# The Obstacle

Extracted from the Windsor magazine, vol. 35, 1912, pp. 139-146. Accompanying illustrations by Dudley Hardy omitted.
THE OBSTACLE.
By ROBERT BARR.
THE city of Beversham, in Ontario, is proud of its location, its beauty, and its enterprise. It owns several millionaires, or is owned by them, all depending on the way you regard the relationship. In any case, a dozen of them are in full possession of Beversham Bank, a most flourishing financial institution, which has just acquired the right to issue its own bank-notes.
The pride of Beversham is its west end park, and the pride of that park is its section of the primeval forest, aptly named "The Backwoods," containing in its depths a rest-house in the form of a log cabin, a copy of those built by the old settlers. The Backwoods, even on a Saturday afternoon, is solitary as the inner reaches of Fontainebleau—an excellent place for meditation. To this use it was being put by Rutherford Neilson, who walked slowly along under the shadow of the great trees, hands clasped behind him and head bent. He was an excellent example of young Canadian manhood, his frame stalwart and well-proportioned, his face smooth and clear-cut, genial, good-natured, yet with a touch of steadfast resolution about it. Physically he was in the Backwoods, mentally he was far away in the forest of futurity. Thus he did not hear approaching footsteps; even the cheery call "Good afternoon!" did not rouse him. Next instant he was jerked into a world of reality. The oncomer sprang at him from behind and grasped his arms with a grip of iron, holding him pinioned and helpless.
"I said 'Good afternoon!’" roared his captor. "Respond politely, or I'll fling you into the forest!"
"Good afternoon," replied Neilson, endeavouring to turn upon the other, who nevertheless kept out of sight.
"That's better, and is some slight acknowledgment of my exertions. For the last two hours I have been searching for you."
"Well, you've got me, and if you wish to give me a lesson in courtesy, you should practise what you preach."
The other laughed and released him. Looking round, Neilson was amazed to recognise John W. Morrow, manager of Beversham Bank, and his own chief, for Neilson was cashier of that institution.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his thoughts turning at once to the bank.
"Nothing wrong," replied Morrow. "Why do you jump at such a conclusion? Not the case of a guilty conscience, I hope? You look a little uneasy."
"Naturally, when a man is sprung on from behind in a lonely spot like this. My conscience is all right."
"Glad to hear it. Well, Neilson, I'm going to startle you more than I did just now. I'm no longer manager of the bank. I sent in my resignation yesterday while the directors were in session, and it was accepted with a promptness very far from flattering."
"You've resigned?" cried Neilson in astonishment. "In Heaven's name, why?"
"You've been less observant than I supposed if you need ask that question. I resigned because of the Obstacle."
"The Obstacle? What is the Obstacle?"
"You should rather say 'Who.’"
"Do you mean Russell Simpkins?"
"Precisely."
"But Simpkins is no obstacle to you. Indeed, he is under your orders. I might consider Simpkins an obstacle, but you have nothing to fear."
"Don't make the mistake of thinking I fear him, Neilson. It would be more accurate to say I despise him. However, let us get into the log house. I want to sit down."
The ex-manager led the way to the rest-house. It was furnished like a pioneer dwelling, with a huge fireplace at one end, built of clay reinforced by sticks and twigs, in which rested a half-burnt back log. The chairs were home-made and splint-bottomed, stout and comfortable. Morrow sat down in one, tilting it back against the log wall, resting his heels on its stout rung. He smiled as he noticed that Neilson took a bench allowing him to watch the forest road through the open door, then he smoothed away the smile before Neilson could notice it, and his customary sternness returned.
"When I told you that I had resigned my position, it seemed to astonish you, because I held the most coveted position in the bank. Possibly all faith in my good judgment will vanish when I add that I have accepted a less responsible situation, although I get the same salary, in Calgary, for which place I leave on Monday."
"What?" cried Neilson, turning his face momentarily from the road. "Surely you are never thinking of going so far west?"
