Jimmy’s courage had fallen very low, dragging with it the last remnants of hope and ambition. Every loophole of escape from poverty seemed closed against him. For days he had tramped the streets of Vancouver, making the rounds of the wharves and mills in search of work, and had found nothing. He loathed the dreary patrol of the wet streets; he abhorred his comfortless quarters in the third-rate hotel; and the curt refusals that followed his application for a humble post were utterly disheartening. Worse than all, he felt that he had drifted very far from the girl who was constantly in his thoughts. He had almost lost hope of the salvage scheme’s succeeding, but he was pledged to his comrades, and they meant to try again if they could finance another venture with Jaques’ assistance. They must pick up a living somehow, and, if possible, save a few dollars before the time to start arrived.

One gloomy afternoon Jimmy stood outside an employment bureau among a group of shabbily dressed, dejected men, some of whom were of distinctly unprepossessing appearance. One had roughly pushed him away from the window; but he did not rouse himself to resent it. He felt listless and low-spirited, and to wait a little would pass the time. Besides, he thought he had read all the notices about men required which the agent displayed, and had offered himself for several of the posts without success. He got his turn at the window at last, and left it moodily; but when he reached the edge of the sidewalk he stopped suddenly and the blood rushed to his face. Ruth Osborne was crossing the street toward him.

Jimmy looked around desperately, but it was too late to escape; he could only hope that Miss Osborne would pass without recognizing him. He did not want her to see him among the group of shabby loungers. His own clothes were the worse for wear, and he knew that he had a broken-down appearance. The employment bureau’s sign suggested what he was doing there, and he would not have the girl know how low he had fallen. He had turned his back toward her and pulled his shabby hat low down over his eyes, when her voice reached him.

“Mr. Farquhar!”

Jimmy turned, thrilled but embarrassed, and Ruth smiled at him.

“I can’t compliment you upon your memory,” she said.

Jimmy saw that the other men were regarding them curiously. He was not surprised, for Ruth had a well-bred air and her dress indicated wealth and refinement, while his appearance was greatly against him; but it was insufferable that those fellows should speculate about her, and he moved slowly forward.

“I think my memory’s pretty good,” he answered with a steady glance.

“That makes your behavior worse, because it looks as if you meant to avoid me.”

“I’ll confess that I did; but I’m not sure that you can blame me. No doubt you saw how I was employed?”

Ruth’s eyes sparkled and there was more color than usual in her face.

“I do blame you; it’s no excuse. Did you think I was mean enough to let that prevent me from speaking to you?”

“Since you have asked the question, I can’t imagine your being mean in any way at all,” Jimmy answered boldly. “I’m afraid I was indulging in false sentiment, but perhaps that wasn’t unnatural. We all have our weaknesses.”

“That’s true; mine’s a quick temper, and you nearly made me angry. I feel slighted when people I know run away from me.”

“One wouldn’t imagine it often happens. Anyhow, I’ve pleaded guilty.”

“Then, as a punishment, you must come with me to our hotel and tell us of your voyage to the North. My father will not be back until late, but I think you’ll like my aunt.”

Jimmy looked surprised.

“You knew I was in the North?”

“Yes,” she answered, smiling. “Does that seem very strange? Perhaps you find it easy to let a pleasant acquaintance drop.”

“I found it very hard,” Jimmy said with some warmth.

Then he pulled himself up, remembering that this was not the line he ought to take. “After all,” he added, “it doesn’t follow that a friendship made on a voyage can be kept up ashore. A steamboat officer’s privileges end when he reaches land.”

“Where he seems to lose his confidence in himself. You’re either unusually modest or unfairly bitter.”

“It’s not that. I hope I’m not a fool.”

Ruth felt half impatient and half compassionate. She understood why he had made no attempt to follow up their acquaintance; but she thought he insisted too much upon the difference between their positions in the social scale.

“I suppose your father learned where I had gone?”

“No; it was Aynsley Clay who told me. My father certainly asked one of the Empress mates what had become of you, but learned only that you had left the ship. You must remember Aynsley, the yachtsman you met on the island.”

