life. Some day you’ll want to marry—”
“Don’t say that. I’ve been a free lance too long!” cried Elliott.
“I’ve always been afraid of matrimony, too,” said Margaret, with a quick flush. “I want my own life, all my own.”
“But what you say is right, dead right,” said Elliott, after a reflective pause that lasted for several minutes. “It’s just what my own conscience has been telling me.” He stopped to meditate78 again.
“I’ll tell you what I think I’ll do,” he proceeded, at last. “I’ll go over to Omaha and look for a job on one of the dailies there. I expect I can get it, and it’ll give me time to think over my plans.
“You’re not going East till fall, and I can run across here often, so that I’ll be able to see you. I may go East this fall myself. You’ve just crystallized what I’ve been thinking. I will do something to surprise you, and I’ll make a fortune with it. Will you shake hands on it?”
She pulled off the riding-gauntlet and put out her hand, meeting his eyes squarely. The deep flush still lingered in her cheeks.
“We are good friends,” he exclaimed, feeling a desire to say something, he scarcely knew what.
“The very best!” said Margaret, looking bright-eyed at him. “I hope we always will be. Come,” she cried, pulling her hand away. “The storm’s over. Let’s go back.”
The rain had made the road very sticky, and they rode slowly side by side, while Margaret chattered79 vivaciously80 of her own future, of her music, of the coming winter in the East. She was full of plans, and Elliott sunk his own perplexities to share in her enthusiasm. He was himself imbued81 with the cheerfulness that comes of good resolutions, whose difficulties are yet untried.
“When are you going to Omaha?” she asked him, as he left her at the gate.
“In a couple of days. I’ll see you, of course, before I go.”
He packed his two trunks that night. He did not see her again, however, for she happened to be out when he called to make his farewell. He was unreasonably82 annoyed at this disappointment, and thought of delaying his departure another day, but he was afraid that she would consider it weak. Anyhow, he expected to be back in Lincoln within a fortnight, and he left that night for Omaha.
The next couple of days he spent in a round of visits to the offices of the various Omaha newspapers. He found every staff filled to its capacity. There was a prospect83 of a vacancy84 in about a month, but it was too long to wait, and, happening to hear that the St. Joseph Post was looking for a new city editor, he went thither85 with a letter of introduction from the manager of the Omaha Bee.
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1
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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maligned
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| vt.污蔑，诽谤（malign的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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camaraderie
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| n.同志之爱，友情 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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capered
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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poises
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| 使平衡( poise的第三人称单数 )； 保持（某种姿势）； 抓紧； 使稳定 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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busted
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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rebounded
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| 弹回( rebound的过去式和过去分词 )； 反弹； 产生反作用； 未能奏效 | |
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reining
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的现在分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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bridles
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| 约束( bridle的名词复数 )； 限动器； 马笼头； 系带 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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quacking
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| v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的现在分词 ) | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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remodelled
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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savvy
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| v.知道，了解；n.理解能力，机智，悟性；adj.有见识的，懂实际知识的，通情达理的 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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75
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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vivaciously
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| adv.快活地；活泼地；愉快地 | |
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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84
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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85
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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