The Making of Bobby Burnit

“No, you don’t!” shouted Dillingham. “You fellows are dispossessed.”

He took down the receiver.

“Waterworks engineer’s office?” came a brisk voice through the telephone.

“Yes,” said Dillingham.

“This is the Chronicle. The Bulletin has an extra – ”

Dillingham waited to hear no more. He hung up the receiver with a grin, and it was music in his ears to hear those bells impatiently jangling for the next ten minutes. It seemed to quicken his intelligence, for presently he slapped his hand upon his leg and jumped toward the group of employees in the corner.

“Say!” he demanded. “Who figured on this job for the Middle West Company?”

“Dan Rubble, I suppose,” answered a lanky draftsman, who, still wearing his apron, had slipped his coat on over his oversleeves and retained his eye-shade under his straw hat. “At least, he seemed to know all about the plans. He’s the boss contractor. There he is now.”

Looking out of the window Dillingham saw a brawny, red-haired giant running from the tool-house, carrying a cylindrical tin case about five feet long. He pulled off the cap of this as he came and began to drag from the inside of the case a thick roll of blue-prints. He was hurrying toward a big asphalt caldron underneath which blazed a hot wood fire.

“Come on, Biff,” yelled Dillingham, and hurried out of the door, closely followed by Bates.

They both ran with all their might toward the caldron, but before they could reach the spot Rubble had shoved the entire roll into the fire. Biff wasted no precious moments, but, glaring Mr. Rubble in the eye as he ran, doubled his fist with the evident intention of damaging that large gentleman’s countenance with it. He suddenly ducked his round head as he approached, however, and plunged it into the middle of Mr. Rubble’s appetite; whereupon Mr. Rubble grunted heavily, and sat down quite uncomfortably near to the caldron. Biff, though it scorched his hands, dragged the blazing roll of blue-prints from the flames and, seizing a near-by pail of water, started for the drawings, just as big Dan regained his feet and made a rush for him.

Dillingham, slight and no fighter but full of sand, jumped crosswise into that mêlée, and with a flying leap literally hung himself about Rubble’s neck. Big Dan, roaring like a bull at this unexpected and most unprofessional mode of warfare, placed his two hands upon Dillingham’s hips and tried to force him away; failing in this, he ran straight forward with all this living clog hanging to him, and planted a terrific kick upon Biff’s ribs, just as Biff had dashed the pail of water from end to end of the blazing roll of drawings. He poised for another kick, but Biff had dropped the pail by this time, and as the foot swung forward he grabbed it. Rubble, losing his balance, pitched forward, landing squarely upon the top of the unhappy Dillingham, who signified his retirement from the game with an astonishingly large “Woof!” to come from so small a body; moreover, he released his arms; but Rubble, freed from the weight on his chest, found another one on his back. Biff felt quite competent to manage him, but by this time half a dozen men came running from different directions, and as there were a hundred or more of them on the job, all beholden for their daily bread and butter to Mr. Rubble, things looked bad for Biff and Dillingham.

“Back up there, you mutts, or I’ll make peek-a-boo patterns out of the lot of you!” howled a penetrating voice, and Mr. Feeney, heading the relief party, which consisted only of Bobby and Mr. Ferris, whipped from each hip pocket a huge blue-steel revolver, at the same time brushing back his coat to display his badge.

Those men might have fought Mr. Feeney’s guns, but they had no mind to fight that badge, and they held back while Bobby and Mr. Ferris helped to calm Mr. Rubble by the simple expedient of sitting on him.

Three days later Bobby induced Messrs. Sharpe, Trimmer and all of their associates, without any difficulty whatever, to meet with him in the office of the mayor.

“Gentlemen of the Middle West Construction Company,” said Bobby; “I am sorry to say that you are not telling the truth when you claim that you figured in good faith on this absurd and almost unknown three-tenths-inch scale, when all the others figured on the same drawings at one-fourth inch. The rescue of these prints, covered with Rubble’s marginal figures, does not leave you a leg to stand on,” and Bobby tapped his knuckles upon the charred-edged blueprints that lay unrolled on the desk before him. Fortunately the three inside prints were left fairly intact, and these were plainly marked one-fourth inch to the foot. “Moreover, rolled up inside the blueprints was even better evidence,” went on Bobby; “evidence that Mr. Trimmer has perhaps forgotten. Nothing has been said about it until now, and nothing has been published since we saved them from the fire.”