“Yes,” said Jimmy incautiously. “My partners and I worked in his mill until a week or two ago. Then we were turned out.”

“Turned out? Why? I can’t imagine Aynsley’s being a hard master.”

“He isn’t. We got on very well. I don’t believe we owe our dismissal to him.”

Ruth started. She was keen-witted and quick to jump to conclusions. Jimmy’s statement bore out certain troublesome suspicions, and she remembered that she had forced Aynsley to speak about him in Clay’s presence. Perhaps she was responsible for his misfortunes; she felt guilty.

“Then whatever you were doing in the North was not a success?” she suggested.

“It was not,” Jimmy answered with some grimness.

Ruth studied him with unobtrusive interest. It was obvious that he was not prospering, and he looked worn. This roused her compassion, though she realized that there was nothing that she could do. The man’s pride stood between them.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “You may be more fortunate another time. I suppose you have some plans for the future?”

She seemed to invite his confidence, and he saw that her interest was sincere. It was unthinkable that she should have any knowledge of the conspiracy between her father and Clay, but he could not speak to her openly. Loyalty to his friends prevented his taking such a course, because she might inadvertently mention what she had heard, and it was impossible to ask her to keep it secret from her relatives.

“They’re indefinite,” he answered. “I expect we’ll find something that will suit us by and by.”

She saw that he was on his guard, and felt hurt by his reserve, particularly as she had made several advances which he would not meet. Then, glancing down a street that led to the wharf, she saw, towering above the sheds, a steamer’s tunnel and a mast from which a white and red flag fluttered.

“That’s your old boat; she came in this morning,” she said. “I wonder whether we might go on board? After the pleasant trip we had in her, I feel that I’d like to see the ship again.”

“As you wish,” said Jimmy, with obvious hesitation.

Ruth regretted the mistake that she had made, because she thought she understood his reluctance. He looked as if he had come down in the world, and would no doubt find it painful to re-visit the boat on board of which he had been an officer.

“Perhaps there isn’t time, after all,” she said. “I told my aunt when I would be back at the hotel, and we are almost there. She will be glad to talk with you.”

Jimmy glanced at the building and stopped. Several luxuriously appointed automobiles were waiting in front of it, and a group of well-dressed people stood on the steps. He felt that he would be out of place there.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse my not coming in,” he said.

“But why? Have you anything of importance to do just now?”

“No,” said Jimmy with a smile; “unfortunately I can’t give that as a reason. I wish I could.”

“You’re not very flattering, certainly.”

“I’m sorry. What I meant was that I’d kept you rather long already, and of course one can’t intrude.”

She looked at him steadily, offering him no help in his embarrassment.

“You’re very kind,” he said with determined firmness. “But I don’t intend to take advantage of that by coming in.”

“Very well,” she acquiesced; and, giving him her hand, she let him go.

The calmness with which she had dismissed him puzzled Jimmy as he went away. He wondered whether he had offended her. He had, no doubt, behaved in an unmannerly way, but there was no other course open. Indeed, it was fortunate that he had kept his head, and she might come to see that it was consideration for her that had influenced him. Then he reflected bitterly that she might not trouble herself any further about the matter and that it would be more useful if he resumed his search for something to do.

But Ruth did trouble herself. That evening she and her father were sitting in the rotunda of the big hotel with Aynsley and Clay. The spacious hall was lavishly decorated and groups of well-dressed men and women moved up and down between the columns and sat chatting on the lounges. Some were passengers from the Empress and some leading inhabitants of the town who, as is not uncommon in the West, dined at the hotel. Outside there was obviously a fall of sleet, for the men who came in stamped their feet in the vestibule and shook wet flakes from the fur-coats they handed to a porter.

Perhaps it was the air of luxury, the company of prosperous people, and the glitter of the place, that made Ruth think of Jimmy walking the wet streets. The contrast between his lot and the comfort she enjoyed was marked, and she felt disturbed and pitiful. This, however, could not benefit Jimmy; and, although he had rather pointedly avoided any attempt to presume upon their friendship or to enlist her sympathy, she longed to offer him some practical help. She must try to find out something about his affairs, using subtlety where needed; while generally frank, she was not repelled by the idea of intriguing, so long as her object was good. It was obvious that in Clay she had a clever man to contend against; but this rather added to the fascination of the thing, and she had some confidence in her own ability.

