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In: Crime, Thrillers and Mystery·Novels·American Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #68810.
The opening · free to read
THE invigorating breeze, stirring the leaves of the vines and rambler roses which grew in profusion over the trellis-covered veranda, carried, apparently, no comfort to the man seated there. He stared ahead of him, oblivious to his surroundings, the handsome rugs covering the veranda floor, the out-of-door furniture, the well-kept lawns and flower beds. He was only conscious of a growing distaste for the brilliant California sunshine, the blue of the heavens and the vivid colors of the foliage; they did not match his brooding discontent.
A sudden stronger puff of wind carried a paper, loosely held in his fingers, to the floor, and too indolent to move, he planted his white-shod foot on it, leaving exposed the words: “By order of the Court.”
“Oh, here you are,” exclaimed a voice from the direction of the living room, and a middle-aged man stepped through the open French window on to the veranda and sat down heavily in one of the lounging chairs. “Seen these?” tossing several newspapers on the table.
“Yes,” answered his companion. “Washington doesn’t appear to have taken kindly to your speech.”
Colonel Calhoun’s florid face turned a deeper red.
“The truth isn’t always pleasant,” he growled. “It’s not nice to read that fancied security is fancy and nothing more. Japan has our measure, and has spent years preparing to become mistress of the Pacific Ocean.”
“So they say--_here_,” and the slight emphasis on the last word caused Calhoun’s eyes to flash with pent-up indignation.
“That’s Washington’s game, trying to make it a local issue,” he explained heatedly. “Whereas, the control of the Pacific affects every business man, every farmer in America. For the sake of our millions invested in commerce we must guard this ocean; keep uninterrupted our trade with China and the Orient; guard the waterway to Alaska, a country of still undeveloped riches; keep the path clear to the Philippine Islands, Guam, and Hawaii. Trade supremacy can sometimes only be maintained by war. We shall have to fight for it.”
His companion nodded. “Shouldn’t wonder if we did,” he agreed listlessly, “when Japan says the word.”
“Yes, and when she strikes she will strike quickly. Look,” Calhoun indicated a map lying across a chair. “We have well-fortified harbors, yes, but an undefended coast line easily accessible to an enemy. Japanese spies have been caught with reports of these fortifications, with plans of the forts guarding the Golden Gate; and caught taking soundings of the unfortified harbor of Monterey. It means that some day the ‘Yellow’ man hopes to supplant the white American, as we, in our time, supplanted the American red Indian.”
Calhoun’s companion laughed. “It’s not surprising that the cartoonists caricature you as a saffron-hued jingoist.”
“Let them,” Calhoun shrugged his broad shoulders. “They’ll reverse themselves, as did the Administration in the matter of the Panama Canal tolls,--the price of our coastal rights being the sop thrown to England to keep us out of war with her ally, Japan.”
“Well, what England did once she may do again,” retorted the other lazily.
“With America prepared we will require no nation’s intervention in our behalf,” declared Calhoun proudly. “But until we are----” The speaker rose and paced back and forth. “Dreaming of vast empire, the foremost men of Japan are planning and scheming for that nation’s territorial advancement.”
“You’ll have some difficulty convincing America of that fact,” said his companion skeptically.
“True.” Calhoun struck his clenched fist into his left hand. “The majority of Americans think me a dreamer, or, at worst, a war-mad jingoist. Yesterday a high government official declared: ‘If Calhoun had half the brains he thinks he has, he’d be half-witted.’ The fools!” added Calhoun bitterly. “It’s cheap to ridicule me, cheaper even than burying dead Americans in trenches. Japan is crouching for the spring; racial hatred is fanning the flame, and her emissaries are everywhere. I’d willingly give $10,000 to the man who will unearth and expose the Japanese cabal which, I believe, as I believe in God, is being conducted in Washington City today right under the nose of our government officials.”
His companion laid down his unopened cigarette case, his eyes for a second seeking the paper still held on the floor by his foot--“By order of the Court”--a sudden movement and his other foot covered the words.
“Get out your check book, Calhoun,” he said. “I will go to Washington.”
JULIAN BARCLAY scanned the total of a column of figures with a wry face; his card game of the night before had been costly, and with an inward resolve to forego another, he looked out of the smoking-car window. But the flying landscape did not hold his attention, and his eyes wandered back to his fellow passengers, the majority of whom were well-to-do tourists, several commercial travelers, and a few professional men. Not far from him sat Professor Norcross in animated conversation with Dr. Shively who, with Barclay, had boarded the fast California express at New Orleans. Barclay’s glance traveled on until it reached the man who had made the fourth at the card game. He had taken a dislike to Dwight Tilghman, for during the game he had received the impression that he was being quietly watched. The belief had grown upon him as the play progressed, and the quiet espionage had bred resentment. Tilghman’s indolent slowness of movement had been in direct contrast to his intent watchfulness, and Barclay had wondered if Dr. Shively and Professor Norcross had thought Tilghman’s manner peculiar. Richard Norcross, known to Barclay by his fame as a naturalist but met for the first time in the train the night before, had been Tilghman’s traveling companion for some days.