From the drawer of his desk he drew several sheets of white paper. They were letter-heads of Trimmer and Company and were covered with Rubble’s figures.

“Here’s a note from Mr. Trimmer to Mr. Rubble, requesting him to prepare a statement showing the difference in cost ‘between three-tenths and one-fourth.’ He does not say three-tenths or one-fourth what, but that is quite enough, taken in conjunction with these summaries on another sheet of paper. They are set down in two columns, one headed three-tenths and the other one-fourth. I have had Mr. Platt go over these figures, and he finds that the first number in one column exactly corresponds to the number of yards of excavating in this job when figured on the scale of three-tenths inch to the foot. The first number in the next column exactly corresponds to the excavating when figured at the one-fourth-inch scale. Every item will compare in the same manner: concrete, masonry, face-brick, and all. Now, if you chaps want to take this clumsy and almost laughable attempt at a steal into the courts I’m perfectly willing; but I should advise you not to do so.”

Mr. Sharpe cleared his throat. He, the first one to declare that the Middle West would “go into court and stand upon its rights,” was now the first one to recant.

“I don’t suppose it’s worth while to contest the matter,” he admitted. “We have no show with your administration, I see. We lose the contract and will step down and out quite peaceably; although there ought to be some arrangement by which we might get credit for the amount of work already done.”

“No,” declared Chalmers, with quite a reproving smile, “you may just keep on using the available part of it; for the point is that you don’t lose the contract! You keep the contract, and you will build the power-house upon the original scale of one-fourth inch to the foot. Also you will carry out the rest of the work on the same basis as figured by other contractors. I want to remind you that you are well bonded, well financed, and that the city holds a guarantee of twenty per cent. of the contract price as a forfeit for the due and proper completion of this job.”

“Why, it means bankruptcy!” shrieked Silas Trimmer, the deeply-graven circle about his mouth now being but the pallid and piteous caricature of his old-time sinister smile.

“That is precisely what I intend,” retorted Bobby with a snap of his jaws. “I have long, long scores to settle with both of you gentlemen.”

“But you haven’t against the other members of this company,” protested Sharpe. “Our other stockholders are entirely innocent parties.”

“They have my sincere sympathy for being caught in such dubious company,” replied Bobby with a contemptuous smile. “I happen to have a roster of your stock-holders, and every man of them has been mixed up in crooked deals in combination with Stone or Stone enterprises; so whatever they lose on this contract will be merely by way of restitution to the city.”

“Look here, Mr. Burnit,” said Sharpe, dropping his tone of remonstrance for one intended to be wheedling; “I know there are a number of financial matters between us that might have a tendency to make you vindictive. Now why can’t we just get together nicely on all of these things and compromise?”

Chalmers rapped his knuckles sharply upon his desk.

“Kindly remember where you are,” he warned.

“When I get around to settling day there will be no such thing as a compromise,” declared Bobby with repressed anger. “I’ll settle all those other matters in my own way and at my own time.”

“One thing more, gentlemen,” said Chalmers, as the chopfallen committee of the Middle West Construction Company rose to depart; “I wish to remind you that there is a forfeit clause in your contract for delay, so I should advise you to resume operations at once. Mr. Platt succeeds the unfortunate Mr. Scales as constructing engineer, and he will see that the plans and specifications of the entire contract are carried out to the letter.”

Platt, who had said nothing, walked away with Bobby.

“You were speaking about following the plans exactly, Mr. Burnit,” he said when they were alone upon the street. “I find on an examination of the subsoil that there will be a few minor changes required. The runway, for instance, which goes down to the river northward from the power-house for the purpose of unloading coal barges, would be much better placed on the south side, away from the intake. There is practically no difference in expense, except that in running to the southward the riprap work will need to be carried about three feet deeper and with concreted walls, in place of being thrown loosely in the trenches as originally planned.”

“All those things are up to you, Jimmy,” said Bobby indifferently. “You must use your own judgment. Any changes of the sort that you deem necessary just bring before the city council, and I am quite sure that you can secure permission to make them.”