“I met Jimmy Farquhar this afternoon,” she said abruptly, speaking to her father.

“The Empress’s mate? What is he doing in Vancouver, and why didn’t you ask him in?”

“He wouldn’t come. I gathered that he’d been having rather a hard time lately.”

The remark she had made at a venture had not been wasted. Her father’s easy manner was not assumed; it was natural, and convinced her that he was not connected with Jimmy’s misfortunes. This was a relief, but she had learned something else, for, watching Clay closely, she had seen him frown. The change in his expression was slight, but she had expected him to exercise self-control and she saw that he was displeased at the mention of Farquhar. This implied that he had a good reason for keeping his dealings with Jimmy in the dark.

“Then I must try to overcome his objections if I run across him,” said Osborne. “I liked the man.”

“The C.P.R. pick their officers carefully,” Clay remarked with a careless smile at Ruth. “Still, the fellow didn’t show much taste when he refused your invitation.”

“I really didn’t feel flattered,” Ruth said lightly, wondering whether he had imagined that he might learn something from an unguarded reply.

“I guess he’s not worth thinking much about. You wouldn’t have had to ask me twice when I was a young man, but it’s my opinion that the present generation have no blood in them.”

“I believe that’s an old idea,” Ruth laughed. “Your father may have thought the same of you.”

Clay was quick to seize the opportunity for changing the subject.

“You’re not right there,” he chuckled. “My folks were the props of a small, back-East meeting house, and did their best to pound the wildness out of me. It wasn’t their fault they didn’t succeed, but I’d inherited the stubbornness of the old Puritan strain, and the more they tried to pull me up the hotter pace I made. That’s why I’ve given Aynsley his head, and he trots along at a steady clip without trying to bolt.”

Ruth paid little attention to what he was saying. She was puzzling about Clay’s connection with Jimmy’s affairs, searching for some reason for Clay’s evident attitude. She was not sorry when he and Osborne rose and turned toward the smoking-room, for she wanted to question Aynsley.

“Why did you turn Jimmy Farquhar out of your mill?” she asked as soon as they were alone.

Aynsley was taken by surprise.

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t turn him out.”

“Then did he and his friends go of their own accord?”

“No,” said Aynsley with some awkwardness; “I can’t say that they did.”

“Then somebody must have dismissed them. Who was it?”

He could not evade the direct question, for he had none of his father’s subtlety, but he felt a jealous pang. Ruth would not have insisted on an answer unless she had an interest in one of the men. Farquhar was a good-looking fellow with taking manners; but Aynsley erred in imagining that she was concerned only about Jimmy. The girl saw that there was more in the matter and she was feeling for a clue.

“The old man came along when I was away and cut down the yard gang,” he explained. “He’s smart at handling men economically, and thought I was paying too much in wages.”

“But why did he pick out those three? Didn’t they work well?”

Aynsley felt confused; but he would not seek refuge in deceit.

“So far as I could see, they were pretty smart; but I’m not so good a judge. Anyway, he didn’t explain.”

“Then you asked him about it?”

“Yes,” Aynsley answered lamely. “Still, I couldn’t go too far. I didn’t want him to think I resented his interfering. After all, he bought me the mill.”

Ruth saw that he suspected Clay’s motive. So did she, but she did not think he could tell her anything more, and, to his relief, she changed the subject.

CHAPTER XXII – A WARNING

In the luxuriously appointed smoking-room of the hotel Clay leaned forward in the deep leather chair into which he had dropped and looked keenly at Osborne.

“Tell me how you are interested in this fellow Farquhar,” he demanded.

“I don’t know that I am much interested,” Osborne replied. “He was of some service to us during our voyage from Japan, and seemed a smart young fellow. It merely struck me that I might give him a lift up in return for one or two small favors.”

