A Young Man in a Hurry, and Other Short Stories

Munn only looked at him.

Sprowl repeated the question.

“Well,” observed Munn, stroking his beard reflectively, “there’s that matter of the title.”

This time Sprowl went white to his fat ears. Munn merely glanced at him, then looked at the river.

“I will buy the title this time,” said Sprowl, hoarsely.

“You can’t,” said Munn.

A terrible shock struck through Sprowl; he saw through a mist; he laid his hand on a tree-trunk for support, mechanically facing Munn all the while.

“Can’t!” he repeated, with dry lips.

“No, you can’t buy it.”

“Why?”

“O’Hara’s daughter has it.”

“But – she will sell! Won’t she sell? Where is she?” burst out Sprowl.

“She won’t sell,” said Munn, studying the ghastly face of the president.

“You can make her sell,” said Sprowl. “What is your price?”

“I can’t make her sell the title to your club property,” said Munn. “She’ll sell this land here. Take it or leave it.”

“If I take it – will you leave?” asked Sprowl, hoarsely.

Munn smiled, then nodded.

“And will that shut your mouth, you dirty scoundrel?” said Sprowl, gripping his riding-crop till his fat fingernails turned white.

“It will shut my mouth,” said Munn, still with his fixed smile.

“How much extra to keep this matter of the title quiet – as long as I live?”

“As long as you live?” repeated Munn, surprised.

“Yes, I don’t care a damn what they say of me after I’m dead,” snarled Sprowl.

Munn watched him for a moment, plucked another buttercup, pondered, smoothed out his rich, brown, silky beard, and finally mentioned a second sum.

Sprowl drew a check-book from the breast-pocket of his coat, and filled in two checks with a fountain pen. These he held up before Munn’s snapping, yellowish eyes.

“This blackmail,” said Sprowl, thickly, “is paid now for the last time. If you come after me again you come to your death, for I’ll smash your skull in with one blow, and take my chances to prove insanity. And I’ve enough money to prove it.”

Munn waited.

“I’ll buy you this last time,” continued Sprowl, recovering his self-command. “Now, you tell me where O’Hara’s child is, and how you are going to prevent her from ever pressing that suit which he dropped.”

“O’Hara’s daughter is here. I control her,” said Munn, quietly.

“You mean she’s one of your infernal flock?” demanded Sprowl.

“One of the Shining Band,” said Munn, with a trace of a whine in his voice.

“Where are the papers in that proceeding, then? You said O’Hara burned them, you liar!”

“She has them in a box in her bedroom,” replied Munn.

“Does she know what they mean?” asked Sprowl, aghast.

“No – but I do,” replied Munn, with his ominous smile.

“How do you know she does not understand their meaning?”

“Because,” replied Munn, laughing, “she can’t read.”

Sprowl did not believe him, but he was at his mercy. He stood with his heavy head hanging, pondering a moment, then whistled his sorrel. The mare came to him and laid her dusty nose on his shoulder.

“You see these checks?” he said.

Munn assented.

“You get them when you put those papers in my hands. Understand? And when you bring me the deed of this cursed property here – house and all.”

“A week from to-day,” said Munn; his voice shook in spite of him. Few men can face sudden wealth with a yawn.

“And after that – ” began Sprowl, and glared at Munn with such a fury that the Prophet hastily stepped backward and raised a nervous hand to his beard.

“It’s a square deal,” he said; and Sprowl knew that he meant it, at least for the present.

The president mounted heavily, and sought his bridle and stirrups.

“I’ll meet you here in a week from to-day, hour for hour; I’ll give you twenty-four hours after that to pack up and move, bag and baggage.”

“Done,” said Munn.

“Then get out of my way, you filthy beast!” growled Sprowl, swinging his horse and driving the spurs in.

Munn fell back with a cry; the horse plunged past, brushing him, tearing out across the pasture, over the bridge, and far down the stony road Munn heard the galloping. He had been close to death; he did not quite know whether Sprowl had meant murder or whether it was carelessness or his own fault that the horse had not struck him and ground him into the sod.

However it was, he conceived a new respect for Sprowl, and promised himself that if he ever was obliged to call again upon Sprowl for financial assistance he would do it through a telephone.

A dozen women, dressed alike in a rather pretty gray uniform, were singing up by the house; he looked at them with a sneer, then walked back along the river to where the young girl still sat under the elm.