Barclay, sitting back in his chair studying Tilghman, saw him start, lean forward, and look down the car. A newcomer stood just within the entrance surveying the car and its occupants, then moved up the aisle. With a smothered ejaculation, Tilghman sprang into the aisle, hand upraised, only to stumble forward, swaying like a drunken man.
The sound of the scuffle echoed down the car above the noise of the rapidly moving train. In an instant the passengers were on their feet, some intent on reaching the struggling men and others only desirous of obtaining a closer view. But the intervention of the more venturesome was not required, and a second later Barclay was bending over Tilghman, who measured his length in the aisle, while the conductor and several passengers collared his small opponent. A pull at Barclay’s hastily offered flask, and Tilghman somewhat shakily regained his feet, as the Japanese passenger strove to explain the situation to the indignant conductor.
“A meeting, honorable sir, in this just too small space and a loss of balance.” The Japanese with some difficulty kept his footing as the train rounded a sharp curve. Clicking his heels together, with shoulders and elbows drawn back, finger-tips touching, he drew a long hissing breath as he bowed in salutation to the men grouped about him. “Pardon, honorable sirs.”
“How about it, Mr. Tilghman?” demanded the conductor, and all eyes turned toward the disheveled American.
“A little congestion and, eh, hasty action,” he drawled. “The train took a curve on the high, and as I fell I saw our friend here”--indicating the Japanese--“mistook him for a yellow nigger standing in my way and lashed out----”
Barclay looked sharply at the Japanese. Did he understand the insult implied in the apology, or was his knowledge of English too limited? But he learned nothing by his scrutiny, for the parchment-like face was as inscrutable as the Sphinx, and Barclay turned his attention to Tilghman. He had distinctly seen a paper pass between the two men; why then had Tilghman and the Japanese staged the opéra bouffe affair?
The conductor, much perturbed, scratched his head as he gazed at first one man and then another.
“Well, seeing as how you both call it an accident, I reckon there’s nothing more to be said,” he grumbled. “But recollect, gentlemen, this railroad does not permit quarreling.”
The Japanese, bowing gravely to the silent men, departed into the forward Pullman, and the group about Tilghman dispersed. Julian Barclay having resumed his seat and his contemplation of the scenery through the car window, was in the act of lighting a cigarette when he became aware that Dwight Tilghman was standing at his elbow.
“Can I share that flask you offered me when I was lying on the floor?” he inquired. “The fall shook me up more than I realized.”
A look at Tilghman’s white face convinced Barclay that he was telling the truth, and his interest quickened; the scuffle had not been entirely opéra bouffe after all. Drawing out his flask he passed it to Tilghman.
“It hurts my pride,” went on Tilghman, seating himself in the next chair, “to be licked by a little slip of a man in such a rough and tumble encounter.”
“Muscle doesn’t stand much show against jiu-jutsu.” Barclay declined the other’s offer of a cigarette. “Better think a second time before tackling a Jap,” he cautioned.
“A Jap!” echoed Tilghman, and he smiled queerly as he selected a cigarette. “The color line is so closely drawn in this section of the world I’m surprised the railroad officials permit a yellow man to travel on the San Francisco, New Orleans, and Washington Express except in the ‘Jim Crow’ car.”
“That sounds like insular prejudice,” smiled Barclay. “Except for your name and accent, which proclaim you a Marylander, I should hail you as----”
“A Californian?” Tilghman nodded. “It’s the state of my adoption. We manage everything better out there.”
“Well, why not stay in California?” Barclay rapped out the abrupt question, never taking his eyes from his good-looking companion, whose white cheeks were regaining a more healthy hue from the stimulant he was slowly sipping.
“I had to come east to protest against government ownership of oil lands in California. I’m one of the unfortunate devils who invested money there before the public land was withdrawn from entry by executive order. Congress is to legislate on the question shortly. I believe Navy Department officials are chiefly responsible for the deadlock.”
“I take it your sympathies are for a little navy?”
“That doesn’t necessarily follow,” protested Tilghman, with more warmth than the occasion seemed to justify. “Just because I don’t believe in government ownership of oil lands.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” argued Barclay. “Oil is the fuel for future battleships; we are exporting thousands of gallons of oil; it’s time we conserved our resources.”
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