“Let him drop! Didn’t it strike you that your daughter might have her own views about him? The man’s good-looking.”

Osborne flung up his head, and his eyes narrowed.

“I can’t discuss – ”

“It has to be discussed,” Clay interrupted. “You can’t have that man at your house: he’s one of the fellows who were working at the wreck.”

“Ah! That makes a difference, of course. I suppose you have been on their trail, but you have told me nothing about it yet.”

“I had a suspicion that you didn’t want to know. You’re a fastidious fellow, you know, and I suspected that you’d rather leave a mean job of that kind to me.”

“You’re right,” Osborne admitted. “I’m sure you would handle it better than I could; but I’m curious to hear what you’ve done.”

“I’ve gone as far as seems advisable. Had the fellows fired from several jobs and made it difficult for them to get another; but it wouldn’t pay to have my agents guess what I’m after.” Clay laughed. “Farquhar and his partners are either bolder or smarter than I thought; I found them taking my own money at the Clanch Mill.”

“You meant to break them?”

“Sure! A man without money is pretty harmless; but wages are high here, and if they’d been left alone, they might have saved enough to give them a start. Now I don’t imagine the poor devils have ten dollars between them.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I don’t know yet. I thought of letting them find out the weakness of their position and then trying to buy them off; but if I’m not very careful that might give them a hold on me.”

Osborne looked thoughtful.

“I wonder whether the insurance people would consider an offer for the wreck? I wouldn’t mind putting up my share of the money.”

“It wouldn’t work,” Clay said firmly. “They’d smell a rat. I suppose you felt you’d like to give them their money back.”

“I have felt something of the kind.”

“Then why did you take the money in the first instance?”

“You ought to know. I had about two hundred dollars which you had paid me then, and I wanted to give my girl a fair start in life.”

“And now she’d be the first to feel ashamed of you if she knew.”

Osborne winced.

“What’s the good of digging up the bones of a skeleton that is better buried!” he said impatiently. “The thing to consider is the wreck. If we could buy it we could blow it up.”

“We can blow it up, anyway. That is, if we can get there before the Farquhar crowd. We have steam against their sail, and I’ve made it difficult for them to fit out their boat. Unless I find I can come to terms with the fellows, I’ll get off in the yacht as soon as the ice breaks up.”

“Your crew may talk.”

“They won’t have much to talk about; I’ll see to that. Now, I don’t know what claim insurers have on a vessel they’ve paid for and abandoned for a number of years, but I guess there’s nothing to prevent our trying to recover her cargo, so long as we account for what we get. It’s known that the yacht has been cruising in the North, and what more natural than that we should discover that a gale or a change of current had washed the wreck into shallow water after the salvage expedition gave her up? If there had been anything wrong, we’d have made some move earlier. Very well; knowing more about the vessel and her freight than anybody else, we try what we can do. If we fail, like the salvage people, nobody can blame us.”

“You’d run some risk, for all that,” Osborne said thoughtfully.

“I can’t deny it. If Farquhar and his friends were business men, I’d feel uneasy. He has cards in his hand that would beat us; but he doesn’t know how many trumps he holds. If he did know, we’d have heard from him or the underwriters before this.”

“It seems probable,” Osborne agreed. “All the same, I wish the winter was over and you could get off. It will be a relief to know that she is destroyed.”

“You’ll have to wait; but there won’t be much of her left after we get to work with the giant-powder,” Clay promised cheerfully.

They talked over the matter until it got late; and the next morning the party broke up, the Osbornes returning home and Aynsley going back to his mill. Clay, however, stayed in Vancouver and visited a doctor who was beginning to make his mark. There were medical men in Seattle who would have been glad to attend to him, but he preferred the Canadian city, where he was not so well known. He had been troubled rather often of late by sensations that puzzled him, and had decided that if he had any serious weakness it would be better to keep it to himself. Hitherto he had been noted for his mental and physical force, and recognized as a daring, unscrupulous fighter whom it was wise to conciliate, and it might prove damaging if rumors that he was not all he seemed got about.