"North-west, my son. Please let us have accuracy, which should be the characteristic of every business man. As for distance, it is merely sixteen hundred and fifty-two miles, seven furlongs, nine feet ten inches from the spot where I am sitting."
Neilson laughed.
"I thought Calgary was simply a sort of land office settlement. Is any bank business done there?"
"My ignorant young friend, the bank clearances of Calgary for the last financial year approached two hundred million dollars. There is the land of opportunity! Where does Beversham stand in the face of such figures? In becoming manager here, I had not reached the height of my ambition. I realised that I was at the end of a blind alley, and, from the moment of my appointment, I began preparations for leaving."
"I thought you said it was on account of the Obstacle?"
"Yes, he forms the end of the blind alley, if I may put it that way. I had either to smash him or go elsewhere; but although I might smash him, I could not overcome his uncle, the president of the bank, who owns fifty-one shares of the bank stock, and is therefore master of the situation. I came to the conclusion that the energy necessary to overcome the Obstacle might be better expended in furthering my own interests in another field."
"Isn't there always an obstacle?" asked the younger man.
"Oh, I suppose so, of one kind or another, but I wish to get into a line of activity where honest hard work is the road to promotion. I'm tired of nepotism. And now I will come down to the personal matter. When I gave in my resignation, I recommended you as my successor. I feel certain that the majority of the board would have accepted that recommendation; but they are dominated by the president, and though he is too shrewd a man to force his will upon them, the directors know that any contest is useless while he holds ultimate power. So all Mr. Russell had to say was that, although he deeply regretted my departure, and would have given my recommendation due consideration if it had been made some time previously, he had suspected that I was dissatisfied with my position, and had resolved that the next manager should be one financially interested in the bank. In the course of Nature, he said pathetically, his nephew, who is also his heir, would take his place. It would be to the interest of Mr. Russell Simpkins, more than to any other, that the bank should continue prosperous; therefore, if the directors agreed with him, that young man was the logical successor of the manager whose resignation they all deplored. Of course, the directors did agree with him, so the estimable Russell Simpkins is now manager of the bank."
"I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Morrow, for the kindness you have shown, and the compliment you paid me in making the recommendation you did."
"I am not so sure it was a kindness, after all. Coming down King Street last night, I saw Simpkins emerge from McCarthy's saloon. He had evidently been celebrating his promotion, and was in triumphant mood, consequently injudicious in his talk.
"‘We are rid of you at last,' he cried, 'and that's one sneak disposed of! You tried to put Neilson in your place, but you got left, and he'll be the next man to go. I'll bet you a fiver he's outside the bank in a month.'
"So, you see, my departure has not only left the Obstacle in power, but my attempt to promote you has made him vindictive."
"Oh, that doesn't matter—he was never a friend of mine."
"It does matter—it matters very much. It means that your career in Beversham is at an end. You see, merit doesn't count in a place like the Beversham Bank. Even if all the directors except the president were your friends, they could not save you. The new manager will trump up some kind of a case against you, report to the president, and you will be dismissed. Now, listen to my proposition. Resign, as I have done, and come with me to Calgary. I have been asked to bring with me a capable young man as one of my assistants. The salary will be more than you are getting here, and your prospects will be as wide as the prairies themselves."
Neilson's eyes gleamed at the opportunity held out to him, but his firmly-closed lips seemed somehow to contradict the acquiescence of the eyes. He sprang to his feet, holding oat his hand.
"Mr. Morrow," he cried, "you are a splendid friend, and I am proud to claim you as mine."
"You will come?" said the ex-manager eagerly.
"No, I will fight."
The two men stood with clasped hands, a light of courage, even of defiance, in the eyes of the younger, an expression of pity in those of the elder, as of one who sees a fighter go forth to lead a forlorn hope. Then the stillness was thrilled, rather than disturbed or broken, by a scarcely perceptible humming sound, like the purr of a very gentle kitten. The effect on Neilson was magical. An expression of delight banished the sternness from his face.
