# Bucking the Tiger/Chapter 14
### CHAPTER XIV
#### WASTRELS, REGENERATE

WITH the acquisition of the controlling interest in the Western Crown, a deep and subtle change came over Graham's outlook on life: a stirring of the great curtain which hangs between success and failure. Spoiled as he was by his early training, by Eton and Oxford and the army, he had yet a natural temperament and aptitude, redolent of fried fish and the Tottenham Court Road, which had been bequeathed to him by his father and which now came to the surface, forcing him into the arena of barter and trade.
One of his father's business maxims had been "Centralisation of Interests and Lessening of Overhead Charges" which, translated into the vocabulary of the street, meant that it was up to him to force his weaker competitors out of business. This he accomplished by either sending them to the wall or by buying them out.
But, eminently shrewd and far-seeing, he never bought them out for cash, preferring to pay them in stock of his own company, thus automatically, since their money was invested in his enterprise, forcing them to add their brains and energy to his, and also lessening the possibility of their becoming once more his competitors in the future.
Whatever the psychic reasons, heredity or a transmission of astral elementals from London to Spokane, at all events Graham proceeded on the same lines which had elevated his father to the ranks of the British Empire's hereditary legislators.
He decided to buy out the interests of the other members of the suicide syndicate.
He was doubly motivated to do this. There was, first of all, his absolute conviction that Macdonald would stick to the letter of his contract, unless the others released him voluntarily; and this implied the gain of a round sum of cash on the 1st of April of the following year. And there was, furthermore, the fear that the others might weaken at the last moment, overrule him, and make Macdonald a present of his life.
Of course, he harboured no such fear with regard to Hillyer. Not only was this cherub-faced descendant of Hengist and Horsa his partner in everything; but he also, repeatedly and specifically, repulsed all such allegations of weak-kneed, slobbery-mouthed sentimentality.
"My word, old chap," he said, "I have looked a bit of late into the philosophy of that foreign blighter, Nietzsche, or however he pronounces his bloomin' name. Superman and all that sort of piffle; jolly ripping sportin'—very top-hole, in fact! Of course, I do not hate Mac as you do. But—might is right! I'm afraid he'll have to kick the bally bucket."
Remained Hayes, Traube, Walsh, and the count.
Graham approached the first two immediately, and both were willing and ready to do business. Hayes seeing the phenomenal rise in Macdonald's fortunes, did not believe for a moment that he would keep his word and commit suicide. He had not much faith in the Western Crown, knowing the company's assets and peculiar business methods, and for a long time he held out for cash.
But, finding Graham adamant on that particular point, he said to himself that even a famine-stricken sparrow in the hand is worth a non-existing broiler on a problematical roof. So he traded in his share in the suicide syndicate for sixteen thousand dollars' worth of Western Crown stock at the market value.
Traube's moral reasoning was different.
"Vell," he said to Graham, "the more der 1st of April near comes, the less I care for der moral responsibility of it. I do not vant to meddle bersonally mit death. It gifs me such a pain in der shtomach. I'm der goot-hearted son of a gun. I vould say to Mac: 'Take your life avay mit you; I gif you a bresent of it.' Vell, but dere is my ambition. Und so mein principles overrule mein sentiments yet. So I make business mit you. You gif me sixteen tausend shtock in der Vestern Crown, and I gif you mein share in der suicide, yes?"
Graham was shrewd enough to have both the gentlemen sign a paper which gave him authority to vote their shares as he wished at the coming stockholders' meeting.
So he controlled now a majority of the shares in the suicide syndicate, which released him from having to approach the count and the cow-puncher, whom he knew to be in the employ of Macdonald and loyally devoted to him. Still, he feared their opposition a little, and was very much pleased when the two men came to him of their own accord.
He did not know that they had been carefully coached by Macdonald himself At first they both demanded cash. Then they asked for a full equivalent in Western Crown stock of their suicide equities. But Graham, secure in the knowledge that he owned the majority of the equities anyway, swore by all the gods of Jermyn Street and Bishopsgate Street. Within that he would not give them a cent more than a thousand dollars' worth of stock apiece.
"I only offer you that because I'm sorry for you," he said with a smile. "Take it or leave it."
The count looked despondent, while Walsh grew profane.
"All right," he said. "You caught us with our boots off. But we gotta take it. Come across."
