The Wages of Sin.
As Pilot Summerhayes turned up the
street, after having deposited his money, he might
well have passed the goldsmith, hurrying towards the
warehouse of Crookenden and Co. to receive the wages
of his sin.
In Tresco’s pocket was the intercepted
correspondence, upon his face was a look of happiness
and self-contentment. He walked boldly into the
warehouse where, in a big office, glazed, partitioned,
and ramparted with a mighty counter, was a small army
of clerks, who, loyal to their master, stood ready
to pillage the goldsmith of every halfpenny he possessed.
But, with his blandest smile, Benjamin
asked one of these formidable mercenaries whether
Mr. Crookenden was within. He was ushered immediately
into the presence of that great personage, before whom
the conducting clerk was but as a crushed worm; and
there, with a self-possession truly remarkable, the
goldsmith seated himself in a comfortable chair and
beamed cherubically at the merchant, though in his
sinful heart he felt much as if he were a cross between
a pirate and a forger.
“Ah! you have brought my papers?” said
the merchant.
“I’ve brought my papers,”
said the goldsmith, still smiling.
Crookenden chuckled. “Yes,
yes,” he said, “quite right, quite right.
They are yours till you are paid for them. Let
me see: I gave you L50 in advance there’s
another L50 to follow, and then we are quits.”
“Another hundred-and-fifty,” said Tresco.
“Eh? What? How’s that?
We said a hundred, all told.”
“Two hundred,” said Tresco.
“No, no, sir. I tell you it was a hundred.”
“All right,” said Tresco,
“I shall retain possession of the letters, which
I can post by the next mail or return to Mr. Varnhagen,
just as I think fit.”
The merchant rose in his chair, and glared at the
goldsmith.
“What!” cried Tresco.
“You’ll turn dog? Complete your part
of the bargain. Do you think I’ve put my
head into a noose on your account for nothing?
D’you think I went out last night because I loved
you? No, sir, I want my money. I happen
to need money. I’ve half a mind to make
it two-hundred-and-fifty; and I would, if I hadn’t
that honour which is said to exist among thieves.
We’ll say one-hundred-and-fifty, and cry quits.”
“Do you think you have me in your hands?”
“I don’t think,”
replied the cunning goldsmith. “I know
I’ve got you. But I’ll be magnanimous I’ll
take L150. No, L160 I must pay the
boatmen and then I’ll say no more
about the affair. It shall be buried in the oblivion
of my breast, it shall be forgotten with the sins of
my youth. I must ask you to be quick.”
“Quick?”
“Yes, as quick as you conveniently can.”
“Would you order me about, sir?”
“Not exactly that, but I would
urge you on a little faster. I would persuade
you with the inevitable spur of fate.”
The merchant put his hand on a bell which stood upon
his table.
“That would be of no use,”
said Benjamin. “If you call fifty clerks
and forcibly rob me of my correspondence, you gain
nothing. Listen! Every clerk in this building
would turn against you the moment he knew your true
character; and before morning, every man, woman and
child in Timber Town would know. And where would
you be then? In gaol. D’you hear? in
gaol. Take up your pen. An insignificant
difference of a paltry hundred pounds will solve the
difficulty and give you all the comfort of a quiet
mind.”
“But what guarantee have I that
after you have been paid you won’t continue
to blackmail me?”
“You cannot possibly have such
a guarantee it wouldn’t be good for
you. This business is going to chasten your soul,
and make you mend your ways. It comes as a blessing
in disguise. But so long as you don’t refer
to the matter, after you have paid me what you owe
me, I shall bury the hatchet. I simply give you
my word for that. If you don’t care to take
it, leave it: it makes no difference to me.”
The fat little merchant fiddled nervously
with the writing materials in front of him, and his
hesitation seemed to have a most irritating effect
upon the goldsmith, who rose from his chair, took his
watch from his pocket, and walked to and fro.
“It’s too much, too much,”
petulantly reiterated Mr. Crookenden. “It’s
not worth it, not the half of it.”
“That’s not my
affair,” retorted Tresco. “The bargain
was for L200. I want the balance due.”