"Excuse me, Mr. Morrow," he said, hurriedly withdrawing his hand, "I have an appointment. I'll call round on you to-night and explain." And, with that, he bolted through the open door. The astonished Morrow took a few steps forward and looked out. He saw approaching along the road a two-seated automobile of the latest and most dainty fashion, driven by a very beautiful girl, whom he recognised at once as Stella Ainsley, only daughter of George Ainsley, the second most important director of Beversham Bank. The girl was smiling, and slowing down the machine, that she drove so well, as Rutherford Neilson dashed alongside and sprang into the car. So eager was he that the machine had not been brought to a standstill, and thus without a pause it sped along the road and into the forest depths.
"Well, I'm jiggered!" cried Morrow. "No wonder I couldn't hold his attention, if that is what he was waiting for! A surreptitious meeting! That shows the old man, with all his fear of fortune-hunters, knows nothing of it! 'I'll fight,' says Neilson, and small blame to him. He has something worth fighting for. Yes, and, by Jove, if George Ainsley ever comes to a financial struggle with Stanley Russell, he will need Neilson by his side as much as Neilson needs the girl. Good luck to the boy, say I!"
For some time everything went smoothly at the bank. The new manager took up his duties with that quiet dignity which becomes the position of so important an official. He showed no animosity towards the underling whom, in his cups, he had threatened to discharge. Nevertheless, Neilson was never for a moment off his guard. His attitude towards the chief was always deferential. He paid strict attention to business, and obeyed orders with alacrity and accuracy.
About a month after the departure of Morrow, a special messenger brought to the president a packet containing newly-engraved and printed bank-notes of various denominations to the amount of a hundred thousand dollars, needing only the signatures of president and manager to become currency. These issues are rarely termed bank-notes in Canada. They are five-dollar bills, or ten-dollar bills, or fifty-dollar bills, as the case may be. The contents of the package were duly signed by the president, a long and tiresome job, but carried out by the old man with the conscientious determination he brought even to the most tedious details of his business. Then the bundle was handed over to Russell Simpkins.
The following afternoon Neilson was summoned to the manager's room. Russell Simpkins was seated in his swivel chair, and on the desk before him lay the packet of bank-notes.
"You are a quick writer," said the chief genially. "There's my signature on that sheet of paper. Just take a pen and show me how exactly and speedily you can imitate it."
Rutherford took the manager's pen and dashed off the name "Russell Simpkins."
"Excellent—excellent!" said the owner of that name. "The president is old-fashioned, and acts on the adage that if you want a thing done well, do it yourself. I belong to the modern school of business, and if I wish anything done, I get some other fellow to do it. This is a laborious job, but I want it accomplished as quickly as possible. Just place your assistant at the cashier's window, take this package into the board room, where you won't be disturbed, and sign these bills in my stead."
Rutherford's cue was to obey orders, but, on receiving this command, he stood indecisive, using the interval to tear up the sheet of paper he had just signed, putting the fragments into his pocket. The manager smiled at this sign of caution.
"Would my use of your name on the bills be legal?" said Neilson at last.
"Why, certainly," replied the manager jauntily. "So far as that goes, a rubber stamp would do. It's a mere matter of formality."
"Nevertheless, Mr. Simpkius, I should like to hold your written authorisation."
Russell Simpkins pressed an electric button, and when his secretary entered, said—
"Just type out, in whatever is the legal formula, a permit enabling Mr. Neilson to write my signature on our new bank bills up to the amount of a hundred thousand dollars." And as they waited for this document, Simpkins remarked, in the most friendly manner—
"You seem rather given to red tape, Mr. Neilson. Still, that is a commendable quality. You see, these bills will pass through your hands both coming and going, and I thought you'd the more surely recognise the manager's signature when written by yourself than if my secretary had made the inscription, as was my first idea."
The cashier bowed, but made no comment. The secretary came in with the typewritten sheet, which Simpkins glanced at and signed.
"There," he said, "is your authorisation, and my signature will serve you as a model."