“Very well,” said Platt, and he left Bobby at the corner with a curious smile.

He was a different looking Jimmy Platt from the one Bobby had found in his office a week before. He was clean-shaven now, and his clothing was quite prosperous looking. Bobby, surmising the condition of affairs, had delicately insisted on making Platt a loan, to be repaid from his salary at a conveniently distant period, and the world looked very bright indeed to him.

The next day work on the new waterworks was resumed. In bitter consultation the Middle West Construction Company had discovered that they would lose less by fulfilling their contract than by forfeiting their twenty per cent., and they dispiritedly turned in again, kept constantly whipped up to the mark by Platt and by the knowledge that every day’s non-completion of the work meant a heavy additional forfeit, which they had counted on being able to evade so long as the complaisant Mr. Scales was in charge.

CHAPTER XXIX

JIMMY PLATT ENJOYS THE HAPPIEST DAY OF HIS LIFE

The straightening out of the waterworks matter left Bobby free to turn his attention to the local gas and electric situation. The Bulletin, since Bobby had defeated his political enemies, had been put upon a paying basis and was rapidly earning its way out of the debt that he had been compelled to incur for it; but the Brightlight Electric Company was a thorn in his side. Its only business now was the street illumination of twelve blocks, under a municipal contract which lost him money every month, and it had been a terrific task to keep it going.

The Consolidated Illuminating and Power Company, however, Bobby discovered by careful inquiry, was in even worse financial straits than the Brightlight. To its thirty millions of stock, mostly water, twenty more millions of water had been added, making a total organization of fifty million dollars; and the twenty million dollars’ stock had been sold to the public for ten million dollars, each purchaser of one share of preferred being given one share of common. As the preferred was to draw five per cent., this meant that two and one-half million dollars a year must be paid out in dividends. The salary roll of the company was enormous, and the number of non-working officers who drew extravagant stipends would have swamped any company. Comparing the two concerns, Bobby felt that in the Brightlight he had vastly the better property of the two, in that there was no water in it at its present, half-million-dollar capitalization.

It was while pondering these matters that Bobby, dropping in at the Idlers’ Club one dull night, found no one there but Silas Trimmer’s son-in-law, the vapid and dissolute Clarence Smythe, which was a trifle worse than finding the place entirely deserted. To-night Clarence was in possession of what was known at the Idlers’ as “one of Smythe’s soggy buns,” and despite countless snubs in the past he seized upon Bobby as a receptacle for his woes.

“I’m going to leave this town for good, Burnit!” he declared without any preliminaries, having waited so long to convey this startling and important information that salutations were entirely forgotten.

“For good! For whose good?” inquired Bobby.

“Mine,” responded Clarence. “This town’s gone to the bow-wows. It’s in the hands of a lot of pikers. There’s no chance to make big money any more.”

“Yes, I know,” said Bobby dryly; “I had something to do with that, myself.”

“It was a fine lot of muck-raking you did,” charged Clarence. “Well, I’ll give you another item for your paper. I have resigned from the Consolidated.”

“It was cruel of you.”

“It was time,” said Clarence, ignoring the flippancy. “Something’s going to drop over there.”

Bobby smiled.

“It’s always dropping,” he agreed.

“This is the big drop,” the other went on, with a wine-laden man’s pride in the fact of possessing valuable secrets. “They’re going to make a million-dollar bond issue.”

“What for?” inquired Bobby.

“They need the money,” chuckled Mr. Smythe. “Those city bonds, you know.”

“What bonds?” demanded Bobby eagerly, but trying to speak nonchalantly.

Mr. Smythe suddenly realized the solemn gravity of his folly. Once more he was talking too much. Once more! It was a thing to weep over. “I’m a fool,” he confessed in awe-stricken tones; “a rotten fool, Burnit. I’m ashamed to look anybody in the face. I’m ashamed – ”

“It’s highly commendable of you, I’m sure,” Bobby agreed, and took his hasty leave before Clarence should begin to sob.

Immediately he called up Chalmers at his home.

“Chalmers,” he demanded, “why must the Consolidated Illuminating and Power Company purchase city bonds?”

Chalmers laughed.

