Blow the Man Down by Holman Day (read the beginning after the end novel .TXT) 📖

was being evicted. With the money that would furnish buoying lighters and tugs and the massive equipment for floating her, he felt that he would be able to convert that helpless mass of junk into a steamer once more--change scrap-iron into an active value of at least one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
And when he and Captain Candage had arrived at that hopeful and earnest belief, following days of tremulous watching of the work the pumps were doing, the young man went again to the main on his momentous errand.
As they sailed into Limeport, Mayo was a bit astonished to see green on the sloping hills. He had been living in a waking dream of mighty toil on Razee; he had almost forgotten that so many weeks had gone past.
When he went ashore in his dory from the schooner, the balmy breath of spring breathed out to him from budding gardens and the warm breeze fanned his roughened cheeks.
As he had forgotten that spring had come, so had he forgotten about his personal appearance. He had rushed ashore from a man's job that was now waiting for him to rush back to it. He did not realize that he looked like a cave-man--resembled some shaggy, prehistoric human; his mind was too full of his affairs on Razee.
When Captain Mayo strode down the main street of Limeport, it troubled him not a whit because folks gaped at him and turned to stare after him. He had torn himself from his gigantic task for only one purpose, and that idea filled his mind.
He was ragged, his hands were swollen, purple, cut, and raw from his diver's labors, his hair hung upon his collar, and a beard masked his face. They who thronged the streets were taking advantage of the first warm days to show their spring finery. The contrast of this rude figure from the open sea was made all the more striking as he brushed through the crowds.
Here and there he bolted into offices where there were men he knew and whom he hoped to interest. He had no fat wallet to exhibit to them this time. He had only his empty, swollen hands and a wild, eager, stammering story of what he expected to do. They stared at him, many of them stupidly, some of them frankly incredulous, most of them without particular interest. He looked like a man who had failed miserably; there was nothing about him to suggest success.
One man put the matter succinctly: "Look here, Mayo, if you came in here, looking the way you do, and asked me for a quarter to buy a meal with, I'd think it was perfectly natural, and would slip you the quarter. But not ten thousand--you don't look the part."
"What have my clothes got to do with it? I haven't time to think about clothes. I can't wear a plug hat in a diving-suit. I've been working. And I'm still on the job. The way I look ought to show you that I mean business."
But they turned him down. In half a dozen offices they listened and shook their heads or curtly refused to look into the thing. He had not come ashore to beg for assistance as if it were a favor. He had come feeling certain that this time he had a valuable thing to offer. His labors had racked his body, his nerves were on edge, his temper was short. When they refused to help he cursed them and tore out. That they allowed his personal appearance to influence their judgment stirred his fury--it was so unjust to his self-sacrificing devotion to his task.
He soon exhausted his circle of acquaintances, but the rebuffs made him angry instead of despondent. Thrusting rudely past pedestrians who were polite and sleek, he marched along the street, scowling.
And then his eyes fell on a face that gave a fresh stir to all the bitterness that was in him.
He saw Fletcher Fogg standing outside the Nicholas Hotel. The day was bland, the spring sun was warming, but it was evident that Mr. Fogg was not basking contentedly; his countenance was fully as gloomy as that of Captain Mayo, and he chewed on an unlighted cigar and spat snippets of tobacco over the curb while he pondered.
Mayo was not in a mood to reason with his passion. He had just been battering his pride and persistence up against men whose manner of refusal showed that they remembered what Fletcher Fogg had said regarding the prospects of successful floating of the _Conomo_. There stood the ponderous pirate, blocking Mayo's way on the sidewalk, just as he had blocked the young man's prospects in life in the _Montana_ affair--just as he had closed avenues of credit. Mayo bumped against him and crowded him back across the sidewalk to the hotel's granite wall. He put his two raw, swollen hands on Fogg's immaculate waistcoat and shoved salt-stained, work-worn, and bearded face close.
Even then the promoter did not seem to recognize Mayo. He blinked apprehensively. He looked about as if he intended to summon help.
"You don't seem to have your iron wishbone in your pocket this time," growled the assailant. He jabbed his thumbs cruelly into Fogg's ribs.
"Gad! You're--you're Captain Mayo! I'll be cursed if I knew you till you spoke!"
"I managed to hold myself in the last time you saw me, Fogg. I was waiting. Now, damn you, I've got you!"
He was making reference merely to the physical grip in which he held the man. But Fogg seemed to find deeper significance in the words.
"I know it, Mayo," he whined. "That's why I'm down here. I have been wondering about the best way to get to you--to meet you right!"
"You got to me all right, you infernal renegade!"
"But, see here, Mayo, we can't talk this matter here on the street."
