The Lady Doc by Caroline Lockhart (management books to read .txt) đź“•
She was tired almost to exhaustion when she stopped suddenly and flung her shoulder in defiance and self-disgust. "Bah! I'm going to pieces like a schoolgirl. I must pull myself together. Twenty-four hours will tell the tale and I must keep my nerve. The doctors will--they must stand by me!"
Dr. Harpe was correct in her surmise that her suspense would be short. The interview between herself and the husband of her dead friend was one she was not likely to forget. Then the coroner, himself a physician, sent for her and she found him waiting at his desk. All the former friendliness was gone from his eyes when he swung in his office chair and looked at her.
"It will not be necessary, I believe, to explain why I have sent for you, Dr. Harp
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Symes's natural impulse was to reply, "Certainly, to be sure, years of experience, delighted to furnish anything you like," but something, the voice of caution or Mudge's warning look, induced him to say instead:
"I can't say a wide experience, Mr. Prescott, not truthfully a wide one, but some, of course, in fact considerable. Experience isn't really necessary; horse-sense is the thing, horse-sense, executive ability and large-mindedness—these qualifications I think I may conscientiously say I possess."
"I—I see."
Mudge pulled nervously at his mustache.
"As a matter of fact," continued Mr. Symes, "I never permit myself to be identified with failures. When I see that things are shootin' the chutes I pull out." Mr. Symes laughed heartily. "I get from under."
"V-very wise." For an instant, the infinitessimal part of a second, there was a glint of amusement in Prescott's mild eyes and, as he added, Mudge once more felt that uncomfortable warmth under his collar, "Symes and success are synonymous terms, I infer."
Symes laughed modestly.
"But to get down to business,"—there was a suggestion of weariness in Prescott's tone—"the water supply is ample?"
"Oceans! Worlds of it, I might say."
"The water rights perfect—stand the severest legal scrutiny?"
"Absolutely!"
"Only engineers of recognized ability consulted and employed upon a project of such magnitude, I infer?"
Mr. Symes's hesitation was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible.
"The best obtainable."
"And approximately 200,000 acres of segregated land can be reclaimed under your project?"
"Every foot of it."
"At an expense of $250,000, according to the figures in your prospectus?"
"That's our estimate and the amount of our bond issue."
"You believe you will have no difficulty in disposing of this land at $50 an acre?"
"Dispose of it? They'll fight for it! Why," declared Mr. Symes, striking at the air with a gesture of conviction, "the whole country is land hungry."
"It's a liberal return upon the investment," murmured Prescott.
"It's a big thing! And think of the Russian Jews."
"Pardon me?"
"Colonization, you know, hundreds of Russian Jews out there raising sugar-beets for the sugar-beet factory, happy as larks."
"To be sure—I had forgotten." Mr. Prescott reached for a prospectus upon the table at his elbow and looked at the picture of a factory with smoke pouring from myriad chimneys and covering nothing short of an acre.
"The soil is deep then—strong enough to stand sugar-beets?"
"Rotation of crops—scientific farming," explained Symes, "gives it a chance to recover."
Prescott nodded.
"I see. The length of the ditch is——"
"Thirty-five miles and a fraction."
"What is the normal width and what amount of water does it carry?"
"Sixty-five feet and it carries six feet of water."
"What is the slope?"
"Two and a half feet per mile."
"How much water to the acre is applied in your State?"
Symes was showing some surprise. For a man who was not familiar with irrigation projects Prescott was asking decidedly pertinent questions, but Symes answered glibly—
"A cubic foot per second to each seventy acres."
"And the yardage? What are your engineer's figures on the yardage?"
Symes cleared his throat—a habit which manifested itself when he was nervous—
"It can be moved for ten to fifteen cents a cubic yard."
"C-cheap enough." Prescott looked at him with interested intentness. "And the loose rock?"
"Twenty-five to thirty." Symes stirred uneasily in his chair.
"And the cuts? the solid rock?"
"Fifty to sixty cents," Symes replied after an instant's hesitation.
"Ah, soft rock. These are your engineer's figures, of course?"
"Of course," Symes answered curtly, and added: "I should say that you had a good deal of practical knowledge of such matters, Mr. Prescott."
Prescott answered easily—
"Superficial, v-very superficial, just a little I picked up in railroad construction."
There were more questions as to loss of water by seepage, air and subsoil drainage, drops, earth canals, character and depth of soil, possibilities of alkali, all of which questions Symes answered readily enough, but which at the conclusion left Symes with the exhausted feeling of a long session on the witness stand.
"There are still something like $150,000 worth of bonds in the market, I believe?"
"Approximately." It was Mudge who spoke up hopefully.
"And there is no doubt in your mind, Mr. Symes, but that with this amount you can finish the work at the specified time and in a manner satisfactory to the State engineers?"
Symes jingled the loose change in his trousers pockets and replied with a large air of confidence—
"None whatever, sir."
Mr. Prescott arose and stood for a moment thoughtfully stroking the back of one gray suede glove with the tips of the other.
"I—I will take the matter up with my p-people and give you their decision shortly."
His eyes were lowered so he did not see the look which made Symes's face radiant for an instant, but he may have imagined it was there, for his lips curved in ever so faint a smile.
"It has been a p-pleasure to meet you, Mr. Symes." Prescott extended a gray suede hand. "I do not feel that the hour has been wasted, since I have learned so m-much."
"Ask any question that occurs to you: my time is at your disposal as long as I am here." Symes shook his hand heartily in a strong western grip. "Great pleasure to converse with a gentleman again, I assure you."
Symes and Mudge looked at each other when the door had closed upon his back.
"Tractable as a kitten!" exclaimed Symes, beaming.