Neilson, receiving the document, took up the packet and departed. Arriving in the large board room, with its long table, he locked himself in and opened the package. The bills were neatly arranged in separate bunches according to their denomination, from five dollars up to a hundred. The young man stood regarding them for a moment, then picked up the typewritten sheet, and once again read it carefully, muttering to himself—
"If there is any trap here, I swear I can't find it. This seems all on the level. I'm obeying not merely orders, but written orders."
After all, he thought to himself, what right had he to be so suspicious? Might not Simpkins's threat of dismissal have been merely an unthinking expression uttered in a moment of exhilaration? The new manager had certainly gone straight enough since he succeeded to Morrow's place. Neilson banished his doubts, flung his office coat on a chair, and settled down to work. He knew at a glance how many bills each packet should contain, and, resolving to begin on the smaller denominations, piled the bundles methodically on the table before him. The moment his sensitive hand lifted the first pile of tens, he realised the weight was short, and so with the succeeding bundles of tens and fives. He did not need to count the bills; he had handled too many of them in his day.
"Ten thousand dollars missing," he said. Locking the board room door behind him, he marched straight to the manager's room. It was empty.
"Mr. Simpkins left just after you did, sir," said the secretary. "He won't be back again this afternoon. Anything I can do for you?"
"No, thank you."
Once more locked in the board room, the young man sat down to think. A sudden chill unnerved him. He had been expecting a trap that would ensure his dismissal, but now he saw before him the grim gates of Kingston Penitentiary. He had accepted the packet from the manager in the presence of the secretary. The president could truthfully affirm that he had given this packet to his nephew, and apparently intact it had passed to himself. It would be his word unsupported against that of three men, two of them the highest officials of the bank, whose good faith was unimpeachable. The very conclusiveness of the case against him braced his nerves, and he mapped out his course.
"After all," he said to himself, "money may be traced, and before the stolen ten thousand can be of any use to Simpkins, he will be compelled to sign each bill." The first necessity, then, was to differentiate between the ninety thousand dollars in his possession and the ten thousand in the manager's grip. He took up a pen and began his work sternly and rapidly. On each note he wrote his own signature, "Rutherford Neilson."
In using his own name, he counted on the carelessness of the manager in neglecting to examine the bills. If he discovered the substitution, Simpkins must either ignore it, or forego the use of the stolen ten thousand. Indeed, the manager had another problem to face that would tax all his dexterity. He must engineer the ninety thousand dollars into the treasury of the bank as a hundred thousand dollars.
When, two days later, Neilson handed the packet, tied up exactly as he had received it, to the manager, the latter merely said, "Thank you," and the cashier went back to his post to await the explosion. Days passed, and nothing happened. The currency had been successfully placed in the treasury, and was now passing through the cashier's own hands from the custody of the bank. But Neilson was under no delusion regarding his own immunity. He set a Toronto detective to work, and acquired important information, on the day when the bank messenger came to him, saying the directors wished to see him in their room, he called his assistant, braced back his shoulders, and obeyed the summons.
"Now comes the fight!" he said to himself, exultant in the fact that it was less his own liberty he meant to secure than the confidence of old George Ainsley, father of the girl to whom he was secretly betrothed.
All the directors were in their places, and Stanley Russell sat at the head of the table, with angry, lowering face, a bank-note in his hand. At first Neilson thought Russell Simpkins, now standing beside his uncle, had lighted the fuse, but a look of bewilderment on the manager's face hinted that the crisis was more of a surprise to him than it was to Neilson. The president spoke—
"Is this your signature, Mr. Neilson?"
"Yes, sir."
"You know, perhaps, that our late manager supposed you as his successor?"
"I do, sir,"
"And you were disappointed with the result?"
"I was, sir"
"Are all the bills in the treasury thus signed by you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Were you so foolish as to imagine that, by a trick like this, you could overcome a decision arrived at by the directors, and force them to accept you as manager?"
"No, sir."