“Originally so Sam Stone could lend money to the Consumers’ Electric. It is a part of their franchise, which is renewable at their option in ten-year periods, and which became a part of the Consolidated’s property when the combine was effected. To insure ‘faithful performance of contract,’ for which clause every crooked municipality has a particular affection, they were to purchase a million dollars’ worth of city bonds. Each year one hundred thousand dollars’ worth were retired. In the tenth year, in renewing their franchise for the next ten years, they were compelled to renew also their million dollars of city bonds. These bonds they then used as collateral. Stone carried all that he could, at enormous usury, I understand, and let some of his banker friends in on the rest; and I suppose the banks paid him a rake-off. The ten-year period is up this fall, and their bonds are naturally retired; but, of course, they will renew.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Bobby. “Look up everything connected with it in the morning, and I’ll see you at noon.”

When they met the next day at noon, however, before Bobby could talk about the business in hand, Chalmers, with a suppressed smile, handed him a folded slip of paper.

Bobby examined that legal document – a dissolution of the injunction which had tied up a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in his bank for more than two years – with a sigh of relief.

“It seems,” said Chalmers dryly, “that at the time you laid yourself liable to Madam Villenauve’s breach-of-promise suit she had an undivorced husband living, Monsieur Villenauve complacently hiding himself in France and waiting for his share of the money. Let this be a lesson to you, young man.”

Bobby hotly resented that grin.

“I’ll swear to you, Chalmers,” he asserted, “I never so much as thought of the woman except as a nuisance.”

“I apologize, old man,” said Chalmers. “But at least this will teach you not to back any more grand opera companies.”

“I prefer to talk about the electric situation,” said Bobby severely. “What have you found out about it?”

“That the Ebony Jewel Coal Company, a former Stone enterprise, has threatened suit against the Consolidated for their bill. The Consolidated is in a pinch and must raise money, not only to buy that allotment of the new waterworks bonds, but to meet the Ebony’s and other pressing accounts. It must also float this bond issue, for it is likely to fall behind even on its salary list.”

“Fine!” said Bobby. “I can see a lot of good citizens in this town holding stock in a bankrupt illuminating concern. Just watch this thing, will you, Chalmers? About this nice, lucky hundred and fifty thousand, we may count it as spent.”

“What in?” asked Chalmers, smiling. “Do you think you can trust yourself with all that money?”

“Hush,” said Bobby. “Don’t breathe it aloud. I’m going to buy up all the Brightlight Electric stock I can find. It’s too bad, Chalmers,” he added with a grin, “that as mayor of the city you could not, with propriety, hold stock in this company,” and although Chalmers tried to call him back Bobby did not wait. He was too busy, he said.

His business was to meet Agnes and Mrs. Elliston for luncheon down-town, and during the meal he happened to remark that Clarence Smythe had determined to shake the dust of the city from his feet.

“I thought so,” declared Agnes. “Aunt Constance, I’m afraid you’ll have to finish your shopping without me. I must call upon Mrs. Smythe.”

Mrs. Elliston frowned her disapproval, but she knew better than to protest. Before Agnes called upon Mrs. Smythe, however, she dropped in at the manufacturing concern of D. A. Elliston and Company.

“Uncle Dan, how much money of mine have you in charge just now?” she demanded to know.

“Cash? About five or six thousand.”

“And how much more could you raise on my property?”

“Right away? About fifteen, on bonds and such securities. This is no time to sacrifice real estate.”

“It isn’t enough,” said Agnes, frowning, and was silent for a time. “You’ll just have to loan me about ten thousand more.”

“Oh, will I?” he retorted. “What for?”

“I want to make an investment.”

“So I judged,” he dryly responded. “Well, young lady, as your steward I reckon I’ll have to know something more about this investment before I turn over any money.”

With sparkling eyes and blushes that would come in spite of her, she told him what she intended to do. When she had concluded, Dan Elliston slapped his knees in huge joy.

“You shall have all the money you want,” he declared.

