CHAPTER II
"BROADWAY BILL"
William Carmody had scarcely completed his careful grooming when, witha tap at the door, his father entered, closely followed by a ratherburly individual in citizen's clothing, whose jaw was correctly andartistically swathed in bandages.
The two advanced a few paces into the room and paused. Father and sonregarded each other in silence. At length the older man spoke:
"Where were you last night?"
William flushed at the tone and cast an inquiring glance at the man inbandages, who awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.His father motioned him to proceed.
"I was out with a bunch from Philly. Chesterton, '05; Burke, '03;little Hammond, '06; and old Busk Brater, star guard of thenaughty-naughts."
"Drunk, were you?" The words sounded coldly impersonal, and the toneshowed no surprise.
"Why, no, that is, I wouldn't exactly say----" his father silenced himwith a gesture.
"Did you ever see this man before?"
William scrutinized the other carefully.
"I think not."
"Oh, you hain't, eh?"
The man's awkwardness disappeared, he advanced a step and it wasevident that he spoke with difficulty.
"How about last night in front of Shanley's? Guess you wasn't there,eh? Guess I just dreamt about a bunch of souses turkey-trottin' alongthe sidewalk? I'd of stood for it, at that, but the girls got topullin' it too raw even for Broadway.
"I know'd you by sight an' started in to give you the tip to put thesoft pedal on the wiggle stuff, when, zowie! I guess you didn't reachout an' soak me--a cop!" He tapped the bandage upon the aggressivelyadvanced jaw.
"Maybe the Times Building just tangoed across the square an' fell onme!" he went on with ponderous sarcasm. "An' that ain't all; when Igathers myself up, here's the tail-lights of a couple of taxisdisappearin' into Forty-fourth Street, an' the crowd laughin' an'joshin' me somethin' fierce. I guess I dreamt that, too, eh?
"An' that ain't the worst of it. Down to headquarters I draws athirty-day space--without! An' then, again, I guess they'll shove meright along for promotion on top of this. Not! I tell you I'm in badall the ways around, with the whole force passin' me the grin an'askin' me have I saw Broadway Bill lately? An' in comes the inspectorthis mornin' with an order when I came back on, to report to McClusky,up in Harlem, an' help shoo the goats away from eatin' up the newsidewalks in front of the five-dollar-instalment lots.
"Nice kettle of fish for me, that was in line for a lieut. I ain'tlayin' it up again' you so much for the jolt; you're sure there withthe punch, nor for the thirty-day space, neither, though with my familyI can't afford that none. But, damn it, kid, you've broke me! With thishere again' me I'll never be a lieut in a thousand years. I'm done!"
During the recital, the officer's voice lost its belligerent tone. Hespoke as man to man, with no hint of self-pity. Young Carmody washonestly sorry. Here was a man who, in the act of giving him a friendlywarning, had been felled by a brutal and unexpected blow. A hot blushof shame reddened his cheeks. He was about to speak but was interruptedby the voice of his father.
The old man seemed suddenly to have aged. His fine features, alwayspallid, appeared a shade paler. Gone was the arrogant poise of the headwhich for forty years had dominated boards of directors. The square-setshoulders drooped wearily, and in the eyes was the tired, dumb look ofa beaten man.
"Officer, it seems hardly necessary for me to express my thanks for theconsideration you have shown in coming directly to me with thismatter," he said at last. "Had you been so inclined you could havestirred up a nasty mess of it, and no one would have blamed you."
He stepped to a small table and, seating himself, produced check-bookand pen.
"I trust this will reimburse you for any financial loss you may haveincurred by reason of this most unfortunate affair," he went on; "andas for the rest, leave that to me. I have, I believe, some littleinfluence at headquarters, and I shall personally call upon theinspector."
The officer glanced at the slip of paper which the other thrust intohis hand. It was written in four figures. He looked up. Something inthe old man's attitude--the unspoken pain in the eyes--the patheticdroop of the shoulders, struck a responsive chord in the heart of theofficer.
Impulsively he extended the hand in which the check remained unfolded.
"Here, Mr. Carmody, I can't take your money. You didn't get me right. Istart out to knife you for what I can get, an' you wind up by treatin'me white. It wasn't your fault, nohow, an' I didn't know how you feltabout--things."
There may have been just the shadow of a smile at the corners of HiramCarmody's mouth as he waved a dismissal.
"We will consider the incident closed," he said.
At the door the officer turned to the younger man, who had been asilent listener.
"It's a pity to waste yourself that way. It's a punk game, kid, take itfrom me--they don't last! Where's your Broadway Bills of ten years ago?Stop an' think, kid. Where are they at?"
"My God," he muttered, as he passed down the broad stairway, "how manyold fathers in New York is hidin' their feelin's behind a bold front,an' at the same time eatin' their hearts out with worry for their boys!An' folks callin' _them_ good fellows!