So Graham gave them the stock; making them sign the same power of attorney for the coming shareholders' meeting which Hayes and Traube had signed; and he smiled a pleased smile when Walsh, as he left his office, cursed him fluently and picturesquely for a scaly-headed, heartless gila-monster.
He would have been far less pleased if he could have followed the two to the street and overheard the cow-puncher's comment to his companion.
"Ain't he the poor simp, though?" Walsh asked the Frenchman.
The count laughed.
"Of a certainty," he replied. "Enfin, you know—what does the poet say—'He whom the gods wish to destroy—' You know the quotation?"
"Sure I do," Walsh lied stolidly and manfully.
The shareholders' meeting of the Western Crown Life Insurance Company came off the following Saturday. Only three gentlemen were present—Houghton senior, Graham and Hillyer, who was acting as secretary, philosopher, friend, and general side-kick for his compatriot.
It appeared that Houghton had voting proxies not only for the few outstanding loose shares, but also for the substantial minority interest of Pat Kenny. True to his word, he voted the former proxies in favour of Graham, thus electing him to the office of president and general manager, and appointing Hillyer as secretary and treasurer of the concern.
When it came to the election of vice-president, Graham nominated Hayes, and he was perturbed when Houghton refused to second the nomination, and proposed Macdonald instead of Hayes for the office.
"Look here, Houghton," Graham exclaimed angrily. "You promised me you would vote your proxies as I want you to vote them."
"Sure enough," Houghton replied. "I'm voting all the loose shares your way. The flood-gates of my loyalty are open to you, and they are going to remain open, believe me! My single-minded conscientiousness is so all-fired great that it's fictional. I'm for you, cap. Put it here."
He held out his aged, clawlike hand. Graham shook it rather limply.
"Then why the deuce—" he commenced; but the other silenced him with a gesture.
"Give a fellow a chance to explain," Houghton continued. "May I never lap up another highball if I don't vote those loose shares your way. But old Pat is out of town, and I promised to vote for him, too. And so I'll have to vote his shares as he asked me to; and he wants me to nominate Macdonald for vice-president."
Graham considered rapidly. What did it matter after all, he thought. Let Houghton nominate and vote all he pleased. He himself held the majority of the shares even without the support of Kenny's shares, and so he could elect Hayes into office. He was about to ask Hillyer to count the votes, with the inevitable result which he expected, when Houghton addressed him in a confidential whisper.
"Look here, Graham," he said. "Don't misunderstand me. There's no hiatus in the manly appreciation I feel for you. But take my tip and vote for Mac as vice-president. Why not? That office ain't going to do him any good. You needn't give him any salary. You can hook all the Western Crown's war chest yourself."
Graham's features cleared a little. But he was not yet convinced.
"But what's the idea?" he asked.
"Well," Houghton replied, "a good deal of the Western Crown's assets are in Red Cañon Copper shares—a most excellent investment, I am led to believe. But, you see, Kenny holds the majority stock of that particular mining company."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"A whole lot," Houghton said. "Old Pat is right smart on the freeze-out. He hasn't got the same high moral standard which you and I have, my boy. You don't know what old Pat mightn't do if we irritate him. He might deliberately ruin the Red Cañon. Or he might levy an assessment on the stock—you see, the stock happens to be assessable. No, no. Take my tip. Don't cross that old warthog. He's set his mind on seeing Mac vice-president of the Western Crown."
Graham groaned. He thought of the Red Cañon stock as one of the chief investments of the Western Crown. He thought of Pat Kenny's revenge. Then he thought of his father's last letter; of his warning that, in case he lost the money which he had lent him to acquire control of the Western Crown, Lord Graham of Penville's Home for Retired and Impecunious Retail Fish-mongers, would get the decision over him in his father's last will and testament.
Then he cheered up a little. For what did it matter after all, he thought. Macdonald's vice-presidency would be purely nominal. More than that he said to himself, and laughed at the thought, it was rather droll to imagine Macdonald as vice-president of the very company in which his life was insured, the very company which had been the main factor in the suicide compact.
"All right, Houghton," he agreed, and voted Macdonald into office.
So the meeting ended. At the door Houghton turned.
"When are you going to look over the books of the company?" he asked casually.
"Oh, in a day or two," Graham replied. "Why?"