His work was not finished and his ambitions were only half realized. Aynsley had his mother’s graces, for Clay’s wife had been a woman of some refinement who had yielded to the fascination the handsome adventurer once exercised. The boy must have wealth enough to make him a prominent figure on the Pacific Slope. Clay knew his own limitations, and was content that his son should attain a social position he could not enjoy. This was one reason why he had been more troubled about Farquhar’s salvage operations than he cared to admit. His personal reputation was, as he very well knew, not of the best, but his business exploits, so far as they were known to the public, were, after all, regarded with a certain toleration and would be forgotten. The wreck, however, was a more serious matter, and might have a damaging effect on his son’s career if the truth concerning it came out. This must be avoided at any cost. Moreover, with his business increasing, he would need all his faculties during the next few years, and the mysterious weakness he suffered from now and then dulled his brain. In consequence, he was prudently but rather unwillingly going to see a doctor.

The man examined him with a careful interest which Clay thought ominous, and after questioning him about his symptoms stood silent a few moments.

“You have lived pretty hard,” he commented.

“I have,” said Clay, “but perhaps not in the way that’s generally meant.”

The doctor nodded as he studied him. Clay’s face showed traces of indulgence, but these were not marked. The man was obviously not in the habit of exercising an ascetic control over his appetites, but he looked too hard and virile to be a confirmed sensualist. Yet, to a practised eye, he showed signs of wear.

“I mean that you haven’t been careful of yourself.”

“I hadn’t much chance of doing so until comparatively recent years,” Clay replied with a grim smile. “In my younger days, I suffered heat and thirst in the Southwest; afterwards I marched on half-rations, carrying a heavy pack, in the Alaskan snow; and I dare say I got into the habit of putting my object first.”

“Before what are generally considered the necessities of life – food and rest and sleep?”

“Something of the kind.”

“You work pretty hard now?”

“I begin when I get up; as a rule, it’s eleven o’clock at night when I finish. That’s the advantage of living in a city hotel. You can meet the people you deal with after office hours.”

“It’s a doubtful advantage,” said the doctor. “You’ll have to change all that. Have you no relaxations or amusements?”

“I haven’t time for them; my business needs too much attention. It’s because I find it tries me now and then that I’ve come here to learn what’s wrong.”

The doctor told him he had a serious derangement of the heart which might have been inherited, but had been developed by his having taxed his strength too severely.

Clay listened with a hardening face.

“What’s the cure?” he asked.

“There is none,” said the doctor quietly. “A general slackening of tension will help. You must take life easier, shorten your working hours, avoid excitement and mental concentration, and take a holiday when you can. I recommend a three months’ change with complete rest, but there will always be some risk of a seizure. Your aim must be to make it as small a risk as possible.”

“And if I go on as I’ve been doing?”

The doctor gave him a keen glance. He was a judge of character, and saw this was a determined, fearless man.

“You may live three or four years, though I’m doubtful. On the other hand, the first sharp attack you provoke may finish you.”

Clay showed no sign of dismay. He looked thoughtful rather than startled, for something had occurred to him.

“Would you recommend a voyage to a cold, bracing climate, say in the spring?”

“I’d urge it now. The sooner the better.”

“I can’t go yet. Perhaps in a month or two. In the meanwhile I suppose you’ll give me a prescription?”

The doctor went to his desk and wrote on two slips of paper which he handed to Clay. He had told him plainly what to expect, and could do no more.

“The first medicine is for regular use as directed; but you must be careful about the other,” he cautioned. “When you feel the faintness you described, take the number of drops mentioned, but on no account exceed it. The dispenser will mark the bottle.”

Clay thanked him and lighted a strong cigar as he went out, then remembered that he had been warned against excessive smoking, and hesitated, but the next moment he put the cigar back in his mouth. If the doctor’s opinions were correct, this small indulgence would not matter much. With good luck, he could bring all his schemes to fruition in the next year or two; he had no intention of dropping them. He had been warned, but he had taken risks all his life, and he had too much on hand to be prudent now. Still, it would do no harm to have the prescriptions made up. He looked around for a quiet drugstore. Nobody must suspect that his career was liable to come to a sudden termination.