CHAPTER XXII
In Which Billy Topsail Gets an Idea and, to the Amazement of Jimmie Grimm, Archie Armstrong Promptly Goes Him One Better
While Archie Armstrong was pursuing his piratical adventure in the French harbour of St. Pierre, Billy Topsail had gone fishing with Jimmie Grimm and Donald North. This was in the trim little sloop that Sir Archibald had sent north to Billy Topsail in recognition of his service to Archie during a great blizzard from which Bill o’ Burnt Bay had rescued them both.5 There were now no fish in the summer waters of Ruddy Cove; but word had come down the coast that fish were running in the north. So up went the sails of the little Rescue; and with Billy Topsail, Jimmie Grimm and Bobby North aboard she swept daintily between the tickle rocks and turned her shapely prow towards White Bay.
There was good fishing with hook and line; and as the hold of the little sloop was small she was soon loaded with green cod.
“I ’low I got an idea,” said Billy Topsail.
Jimmie Grimm looked up.
“We’ll sail for Ruddy Cove the morrow,” Billy went on; “an’ when we lands our fish we’ll go tradin’. There’s a deal o’ money in that, I’m told; an’ with what we gets for our fish we’ll stock the cabin o’ the Rescue and come north again t’ trade in White Bay.”
Donald and Jimmie were silent; the undertaking was too vast to be comprehended in a moment.
“Let’s have Archie,” said Jimmie, at last.
“An’ poor ol’ Bagg,” said Donald.
“We’ll have Archie if he’ll come,” Billy agreed, “an’ Bagg if we can stow un away.”
There was a long, long silence, during which the three boys began to dream in an amazing way.
“Billy,” Donald North asked, at last, “what you goin’ t’ do with your part o’ the money we’ll make at tradin’?”
It was a quiet evening on the coast; and from the deck of the sloop, where she lay in harbour, the boys looked away to a glowing sunset, above the inland hills and wilderness.
“I don’t know,” Billy replied. “What you goin’ t’ do with your share, Jimmie?”
“Don’t know,” said Jimmie, seriously. “What you goin’ t’ do with yours, Donald?”
“I isn’t quite made up my mind,” said Donald, with an anxious frown. “I ’low I’ll wait an’ see what Archie does with his.”
The three boys stowed away in the little cabin of the Rescue very early that night. They were to set sail for Ruddy Cove at dawn of the next morning.
Archie Armstrong, now returned from the Miquelon Islands and relieved of his anxiety concerning that adventure by his father’s letter, was heart and soul for trading. But he scorned the little Rescue. It was merely that she was too small, he was quick to add; she was trim and fast and stout, she possessed every virtue a little craft could have, but as for trading, on any scale that half-grown boys could tolerate, she was far too small. If a small venture could succeed, why shouldn’t a larger one? What Archie wanted–what he determined they should have–was a thirty-ton schooner. Nothing less would do. They must have a thirty-ton fore-an’-after with Bill o’ Burnt Bay to skipper her. The Heavenly Home? Not at all! At any rate, Josiah Cove was to take that old basket to the Labrador for the last cruise of the season.
Jimmie Grimm laughed at Archie.
“What you laughing at?” Archie demanded, with a grin.
Jimmie couldn’t quite tell; but the truth was that the fisherman’s lad could never get used to the airy, confident, masterful way of a rich man’s son and a city-bred boy.
“Look you, Archie!” said Billy Topsail, “where in time is you goin’ t’ get that schooner?”
“The On Time,” was the prompt reply. “We’ll call her the Spot Cash.”
Billy realized that the On Time might be had. Also that she might be called the Spot Cash. She had lain idle in the harbour since her skipper had gone off to the mines at Sidney to make more money in wages than he could take from the sea. But how charter her?
“Where you goin’ t’ get the stock?” Jimmie Grimm inquired.
“Don’t know whether I can or not,” said Archie; “but I’m going to try my level best.”
