The Deaves Affair

"Thanks," said Evan dryly. "But the labels I paint bring in ready money."

"Many a young man would be glad of the chance to go around with Simeon Deaves," he went on cunningly. "It would be a liberal education for you."

Evan got up. It was the best argument he knew.

"You could have your meals here," Deaves said quickly. "They eat well. There's enough wasted in this house to feed an orphanage."

"Sorry," said Evan. "It doesn't appeal to me."

"Well, you could have a room on the top floor. You look pretty good; Maud wouldn't mind you. Your living wouldn't cost you a cent."

Evan thought of the supercilious servants. Not for a bank president's salary would he have lived in that house. He said: "I'm open for an offer as I told you, but only during specified hours. I'd eat and sleep at home."

"You're a fool!" said the old man testily. "Free board and lodging! I haven't any money."

"All right," said Evan moving towards the door. "No harm done."

"Wait a minute. Maybe my son would lend me the money to pay you a small salary. He says I oughtn't to go out alone."

"A small salary doesn't interest me," said Evan boldly. "Fifty dollars a week is my figure."

Simeon Deaves gasped. "You're crazy. It's a fortune. At your age I wasn't making a third of that!"

"Very likely. But times have changed."

The old man now opened the door for Evan. As he did so there was a scuttle in the passage and a figure whisked out of sight. "Snoopers!" thought Evan.

"Will you show me the way up-stairs?" he said. "I don't care to use the servants' entrance."

"Sure, that's right," said Deaves soothingly. "I hope we won't meet Maud. Always picking on me."

As they headed for the stairs he said cajolingly: "Fifteen dollars a week; that's plenty to live on. Youngsters ought to live simply. It's good for their health."

"But how about putting something by?" said Evan slyly.

"Well, I think my son might go as high as seventeen-fifty if I asked him. Because you're a good boy and a strong boy."

"Thanks. Nothing doing."

As Evan resolutely mounted the stairs, the old man hobbling after said: "Well, I'll add two and a half to that myself. But that's my last word! Not another cent!"

"Nothing doing," said Evan again.

At the head of the stairs Deaves said nervously: "Better let me take a look to see if Maud's around." He peeped out. "All right, the coast is clear."

They were now in a square entrance hall of goodly size, very showily finished like a hotel with veneered panels, which already showed signs of wear. Imitation antique chairs stood about, and in front of the fireplace, which was certainly never intended to contain a fire, was spread a somewhat moth-eaten polar bear skin. Still it was grand after a fashion, and the old man in his hand-me-downs looked oddly out of place.

"Better think it over!" he said. "Twenty dollars a week! It's a splendid salary!"

"Nothing doing," said Evan, grinning. In a way he liked the old scoundrel.

Deaves affected to lose his temper. "Oh, you're too big for your shoes!" he cried. "Your demands are preposterous!"

Evan continued calmly to make his way towards the front door.

Just before they reached it the old man made one last appeal. "Twenty dollars!" he said plaintively.

A door at the back of the hall opened and an old-young man came out; that is to say he was young in years, but he seemed to bear the weight of an empire on his shoulders, and looked very, very sorry for himself. He was dressed as if he had to be a pall-bearer that day, but that was his ordinary attire. He looked sharply from the old man to Evan.

"Who is this, Papa?" he demanded with the air of a school-master catching a boy red-handed.

The old man cringed. "This – this is a young man."

"So I see."

"Well, I – I didn't exactly ask him his name."

"Evan Weir," spoke up the young man for himself.

"He came home with me," said Deaves. "There was a little trouble."

The younger Deaves was horrified. "Another disgraceful street scene!" he cried. Addressing Evan he said: "Please tell me exactly what happened." He glanced nervously over his shoulder. "But not here. Come up to my library."

He led the way up-stairs, across another and a loftier hall with an imitation groined ceiling, and into a large room at the back of the house, which by virtue of a case of morocco bound books, clearly not often disturbed, was the library. The young man flung himself into a chair behind an immense flat-topped desk and waved his hand to Evan with an air that seemed to say: "Now tell me the worst!" Between the two, Evan's sympathies were with the father.

He was not invited to sit. He told his story briefly, making out the best case that he could for the old man. The latter was not insensible to the favour. His little eyes twinkled. The young man became gloomier and gloomier as the story progressed.

"We shall hear more of this!" he said tragically.

The old man pished and pshawed. "I offered him a steady job," he said, "to go round with me. But his notions are too grand."

"Why, that would be a very suitable arrangement," his son said pompously. "How much do you want?" he asked of Evan.

"Fifty dollars a week."

"That's ridiculous!" young Deaves said loftily. "I'll give you twenty-five."

The scene of down-stairs was continued, with this difference that the son was not so naïve as the father. Evan kept up his end with firmness and good-humour. After all there was some fun in contending with such passionate bargainers, and he saw that for some reason the son was more anxious to get hold of him than the father. They finally compromised on forty dollars a week, provided Evan's references were satisfactory. Simeon Deaves was scandalised.

"It's too much! too much!" he repeated. "It will turn his head completely!"

CHAPTER III

SNOOPING

Young Deaves (his father addressed him as George) passed out through a small door on the left presumably to telephone to Evan's references. His father followed him, still protesting tearfully that the salary he purposed paying Evan would ruin them both. Evan was left standing in the middle of the room. Before he had time to take a further survey of his surroundings the door from the hall was softly opened, and a smug, pale young man in a sober suit sidled into the room, a servant. Evan learned later that "Second man" was his official title. "Spy" was writ large on him. The house seemed to be swarming with them. This fellow had undoubtedly been listening at the door.

"Good God! who would be rich!" thought Evan.