“But how do I know you have
the letters?” whined the merchant.
“Tut, tut! I’m surprised
to hear such foolishness from an educated man.
What you want will be forthcoming when you’ve
drawn the cheque take my word for that.
But I’m tired of pottering round here.”
The goldsmith glanced at his watch. “I
give you two minutes in which to decide. If you
can’t make up your mind, well, that’s your
funeral. At the end of that time I double the
price of the letters, and if you want them at the new
figure then you can come and ask for them.”
He held his watch in his hand, and
marked the fleeting moments.
The merchant sat, staring stonily
at the table in front of him.
The brief moments soon passed; Tresco
shut his watch with a click, and returned it to his
pocket.
“Now,” he said, taking
up his hat, “I’ll wish you good morning.”
He was half-way to the door, when
Crookenden cried, “Stop!” and reached
for a pen, which he dipped in the ink.
“He, he!” he sniggered,
“it’s all right, Tresco I only
wanted to test you. You shall have the money.
I can see you’re a staunch man such as I can
depend on.”
He rose suddenly, and went to the
big safe which stood against the wall, and from it
he took a cash-box, which he placed on the table.
“Upon consideration,”
he said, “I have decided to pay you in cash it’s
far safer for both parties.”
He counted out a number of bank notes,
which he handed to the goldsmith.
Tresco put down his hat, put on his
spectacles, and counted the money. “Ten
tens are a hundred, ten fives are fifty, ten ones are
ten,” he said. “Perfectly correct.”
He put his hand into the inner pocket of his coat,
and drew out a packet, which was tied roughly with
a piece of coarse string. “And here are
the letters,” he added, as he placed them on
the table. Then he put the money into his pocket.
Crookenden opened the packet, and glanced at the letters.
Tresco had picked up his hat.
“I am satisfied,” said
the merchant. “Evidently you are a man of
resource. But don’t forget that in this
matter we are dependent upon each other. I rely
thoroughly on you, Tresco, thoroughly. Let us
forget the little piece of play-acting of a few minutes
ago. Let us be friends, I might say comrades.”
“Certainly, sir. I do so with pleasure.”
“But for the future,”
continued Crookenden, “we had better not appear
too friendly in public, not for six months or so.”
“Certainly not, not too friendly
in public,” Benjamin smiled his blandest, “not
for at least six months. But any communication
sent me by post will be sure to find me, unless it
is intercepted by some unscrupulous person. For
six months, Mr. Crookenden, I bid you adieu.”
The merchant sniggered again, and
Benjamin walked out of the room.
Then Crookenden rang his bell.
To the clerk who answered it, he said:
“You saw that man go out of my office, Mr. Smithers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If ever he comes again to see
me, tell him I’m engaged, or not in. I
won’t see him he’s a bad stamp
of man, a most ungrateful man, a man I should be sorry
to have any dealings with, a man who is likely to get
into serious trouble before he is done, a man whom
I advise all my young men to steer clear of, one of
the most unsatisfactory men it has been my misfortune
to meet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all, Mr. Smithers,”
said the head of the firm. “I like my young
men to be kept from questionable associates; I like
them to have the benefit of my experience. I
shall do my best to preserve them from the evil influence
of such persons as the man I have referred to.
That will do. You may go, Mr. Smithers.”
Meanwhile, Benjamin Tresco was striding
down the street in the direction of his shop; his
speed accelerated by a wicked feeling of triumph, and
his face beaming with an acute appreciation of the
ridiculous scene in which he had played so prominent
a part.
“Hi-yi!” he exclaimed
exultingly, as he burst into the little room at the
back of his shop, where the Prospector was waiting
for him, “the man with whips of money would
outwit Benjamin, and the man with the money-bags was
forced to shell out. Bill, my most esteemed pal,
the rich man would rob the poor, but that poor man
was Benjamin, your redoubtable friend Benjamin Tresco,
and the man who was dripping with gold got, metaphorically
speaking, biffed on the boko. Observe, my esteemed
and trusty pal, observe the proceeds of my cunning.”
He threw the whole of his money on the table.
“Help yourself,” he cried.