"There isn't going to be any talking!" The meeting-up had been so unexpected and Mayo's ire was so hasty that the young man had not taken thought of what he intended to do. His impulse was to beat that fat face into pulp. He had long before given up all hope that any appeal to Fogg as a man would help. He expected no consideration, no restitution.
"But there must be some talk. I'm here to make it. You have me foul! I admit it. But listen to reason," he pleaded. "It isn't going to do you any good to rave."
"I'm going to mash your face for you! I'll take the consequences."
"But after you do that, you still have got to talk turkey with me about those papers."
In spite of his fury, Mayo realized from Fogg's demeanor and his words that mere fear of a whipping was not producing this humility; there was a policeman on the corner.
"Don't talk so loud," urged Fogg. "Come up to my room where we can be private."
Mayo hesitated, puzzled by his enemy's attitude.
"It's a word from the Old Man himself. He ordered me down here. It's from Marston!" whispered the promoter. "I'm in a devil of a hole all around, Mayo."
"Very well! I'll come. I can beat you up in your room more comfortably!"
"I'm not afraid of the beating! I wish that was all there was to it," muttered Fogg. He led the way into the hotel and Mayo followed, getting a new grip on himself, conscious that there was some new crisis in his affairs, scenting surrender of some sort in Fogg's astonishing humility.
"Will you smoke?" asked Fogg, obsequiously, when they were in the hotel room.
"No!" He refused with venom. He saw himself in one of the long mirrors and had not realized until then how unkempt and uncouth he was. He was ill at ease when he sat down in a cushioned chair. For weeks he had been accustomed to the rude makeshifts of shipboard. In temper and looks he felt like a cave-man.
"I'm in hopes that we can get together on some kind of a friendly basis," entreated Fogg, humbly. "Simply fighting the thing over again won't get us anywhere. I had to do certain things and I did them. You spoke of my iron wishbone! Now about that _Montana_ matter--"
"I don't want any rehearsal, Mr. Fogg. What's your business with me?"
"It's hard to start unless I can feel that you'd listen to some explanations and make some allowances. When a man works for Julius Marston he has to forget himself and do--"
"I have worked for Julius Marston!"
"But not in the finance game, Mayo!" There was a tremble in the promoter's voice. "Men are only shadows to him when it's a matter of big finance. He gives his orders to have results produced. He doesn't stop to think about the men concerned. It's the figures on his books he looks at! He uses a man like he'd use a napkin at table!"
"As you used me! You have had good training!"
"Well, if the trick was passed on down, it's now being passed on up," stated Fogg, despondently. "I'm the goat, right now. Can't you view me personally in this matter?"
"I don't want to. I would get up and use these fists on you, sore as they are!"
"I'm afraid it's going to be a tough matter for us to settle," sighed the promoter. "I thought I had everything tied up in the usual way. Damn it, if it wasn't for a woman being mixed into it, the thing would have worked out all right!" He let his temper loose. "You can never reckon on business when a woman sticks in her fingers! I don't care if you are in love with Marston's daughter, Mayo! She is like a lot of other cursed high-flier girls who have always had more time and money than is good for them. She is Trouble swishing petticoats! And you must have considerable of a mortgage on her, seeing that she has double-crossed her own father in order to pull your chestnuts out of the fire!"
Having not the least idea what Mr. Fogg was talking about, Mayo was silent.
"You're a cool one! I must hand it to you!" snapped the promoter.
"You'd better leave the name of Miss Marston out of this business with me, sir."
"How in blazes can I leave it out, seeing what she has done?"
And Mayo, not knowing what new outbreak had marked the activities of the incomprehensible young lady, resumed his grim silence, his own interests suggesting that watchful waiting would be his best policy.
"Well, what are you going to say about the papers?" demanded Fogg. "We may as well get down to cases!"
"I'm not going to say anything."
"You've got to say something, Mayo. This is too big a matter to fool with. If you are reasonable, you can help me fix it up--and that will help the girl. She's Mar-ston's daughter, all right, and her father understands how erratic she is and makes allowances for her freaks. But he can't stand for some things."
At that moment curiosity was more ardent in Mayo than resentment, though Fogg's tone in regard to Alma Marston did provoke the latter emotion. It was evident that she had undertaken something in his behalf--had in some manner sacrificed her father's interests and her own peace of mind in order to assist the outcast. He wondered why he did not feel more joy when he heard that news. He remembered her promise to him when they parted, but he had erected no hopes on that promise. It had not consoled him while he had been struggling with his problems. He was conscious that his sentiments in regard to the whole affair were rather complex, and he did not bother to analyze them; he sat tight and stared at