The president's face relaxed a little, and he leaned back in his chair.
"I thought you expected to push us into a corner, as a large proportion of our currency has gone out bearing your name as manager."
"That is a matter for your further consideration, sir. Of course, some explanation must be made to the bank inspector on his next round."
The president sat up. His frown returned.
"Then you do hope to bring pressure on us?"
"The pressure is here already, sir, although apparently you have no one in the bank alert enough to acquaint you with the situation. I am content to act as manager, but only at the unanimous request of the board."
"Well, of all the effrontery I ever met, this beats anything in my recollection!"
It was George Ainsley who spoke, his face red with indignation. Neilson turned to him with a smile, the first that had moved his lips since he entered the room.
"Do you realise, sir, that you are not in the witness-box, but in the criminal's dock, if I may put it so harshly? What you have done may not be forgery——"
"A man cannot forge his own name, sir."
"It is a misdemeanour of some sort," continued Ainsley, his anger rising, "against the law—I am sure of it."
"The law, Mr. Ainsley, is more considerate than you are. It allows a man to take human life in self-defence. My signatures to-day stand between me and Kingston Penitentiary."
Ainsley stared at him speechless. The young man whirled round and confronted the manager.
"Russell Simpkins," he cried, "what did you do with the ten thousand dollars you stole from this bank on the twenty-fifth of last month?"
"You brazen liar!" roared Simpkins, starting forward as if to throttle his defamer. The firm grasp of his uncle's hand on his arm checked him. To the startled gaze of the onlookers, this hand simply restrained the infuriated man from committing an assault. But it did much more than that; its electric grip said to Simpkins—
"Keep quiet, you criminal fool, and give me a chance to save you from prison!"
Simpkins had spoken with contempt of his uncle as old-fashioned, but here was shown that alertness of mind, that instant reading of character, that quick decision, that correct sizing up of a situation, that unscrupulousness, which had made Stanley Russell the richest man in Beversham. He did not even glance at his nephew, searching for traces of guilt. He knew instinctively that Simpkins had stolen the money, by the determined sternness of Neilson's face and his tense but even speech. He knew also that his nephew's blustering and swagger would be of no avail against the quiet confidence of his opponent, who doubtless had proofs ready to support his charge. The president's keen intelligence instantly and accurately arrived at the method by which the trick had been done.
"I'll break his cursed neck!" bellowed Simpkins.
"You'll break nothing," said his uncle, "not even the peace. Take example from your subordinate, and control yourself."
The nephew subsided under the command of his uncle. A sinister smile was on the old financier's lips as he turned to his young employé.
"Mr. Neilson, I desire, before the board, to compliment you on your clear-headed devotion to business, and your faithfulness in service to the bank. I regret now that I did not accept the advice of our late manager, and appoint you to succeed him."
Neilson stood dumbfounded at this unexpected eulogy, this complete change of front, and for a moment fear surged up within him that, despite the trump cards he held, he was about to lose the game, out-manœuvered. The directors, no less astonished, looked on in bewildered silence.
