The Fighting Chance

“Siward, he is a bad man, and crafty—every inch of him.”

“Oh, come, now! Only characters in fiction have no saving qualities. You never heard of anybody in real life being entirely bad.”

“No, I didn’t; and Quarrier isn’t. For example, he is kind to valuable animals—I mean, his own.”

“Good to animals! The bad man’s invariable characteristic!” laughed Siward. “I’m kind to ‘em, too. What else is he good to?”

“Everybody knows that he hasn’t a poor relation left; not one. He is loyal to them in a rare way; he filled one subsidiary company full of them. It is known down town as the ‘Home for Destitute Nephews.’”

“Seriously, Plank, the man must have something good in him.”

“Because of your theory?”

“Yes. I believe that nobody is entirely bad. So do the great masters of fiction.”

Plank said gravely: “He is a good son to his father. That is perfectly true—kind, considerate, dutiful, loyal. The financial world is perfectly aware that Stanley Quarrier is to-day the most unscrupulous old scoundrel who ever crushed a refinery or debauched a railroad! and his son no more believes it than he credits the scandalous history of the Red Woman of Wall Street. Why, when I was making arrangements for that chapel Quarrier came to me, very much perturbed, because he understood that all the memorial chapels for the cathedral had been arranged for, and he had desired to build one to the memory of his father! His father! Isn’t it awful to think of!—a chapel to the memory of the briber of judges and of legislatures, the cynical defier of law!—this hoary old thief, who beggared the widow and stripped the orphan, and whose only match, as a great unpunished criminal, was that sinister little predecessor of his, who dreamed even of debauching the executive of these United States!”

Siward had never before seen Plank aroused, and he said so, smiling.

“That is true,” said Plank earnestly; “I waste little temper over my likes and dislikes. But what I know, and what I legitimately infer concerning the younger Quarrier is enough to rouse any man’s anger. I won’t tell you what I know. I can’t. It has nothing to do with his financial methods, nothing to do with this business; but it is bad—bad all through! The blow his father struck at the integrity of the bench the son strikes at the very key-stone of all social safeguard. It isn’t my business; I cannot interfere; but Siward, I’m a damned restless witness, and the old, primitive longing comes back on me to strike—to take a stick and use it to splinters on that man whom I am going down town to politely confer with!… And I must go now. Good-bye.... Take care of that ankle. Any books I can send you—anything you want? No? All right. And don’t worry over Amalgamated Electric, for I really believe we are beginning to frighten them badly.”

“Good-bye,” said Siward. “Don’t forget that I’m always at home.”

“You must get out,” muttered Plank; “you must get well, and get out into the sunshine.” And he went ponderously down-stairs to the square hall, where Gumble held his hat and gloves ready for him.

He had come in a big yellow and black touring-car; and now, with a brief word to his mechanic, he climbed into the tonneau, and away they sped down town—a glitter of bull’s-eye, brass, and varnish, with the mellow, horn notes floating far in their wake.

It was exactly four o’clock when he was ushered into Quarrier’s private suite in the great marble Algonquin Loan and Trust Building, the upper stories of which were all golden in the sun against a sky of sapphire.

Quarrier was alone, gloved and hatted, as though on the point of leaving. He showed a slight surprise at seeing Plank, as if he had not been expecting him; and the manner of offering his hand subtly emphasised it as he came forward with a trace of inquiry in his greeting.

“You said four o’clock, I believe,” observed Plank bluntly.

“Ah, yes. It was about that—ah—matter—ah—I beg your pardon; can you recollect?”

“I don’t know what it is you want. You requested this meeting,” said Plank, yawning.

“Certainly. I recollect it perfectly now. Will you sit here, Mr. Plank—for a moment—”

“If it concerns Inter-County, it will take longer than a moment—unless you cannot spare the time now,” said Plank. “Shall we call it off?”

“As a matter of fact I am rather short of time just now.”

“Then let us postpone it. I shall probably be at my office if you are anxious to see me.”

Quarrier looked at him, then laid aside his hat and sat down. There was little to be done in diplomacy with an oaf like that.

“Mr. Plank,” he said, without any emphasis at all, “there should be some way for us to come together. Have you considered it?”

“No, I haven’t,” replied Plank.

“I mean, for you and me to try to understand each other.”

“For us?” asked Plank, raising his blond eyebrows. “Do you mean Amalgamated Electric and Inter-County, impersonally?”

“I mean for us, personally.”

“There is no way,” said Plank, with conviction.

“I think there is.”

“You are wasting time thinking it, Mr. Quarrier.”

Quarrier’s velvet-fringed eyes began to narrow, but his calm voice remained unchanged: “We are merely wasting energy in this duel,” he said.

“Oh, no; I don’t feel wasted.”

“We are also wasting opportunities,” continued Quarrier slowly. “This whole matter is involving us in a tangle of litigation requiring our constant effort, constant attention.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Quarrier, but you take it too seriously. I have found, in this affair, nothing except a rather agreeable mental exhilaration.”

“Mr. Plank, if you are not inclined to be serious—”

“I am,” said Plank so savagely that Quarrier, startled, could not doubt him. “I like this sort of thing, Mr. Quarrier. Anything that is hard to overcome, I like to overcome. The pleasure in life, to me, is to win out. I am fighting you with the greatest possible satisfaction to myself.”

“Perhaps you see victory ahead,” said Quarrier calmly.

“I do, Mr. Quarrier, I do. But not in the manner you fear I may hope for it.”

“Do you mind saying in what manner you are already discounting your victory, Mr Plank?”

“No, I don’t mind telling you. I have no batteries to mask. I don’t care how much you know about my resources; so I’ll tell you what I see, Mr. Quarrier. I see a parody of the popular battle between razor-back and rattler. The rattler only strives to strike and kill, not to swallow. Mr. Quarrier, that old razor-back isn’t going home hungry; but—he’s going home.”

“I’m afraid I am not familiar enough with the natural history you quote to follow you,” said Quarrier with a sneer, his long fingers busy with the silky point of his beard.

“No, you won’t follow me home; you’ll come with me, when it’s all over. Now is it very plain to you, Mr. Quarrier?”

Quarrier said, without emotion: “I repeat that it would be easy for you and me to merge our differences on a basis absolutely satisfactory to you and to me—and to Harrington.”

“You are mistaken,” said Plank, rising. “Good afternoon.”

Quarrier rose, too. “You decline to discuss the matter?” he asked.

“It has been discussed sufficiently.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“To see for myself how afraid of me you really are,” said Plank. “Now I know, and so do you.”