"Well," Houghton replied as he opened the door, "mine and the other fellows term of office—Pats and Marshall's and Ritter's, you know—is only out on on the first of the year. But we're going to resign at once and let you step into our shoes. You don't mind that, do you?"
"Not a bit," Graham replied. "I'm very grateful to you, in fact. But why did you ask me about—"
"I'm coming to that," the other interrupted. "You see, it's customary to have the vice-president there when a new administration takes over the affairs of a company."
"All right, all right," Graham said. "I'll drop you a line."
Houghton left, and Graham sank back luxuriously into his chair. He was giving himself over to a series of pleasant dreams. He would assume the reins of office and responsibility at once. He would make the company a success, a big success. He would accumulate a large fortune.
On his father's death—for, of course, the old chap would have to die some day—he would return to England. The combination of his own fortune and of the one he would inherit from his father would be so overpoweringly large that he would be able to resume his rightful place in society. Arrayed against such wall of golden guineas, the wretched old scandal would have to be silent.
Perhaps he would make a large contribution to the fund of the party which was in office; perhaps he would go in strongly for politics himself; a K.C.G. to begin with; later on he would become a marquis—possibly a duke.
But he would have to make good, here in Spokane. That was the main consideration. For there was his father's warning. He would stick to business. His glance fell on Hillyer, who was sitting on the edge of the table, idly swinging his legs and smoking a cigarette.
"Look here, Hillyer," he said; and there was such a hard note in his voice that the other nearly lost his balance and fell from the table.
"My word, old chap," he remonstrated, "you gave me no end of a bloomin' start."
Graham continued in the same voice.
"Hillyer," he said, "I must beg you first of all to stop using such words as bloomin' around these premises."
The other broke into a hearty guffaw.
"What the devil—"
"You will also expurgate the rest of your free and easy diction. You will carefully eschew all profanities," Graham continued inexorably. "You will cut out cigarette smoking during business hours. This is a business office and not a barroom."
Hillyer broke into another loud laugh. He thought that his friend was joking heavily.
"I say," he said, "you aren't going to have me qualify as mistress of the robes, or lady-in-waiting, or groom of the bed-chamber to the king—God bless him—what?"
"Not at all," Graham replied stonily. "I had you appointed as secretary and treasurer of this company, and I am going to have you qualify as such. You're going to earn your pay. You are going to work, my boy, and you are going to work jolly hard. You will be in the office punctually at eight o'clock every morning. Half an hour for lunch. No smoking, as I said before. And, of course, no drinks."
Hillyer suddenly understood that his compatriot was perfectly serious. But when he heard that he would not even be allowed to partake of alcoholic refreshments, a look of such deep, honest grief crossed his mild cherubic countenance that Graham weakened a little.
"All right, Hillyer," he said. "I'm British, and I believe in compromise. You may take one drink with your lunch. But beer, mark you! I say," he continued very seriously, "we've got to make good, you and I. There's my father's letter. He'll be here sometime next year, with a chartered accountant; remember that. We've got to work."
Hillyer did not reply. There was such a look of brooding melancholia in his eyes that Graham relaxed still more.
"Remember the 1st of April of next year," he said. "There's a hundred thousand dollars coming our way on that date. We'll take a little jaunt down to California and—"
"Holy Whitechapel!" Hillyer interrupted with a roar. "A fat lot of good that'll do me if you kill me with work in the meantime."
Again Graham hardened.
"You do as you're told. Eight sharp in the morning; no swearing; no cigarettes; no—"
"Oh, yes," Hillyer cut in, with a sharp laugh, "I quite forgot." He knew how touchy Graham was on the point of His self-made father; so he continued slowly: "You've all those—ah—fried-fish antecedents to contend with, haven't you?"
Graham blushed furiously, but his voice was even.
"Possibly so," he replied. "But I understand they were jolly good fried fish. They chucked my guv'nor into the House of Lords, don't you know. And I tell you that this insurance company's going to be every bit as good as my father's fried fish. You're going to help me. If you refuse—well, I fancy it sha'n't be hard to find another secretary and treasurer."
And so, the next morning punctually at eight o'clock, William Hillyer was opening the mail addressed to the Western Crown Life Insurance Company, thinking longingly of his lunch half-hour, when he would be able to smoke a cigarette and buy himself one—just one—glass of beer.