“Take as much as you please: all I ask is
the sum of ten pounds to settle a little account which
will be very pressing this evening at eight o’clock,
when a gentleman named Rock Cod and his estimable
mate, Macaroni Joe, are dead sure to roll up, expectant.”
The digger, who, in spite of his return
to the regions of civilisation, retained his wildly
hirsute appearance, slowly counted the notes.
“I make it a hundred-and-sixty,” he said.
“That’s right,”
said Tresco: “there’s sixty-seven
for you, and the balance for me.”
Bill took out the two IOUs, and placed
them on the table. They totalled L117, of which
Benjamin had paid L50.
“I guess,” said the Prospector,
“that sixty-seven’ll square it.”
He carefully counted out that sum, and put it in his
pocket.
Benjamin counted the balance, and
made a mental calculation. “Ninety-three
pounds,” he said, “and ten of that goes
to my respectable friends, Rock Cod and Macaroni.
That leaves me the enormous sum of eighty-three pounds.
After tearing round the town for three solid days,
raising the wind for all I’m worth and almost
breaking my credit, this is all I possess. That’s
what comes of going out to spend a quiet evening in
the company of Fortunatus Bill; that’s what
comes of backing my luck against ruffians with loaded
dice and lumps on their necks.”
“Have you seen them devils since?” asked
the Prospector.
“I’ve been far too busy
scrapin’ together this bit of cash to take notice
of folks,” said Benjamin, as he tore up the IOUs
and threw them into the fireplace. “It’s
no good crying over spilt milk or money lost at play.
The thing is for you to go back to the bush, and make
good your promise.”
“I’m going to-morrow mornin’.
I’ve got the missus’s money, which I’ll
send by draft, and then I’ll go and square up
my bill at the hotel.”
“And then,” said Benjamin,
“fetch your swag, and bunk here to-night.
It’ll be a most convenient plan.”
“We’re mates,” said
the Prospector. “You’ve stood by me
and done the ‘an’some, an’ I’ll
stand by you and return the compliment. An’
it’s my hope we’ll both be rich men before
many weeks are out.”
“That’s so,” said Benjamin.
“Your hand on it.”
The digger held out his horny, begrimed
paw, which the goldsmith grasped with a solemnity
befitting the occasion.
“You’ll need a miner’s right,”
said the digger.
“I’ve got one,”
said Tresco. “Number 76032, all in order,
entitling me to the richest claim in this country.”
“I’ll see, mate, that
it’s as rich as my own, and that’s saying
a wonderful deal.”
“Damme, I’ll come with you straight away!”
“Right, mate; come along.”
“We’ll start before dawn.”
“Before dawn.”
“I’ll shut the shop, and prospect along
with you.”
“That’s the way of it.
You an’ me’ll be mates right through; and
we’ll paint this town red for a week when we’ve
made our pile.”
“Jake! Drat that boy; where is he?
Jake, come here.”
The shock-headed youth came running
from the back yard, where he was chopping wood.
“Me and this gentleman,”
said his master, “are going for a little excursion.
We start to-morrow morning. See? I was thinking
of closing the shop, but I’ve decided to leave
you in charge till I return.”
The lad stood with his hands in his
pockets, and blew a long, shrill whistle. “Of
all the tight corners I was ever in,” he said,
“this takes the cake. I’ll want a
rise in wages look at the responsibility,
boss.”
The goldsmith laughed. “All
right,” he said. “You shall have ten
shillings a week extra while I’m away; and if
we have luck, Jake, I’ll make it a pound.”
“Right-oh! I’ll take
all the responsibility that comes along. I’ll
get fat on it. And when you come back, you’ll
find the business doubled, and the reputation of B.
Tresco increased. It’ll probably end in
you taking me in as partner but I
don’t care: it’s all the same to me.”
The goldsmith made an attempt to box
the boy’s ear, but Jake dodged his blow.
“That’s your game, is
it?” exclaimed the young rogue. “Bash
me about, will you? All right I’ll
set up in opposition!”
He didn’t wait for the result
of this remark, but with a sudden dart he passed like
a streak of lightning through the doorway, and fled
into the street.