"Think so?" Mudge did not seem greatly elated.
"Why, yes; don't you?" Symes looked surprised.
"'Tractable' isn't just the word I'd ever apply to Prescott," he answered dryly. "You don't understand his kind."
"You're wrong there," Symes answered with asperity. "But don't you think we're goin' to land him?"
Mudge shrugged his shoulders.
"I'll bet you a hat!" cried Symes confidently. "I know the difference between a nibble and a bite. I tell you Prescott's hooked."
"I hope you're right"—Mudge's tone was doubtful—"but get it out of your head that he's an easy mark. I know that outfit; they're conservative as a country bank. Prescott didn't ask questions enough."
"Didn't ask questions enough? Lord amighty, he was cocked and primed."
Mudge smiled grimly.
"Not for Prescott. Besides, it's not like them to go into a proposition like this without further investigation. If they'd send an engineer back with you I'd begin to hope."
"Bosh!" Symes exclaimed impatiently. "My name counts for something in a game like this."
Mudge was unresponsive.
"Gentlemen understand each other," Symes went on complacently, "intuition—hunch—kind of a silent sympathy. I tell you, Mudge, I'm goin' to win a hat off you."
After leaving the office of Mudge, the promoter, J. Collins Prescott, sauntered into a secluded waiting room in a near-by hotel and sank into the depths of a huge leather chair. He took a voluminous type-written report from the pocket of his fashionable top-coat and fell to studying it with interest and care. He was engrossed in its contents for nearly an hour, and when he had finished he replaced it in his pocket. Then he sauntered to the telegrapher's station in the corner of the hotel office and wrote upon a blank with swift decision a telegram which seemed a trifle at variance with the almost foppish elegance of his appearance. The telegram read:
Crooked as a dog's hind leg. Buy.
Dr. Harpe had surprisingly good shoulders for so slender a woman—white, well rounded, and with a gentle feminine slope. That she never had been given the opportunity of showing them to Crowheart had been a matter of some regret. Her chance came when Andy P. Symes celebrated the sale of $150,000 worth of bonds by an invitation ball in the dining-room of the Terriberry House.
Elation over the placing of these bonds with the estate represented by J. Collins Prescott mitigated in some slight degree the humiliation and bitterness of his feelings when, upon his return from his successful business trip, he found that not only had Grandmother Kunkel gone as she had foreseen she would go, but Dr. Harpe had resumed her visits as before and vouchsafed to him no word of explanation or apology at the deliberate violation of her promise.
In any case, as Symes saw clearly now, the fulfilment of it would have been futile so far as ending the intimacy was concerned, for the only result would have been that Augusta would have done the visiting. That he let the matter of Dr. Harpe's broken word pass without protest evidenced the completeness of his capitulation, his entire realization of the hopelessness of resistance to the situation, as did also the silence in which he accepted Augusta's cold explanation of Grandmother Kunkel's departure.
It is not likely that more time and care is devoted to the making up of the list for a court ball than Symes bestowed upon the selection of guests for the proposed function, which he intended should leave an indelible impression upon Crowheart. It was a difficult task, but when completed the result was gratifying.
No person whom Symes could even dimly foresee as being of future use to himself was omitted and with real astuteness he singled out those who had within themselves the qualities which made for future importance. Even Mrs. Abe Tutts, who, he had learned, was second cousin to a railroad president, was thrown into a state of emotional intoxication by receiving the first printed invitation of her life. Besides, Mrs. Tutts had turned her talents churchward and now ruled the church choir with an iron hand. While her husky rendition of the solo parts of certain anthems was strongly suggestive of the Bijou Theatre with its adjoining beer garden, her efforts were highly praised. This invitation demonstrated clearly that Mrs. Tutts was rising in the social scale.
It was due to a suggestion from Dr. Harpe, made through Augusta, that Van Lennop also received his first social recognition in Crowheart.
"I don't know who the fellow is," Symes demurred. In reality his reluctance was largely due to a secret resentment that Van Lennop had seemed to withstand so easily the influence of his genial personality. Their acquaintance never had passed the nodding stage and the fact had piqued Symes more than he cared to admit. "Besides, he has elected to identify himself with rather singular company."
"No doubt he has been lonely," defended Mrs. Symes mildly, "and of course Essie is pretty."
When Van Lennop found the invitation in the mail a couple of days later he frowned in mingled annoyance and amusement.
"Discovered," he said dryly, quickly guessing its import.
Dr. Harpe's increased friendliness had not escaped him and it had occurred to him that their frequent meetings were not entirely accidental. Past experiences had taught him the significance of certain signs, and when Dr. Harpe appeared with her hair curled and wearing a lingerie waist, the fact which roused the risibilities of her friends stirred in him a feeling which resembled the instinct of self-preservation.
Van Lennop's brow contracted as he re-read the invitation in his room.
"Confound it! I'm not ready to be discovered yet." Then he grinned, in spite of himself, at the hint in the corner—"full dress." He flung it contemptuously upon the washstand. "What an ass!" and it is to be feared he referred to the sole representative of the notable House of Symes.
The initial step in Crowheart toward preparing for any function was a hair washing, and the day following the mailing of the invitations saw the fortunate recipients drying their hair on their respective back steps or hanging over dividing fences with flowing locks in animated discussion of the coming event.
That there was some uncertainty as to the exact meaning of the request to wear "full dress" may be gathered from Mrs. Abe Tutts's observation, while drying a few dank hairs at Mrs. Jackson's front gate, that it was lucky she had not ripped up her accordion-pleated skirt which was as full as anybody could wear and hope to get around in!
"'Tain't that," Mrs. Jackson snorted in her face. "The fuller a dress is the
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