Upon that same afternoon Bobby started to buy up, here and there, nearly the entire stock of the Brightlight, purchasing it at an absurdly low price. Then he went to De Graff, to Dan Elliston, and to others to whose discretion he could trust. His own plans were well under way when the Consolidated Illuminating and Power Company announced, with a great flourish of trumpets, its new bond issue. The Bulletin made no comment upon this. It merely published the news fact briefly and concisely – an unexpected attitude, which brought surprise, then wonder, then suspicion to the office of the Chronicle. The Chronicle had been a Stone organ during the heydey of Stone’s prosperity; the Bulletin had fought the Consolidated tooth and toe-nail; the already criminally overcapitalized Consolidated was about to float a new bond issue; the Bulletin did not fight this issue; ergo, the Bulletin must have something to gain by the issue.

The Chronicle waited three days, then began to fight the bond issue itself, which was precisely the effect for which Bobby had planned. Grown astute, Bobby realized that if the bond issue failed the Consolidated would go bankrupt at once instead of a year or so later. The newspaper, however, which would force that bankruptcy would, by that act, be the apparent means of losing a vast amount of money to the poor investors of the town, and Bobby left that ungrateful task to the Chronicle. He even went so far as to defend the Consolidated in a mild sort of manner, a proceeding which fanned the Chronicle into fresh fury.

For three months desperate attempts were made by the Consolidated to make the new bonds attractive to the public, but less than one hundred thousand dollars was subscribed. Bobby was tabulating the known results of this subscription with much satisfaction one morning when Ferris walked into his office.

“I hope you didn’t come into town to dig up another scandal, old man,” said Bobby, greeting his contractor-friend with keen pleasure.

“No,” said Ferris; “came in to give you a bit of news. The Great Eastern and Western Railroad wants to locate its shop here, and is building by private bid. I have secured the contract, subject to certain alterations of price for distance of hauling and difficulty of excavation; but the thing is liable to fall through for lack of a location. They can’t get the piece of property they are after, and there is only one other one large enough and near enough to the city. The chief engineer and I are going out to look at it again to-day. Come with us. If we decide that the property will do, and if we can secure it, you may have an exclusive news-item that would be very pretty, I should judge.” And Ferris smiled at some secret joke.

“I’ll go with pleasure,” said Bobby, “and not by any means just for the news. When do you want to go?”

“Oh, right away, I guess. I’ll telephone to Shepherd and have him order a rig.”

“What’s the use?” demanded Bobby, much interested. “My car’s right within call. I’ll have it brought up.”

Shepherd, the chief engineer of the G. E. and W., when they picked him up at the hotel, proved to be an entire human being with red whiskers and not a care in the world. Bobby was enjoying a lot of preliminary persiflage when Shepherd incidentally mentioned their destination.

“It is known as Westmarsh,” he observed. “I suppose you know where it is.”

Bobby, who had already started the machine and had placed his hand on the steering wheel, gave a jerk so violent that he almost sent the machine diagonally across the street, and Ferris laughed aloud. His little joke was no longer a secret.

“Westmarsh!” Bobby repeated. “Why, I own that undrainable swamp.”

“Swamp?” exclaimed Shepherd. “It’s as dry as a bone. I looked it over last night and am going out to-day to study the possible approaches to it.”

“But you say it is dry!” protested Bobby, unable to believe it.

“Dry as powder,” asserted Shepherd. “There has been an immense amount of water out there, but it has been well taken care of by the splendid drainage system that has been put in.”

“It cost a lot of money to put in that drainage system,” commented Bobby; “but we found it impracticable to drain an entire river.”

It was Shepherd’s turn to be puzzled, a process in which he stopped to laugh.

“This is the first time I ever heard an owner belittle his own property,” he declared. “I suppose that next you’ll only accept half the price we offer.”

Bobby kept up his part of the conversation but feebly as they whirled out to the site of the old Applerod Addition. He was lost in speculation upon what could possibly have happened to that unfortunate swamp area. When they arrived, however, he was surprised to find that Shepherd had been correct. The ground, though sunken in places and black with the residue of one-time stagnant water, was firm enough to walk upon, and after many tests he even ran the machine across and across it. Moreover, grass and weeds, forcing their way here and there, were already beginning to hide and redeem the ugly earthen surface.

Bobby surveyed the miracle in amazement. It was the first time he had seen the place in a year. Even in his trips to the waterworks site, which was just north, beyond the hill, he had chosen the longer and less solid river road rather than to come past this spot of humiliating memories.