Chapter 15: The Millionaire

He could hardly believe his good fortune. The mist of sleep and weakness was upon his eyes, hysteric laughter shook him. He rose, trembling. He saw the good-natured night-clerk in the doorway, heard him say, “I guess he’s been up against it good and hard,” and the next moment found himself sinking through an abyss of coloured lights into an unfathomable darkness. The descent lasted but for an instant; when he opened his eyes again it was to protest that there was nothing whatever the matter with him.

“Been out on the bat,” said the clerk laconically.

“Been starving,” said another voice.

And then the owner of that second voice grew clear to him—a kindly face of inimitable shrewdness, the gray hair neatly parted in the middle, the gray moustache closely trimmed, and a pair of big, dreamy eyes fixed on him in anxious consideration.

“Poor lad!—poor lad!” said Bundy. “It seems I’m just in time. I got your letter—only a week ago. I got one from home, too—trust Mrs. Bundy for telling a man what his duty is. So I hustled, and came off at once. Now tell me, you aren’t ill, are you?”

“I don’t think so,” said Arthur weakly.

“Case of the last dollar, eh? Well, we’ll soon mend that. When you’ve put yourself outside a sirloin steak ... here, Mr. Squire, send Charlie up at once ... I’ll breakfast here—it’s my old room ... Now, hurry!” He bustled round in a furious heat of action, flung his fur-coat from him, talking all the while. “Omelette, steak, and special coffee—that’ll do for a beginning, Charlie; ... and see here, Mr. Squire”—this to the clerk—”my friend is a distinguished Englishman, and don’t you forget it.”

“Of course,” said the clerk. “I knew he was a friend of yours, or I wouldn’t have done what I did for him.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Squire. But you’d better forget what you said about going out on the bat—he’s not that kind. Now, are we ready?”

And with the suddenness of a transformation scene in a pantomime, Arthur found himself seated at a laden table, the meats steaming on the dish, the coffee bubbling in the percolator, the very air fragrant with provocation to his appetite. No wonder men stole for food, he thought; his very nostrils quivered with the lust of meat. The blood sang within his veins as the first drop of liquid warmth thrilled his palate, and his flesh seemed sweeter to him, his whole house of man renewed. Until that hour he had not known how hardly he had used his body, how great the violence he had offered it. Now he entered into the repossession of his own flesh; this was the moment of his reconciliation, and this the sacramental food of a physical atonement.

“And now,” said Bundy, when the meal was finished, “tell me all about yourself.”

Arthur told his story from the beginning, Bundy meanwhile smoking and watching him with a curious flicker of suppressed humour in his eye. It was a little disconcerting to be so watched; it set Arthur wondering what Bundy really thought of him, and at last he broke out with the remark, “I’m afraid you think me something of a fool, Mr. Bundy?”

“Well, I won’t pretend to say that I would have done all that you’ve done,” Bundy answered. “I don’t quite get your view-point, especially in what you say about your father. But there’s one thing in which I see you have been wise—you’ve left England, and that was the wisest thing you ever did.”

“I’ve sometimes thought it the most foolish.”

“Ah! because you’ve had a hard time. But that’s nothing. I’ve been stony-broke myself a dozen times, and I’ve lived to think that these were the moments when I enjoyed my life the most. The great point is, you’ve shown yourself capable of an adventure. That’s the spirit I like to see, and I like you the better for it. Now, my boy, I’d recommend you to get a good sleep. I’ve a pile of business to attend to. Later on we’ll talk over your affairs, and I’ll have something definite to say to you.”

Great is the power of wealth, greater still, perhaps, the power of reputed wealth and the willingness to distribute it. At the waving of Bundy’s magic wand Arthur had become at once a person of consideration; he was the tenant of an admirable suite of rooms, waited on by obsequious bell-boys, remarked by admiring chamber-maids, even sought by adroit reporters. He was a friend of Bundy’s—that was the sole explanation of the miracle—for it appeared that Bundy’s star was once more in the ascendant. When, late in the afternoon, Arthur left his room and went down into the hotel lobby, it seemed to him that it hummed with the name of Bundy. A constant stream of messenger-boys sought Parlour A.; a succession of automobiles discharged at the hotel door fur-coated men with anxious eyes, all bound for the same goal; the evening papers were full of the portraits and exploits of Bundy. Opening the door of Parlour A., he had a passing glimpse of a Bundy he had never seen before—a wild-eyed, gesticulating Bundy, orating behind a barricade of books and papers to a crowded room, rushing at intervals to the telephone and shouting orders, a man glowing with ardour, on springs with energy, intoxicated with success.

“I’ll see you presently,” he cried, and went on pouring out what appeared to be a Niagara of figures.

Arthur withdrew silently, went up to his room, and ordered all the papers, from which he proceeded to inform himself on the doings of his friend. The story, divested of a vast accretion of shop-soiled adjectives, reduced itself to this—that Bundy had suddenly enrolled himself among the multi-millionaires, at least potentially.

“The story of Mr. Bundy,” began the chronicle, “is one of those romances of sudden wealth which are only possible in this country of unlimited and still undiscovered resources. Born in humble circumstances in the city of London, England, Mr. Bundy has raised himself by his own exertions to a place among the great captains of wealth, whose remarkable careers constitute the epic of human progress, and shed glory on the institutions of this free and enlightened country.” Here, it appeared, the journalist’s well of rhetoric ran dry, and he condescended to laconic statement. It was not to be supposed that a plain statement of fact could support all the amiable exaggerations with which the reporter had adorned Mr. Bundy’s personal history; but the facts themselves were sufficiently amazing. From them Arthur gathered that Bundy had discovered fresh deposits of gold in the rivers of the Yukon, of undoubted value, and was about to float a dredging company which promised enormous dividends. “As early as 1898,” continued the report, “fine-grained platinum was recognised in the black sand obtained along the Tuslin River, Yukon Territory, but until recently no active preparations have been made to recover it. This river drains the Tuslin Lake; its gravel-bed carries gold in paying quantities even by hand-working, throughout its entire length of 120 miles. Mr. Bundy claims that this gravel-bed contains immense quantities of gold, which may be recovered by the simple process of dredging. For thousands of years the erosion of the hills has precipitated gold into the river; the gold has sunk by its specific gravity into the river-bed, and there it remains in incalculable quantities. A good dredger costs about five thousand dollars. It scoops up the river-bed in so thorough a fashion that not a grain of gold is lost. Mr. Bundy has proved by actual experiment that from ten ounces of black sand, taken at random, sixty cents worth of platinum is obtainable, and gold in much larger quantities. Mr. Bundy holds a concession for more than eighty miles of this river. This means that with the most adequate machinery it will take fifty years to dredge the Tuslin. When we reckon the relatively light cost of dredging, it appears probable that Mr. Bundy’s proposition means not less than one thousand per cent. profit to the fortunate investor.”