"Gentlemen," said the president, turning to them, "I must apologise for a scene without precedent in our councils, but you will excuse my nephew for his natural outburst when a charge so serious is thus unexpectedly hurled at him. The explanation is of the simplest. The fault is entirely my own. I am accused by those unfriendly to me of being a wily financier, and in this case I have been too wily. I see now that I should have taken one of you into my confidence, but I have always played a lone hand, and did so on this occasion. I overruled our late manager's recommendation of Mr. Neilson. I knew our cashier to be a capable subordinate, but I doubted whether he was big enough for the managership. My nephew was also an untried man. In your interests and mine, I resolved upon a test. Could ten thousand dollars be extracted from the bank without the knowledge of the staff? If it could, then my nephew was the wrong man for the place, and several of his subordinates must be discharged also. Mr. Neilson, it now appears, discovered the discrepancy at once, and he dealt with the crisis in a manner which arouses my keenest admiration. However, he made two mistakes, the first of which explains the second. The first was in believing a trap that might endanger his liberty was laid for him; the second in thinking that the currency was handled only by two persons, the manager and himself. He came to the conclusion that the manager had taken the money, overlooking the fact that the currency had first passed through my hands. I was the man who took the money, or, rather, who withheld it. I expected that whoever realised money was missing would come to me. In such case, that man would at once have been made manager of this bank. I am disappointed that my nephew did not discover the apparent defalcation, the more so because I gave him what I fear was unfair advantage. I bestowed upon him the ten thousand dollars, to be signed by himself, telling him that this amount was given to celebrate his accession to the managership. I was anxious to know how he proposed to invest it, and here my wiliness was rewarded. He answered, as I hoped, that he wished to invest in the stock of this bank. Now, gentlemen, you understand the situation. Whatever I possess goes to my nephew, and his answer pleased me very much. There is no stock of this bank for sale, but I transferred to him from my own holding ten thousand dollars' worth of shares. It is with regret that I add he has yet much to learn regarding banking business. I therefore propose that he be replaced by Mr. Neilson, whom I congratulate on the promotion to which he is invited, I am sure, by the unanimous consent of the directors, as he stipulated."
There was an outburst of applause from his fellow-directors, and his nomination was instantly made unanimous. The president, his face perceptibly whiter than when he began his oration, could not deny himself one malignant glance at Neilson, then he leaned back in his chair and drew a handkerchief across his moistened brow. The directors also were looking at Neilson, as though expecting some recognition of the handsome treatment accord him. The young man spoke very quietly—
"This matter is now perfectly clear. Ten thousand dollars have been taken from the bank, and with that amount a certain number of shares purchased. The irregularity of that deal is apparently condoned by the board. This is most amicable on the part of everybody. I now desire to see the deal completed. The bank has become possessed of ten thousand dollars' worth of its own shares. Very good. I ask that those shares be now produced and placed on this table, made over formally to the custody of the bank."
"What's that?" cried the president, all alert once more. Then, pulling himself together: "Oh, yes, yes, certainly. I shall complete the deal, as you suggest, by giving you at once my personal cheque for ten thousand dollars."
"No," said Neilson, "the shares, or nothing."
This was more than the president could bear.
"What right have you," he cried, "to dictate to this board—a board that but a moment ago treated you with such generosity?"
"To rule out generosity, or friendship, or family ties, or any other consideration but that of strict business, I inform the gentlemen of the board that I will not accept the managership. The shares must be placed on the table."
"Must?" cried the president, rising to his feet.
"Yes, sir. According to your own statement, those shares are the property of the bank, the directors having confirmed the transaction regarding them."
The president cast one swift glance round the table, but saw at once he was without support. Not a man there but knew the importance of acquiring those shares. Their possession would release the directors from the iron control that Stanley Russell had used relentlessly for so many years. A fierce anger dominated the badgered president. It is hard for a despot to dethrone himself at the command of one he had despised.
"I refuse!" he cried, his hands trembling. "You are discharged! Leave the room!"
"Certainly," replied Neilson, "but I go from here direct to the police-station, and public investigation will show how accurate was your eloquent discourse."
As the young man turned, George Ainsley sprang to his feet.
"Stop!" he cried. Neilson obeyed at once.
"Mr. President," said Ainsley, "produce those shares. I don't want to see anyone go to prison."
Stanley Russell realised that he was beaten.
"Very well," he replied meekly. "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen; the shares are in my private room." And with that he disappeared.
"Young man," said Ainsley, still standing, across the table, "do you persist in your refusal of the managership?"
"Yes," said Neilson; "I am going west, to Calgary."
"No, you're not," contradicted George Ainsley, smiling. "I offer you double the manager's salary to take charge of my own financial affairs."
"I accept gladly," said Neilson, "if you agree to a proviso which I shall propose in private." And the two men shook hands across the table.
Copyright, 1912, by Robert Barr, in the United States of America.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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