"Money ain't everything in this here world, after all," he added, ashis gaze traveled over the paintings and tapestries that lined thegreat hall.
Above stairs an uncomfortable atmosphere of constraint settled uponfather and son. Both felt the awkwardness of the situation.
Young Carmody was a man with a heart as warm as his ways were wild. Hiswas an impulsive nature which acted upon first impressions. Lovingalike a fight or a frolic, he entered into either with a zest that madeof them events to be remembered. He glanced across to where his fatherstood beside the table toying with a jade ink-well, and noted theunwonted droop of the shoulders and the unfamiliar gaze of the grayeyes in which the look of arrogance had dulled almost to softness--apathetic figure, standing there in his own house--alone--unloved--astranger to his only son.
The boy saw for the first time, not the banker, the dictator of highfinance--but the _man_. Could it be that here was something he hadmissed? That through the long years since the death of his wife, thesweet-faced mother whom the boy remembered so vividly, this strange,inscrutable old man had craved the companionship of his son--had lovedhim?
At that moment, had the elder man spoken the word--weakened, he wouldhave called it--the course of lives would have been changed. But themoment passed. Hiram Carmody's shoulders squared to their accustomedset, and his eyes hardened as he regarded his son.
"Well?" The word rang harsh, with a rising inflection that stung. Theyounger man made no reply and favored the speaker with a level stare.
"And _you_ a Carmody!"
"Yes, I am a Carmody! But, thank God, I am only half Carmody! It is nofault of mine that I bear the Carmody name! At heart I am a McKim!"
The young man's eyes narrowed, and the words flashed defiantly from hislips. The shaft struck home. It was true. From the boy's babyhood thefather had realized it with fear in his heart.
The beautiful, dashing girl he had wooed so long ago; had married, andhad loved more deeply than she ever knew, was Eily McKim, descendant ofthe long line of Fighting McKims, whose men-children for five hundredyears had loomed large in the world-wars of nations. Men of red bloodand indomitable courage--these, who pursued war for the very love ofthe game, and who tasted blood in every clime, and under the flag ofevery nation. Hard-riding, hard-drinking, hard-fighting cavaliers, uponwhose deeds and adventures the staid, circumspect Carmodys lookedaghast. And this girl-wife, whose soft eyes and gentle nature had wonhis love, had borne him a son, and by some freak of atavism hadtransmitted to him the turbulent spirit of the Fighting McKims.
Again the old man spoke, and his voice was the voice that Wall Streetknew--and feared.
"I suppose you are well pleased with yourself. You are referred to asone o
f 'a bunch of souses.' You were 'pulling it too raw even forBroadway.' You are known to fame as 'Broadway Bill.' You are a sport!You, and your college friends. And last night you achieved the crowningsuccess of your career--you 'soaked a cop'! You, the last of a line ofmen, who for a hundred years have dominated the finances of a nation!You, the last of the Carmodys, are Broadway Bill, _the sport!_"
The biting scorn of his father's tone was not lost upon the youngerman, who paled to the lips.
"Where are the securities you were supposed to have delivered toStrang, Liebhardt & Co.?"
"Here, in my desk. I intended to deliver them on my way to the bankthis morning. The boys blew in yesterday and it was up to me to showthem around a bit."
"I will relieve you of the securities. The deal with Strang, Liebhardt& Co. is off. It depended upon the delivery of those bonds duringbanking hours yesterday."
Without a word William crossed to the desk and, withdrawing a packetsealed in a heavy manila envelope, handed it to his father.
"The bank no longer requires your services," went on the old mancoldly. "That a Carmody should prove himself absolutely untrustworthyand unreliable is beyond my ken. I do not intend to take you to taskfor your manner of living. It is a course many have chosen with varyingresults. You have made your bed--now lie in it. I need only say that Iam bitterly disappointed in my son. Henceforth we are strangers.
"Here is my personal check for ten thousand dollars. That is the lastcent of Carmody money you will receive. Properly invested it will yieldyou a competence. Many men have builded fortunes upon less. As pocketmoney for a Broadway Bill it will soon be squandered."
Mechanically the younger man picked up the check from the table.
"I think, sir," he answered, "that you have succeeded in makingyourself perfectly clear. As a Carmody, I am a failure. You spoke of aninvestment. I am about to make one of which any McKim would approve."
With slow, deliberate movements he tore the check into tiny pieces andscattered them upon the carpet. "I shall leave your house," hecontinued, meeting the other's gaze squarely, "without a dollar ofCarmody money, but with ten thousand dollars' worth of McKimself-respect. Good-by."
There was a note of cold finality in those last two words and the elderCarmody involuntarily extended his hand. He quitted the room abruptlyas the boy, ignoring the civility, turned away.
An hour later William walked hurriedly down the steps of the Carmodymansion and, with never a backward glance, hailed a taxi and waswhirled rapidly uptown.