Archie Armstrong left for St. John’s by the next mail-boat. He was not the lad to hesitate. What his errand was the Ruddy Cove boys knew well enough; but concerning the prospect of success, they could only surmise. However, Archie wouldn’t be long. Archie wasn’t the lad to be long about anything. What he undertook to do he went right at!
“If he can only do it,” Billy Topsail said.
Jimmie Grimm and Donald North and Bagg stared at Billy Topsail like a litter of eager and expectant little puppies. And Bill o’ Burnt Bay stood like a wise old dog behind. If only Archie could!
CHAPTER XXIII
In Which Sir Archibald Armstrong Is Almost Floored By a Business Proposition, But Presently Revives, and Seems to be About to Rise to the Occasion
Sir Archibald Armstrong was a colonial knight. His decoration–one of Her late Majesty’s birthday honours–had come to him for beneficent political services to the colony in time of trouble and ruin. He was a Newfoundlander born and bred (though educated in the English schools); and he was fond of saying in a pleasantly boastful way and with a little twinkle of amusement in his sympathetic blue eyes: “I’m a fish-merchant, sir–a Newfoundland fish-merchant!” This was quite true, of course; but it was only half the truth. Directly or indirectly, Sir Archibald’s business interests touched every port in Newfoundland, every harbour of the Labrador, the markets of Spain and Portugal, of the West Indies and the South American Republics.
Sir Archibald was alone in his cozy office. The day was raw and wet. There was a blazing fire in the grate–an agreeable bit of warmth and brightness to contrast with the rain beating on the window-panes.
A pale little clerk put his head in at the door. “Beg pardon, sir,” he jerked. “Master Archie, sir.”
“Master Archie!” Sir Archibald exclaimed.
Archie entered.
“What’s this?” said Sir Archibald, in amazement. “Back from Ruddy Cove?”
“On business,” Archie replied.
Sir Archibald laughed pleasantly.
“Don’t make fun of me, father,” said Archie. “I’m in dead earnest.”
“How much is it, son?” This was an ancient joke between the two. Both laughed.
“You’d be surprised if you knew,” the boy returned. “But look here, father! please don’t take it in that way. I’m really in earnest.”
“It’s money, son,” Sir Archibald insisted. “I know it is.”
“Yes,” said Archie, with a grave frown; “it is money. It’s a good deal of money. It’s so much money, dad, that you’ll sit up when you hear about it.”
Sir Archibald looked sharply into his son’s grave eyes. “Ahem!” he coughed. “Money,” he mused, “and a good deal of it. What’s the trouble, son?”
“No trouble, father,” said Archie; “just a ripping good chance for fun and profit.”
Sir Archibald moved to the chair behind a broad flat-top desk by the window. This was the queer little throne from which all business problems were viewed. It was from the shabby old chair–with a broad window behind–that all business judgments were delivered. Did an outport merchant want credit in any large way, it was from the opposite chair–with the light falling full in his face through the broad window–that he put the case to Sir Archibald. Archie sat down in that chair and leaned over the desk. Sir Archibald stretched his legs, put his hands deep in his pockets, let his chin fall on his breast and stared searchingly into his son’s face. The rain was driven noisily against the windows; the fire crackled and glowed. As between the two at the desk there was a momentary silence.
“Well?” said Sir Archibald, shortly.
“I want to go trading,” Archie replied.
Sir Archibald lifted his eyebrows–then pursed his lips. The matter of credit was evidently to be proposed to him. It was to be put, too, it seemed, in a business way. Very well: Sir Archibald would deal with the question in a business way. He felt a little thrill of pleasure–he was quite conscious of it. It was delightful to have his only son in a business discussion, at the familiar old desk, with the fire glowing, the wind rattling the windows and the rain lashing the panes. Sir Archibald was a business man; and now he realized for the first time that Archie was grown to a companionable age. This, after all, he reflected, was what he had been working for: To engage in business with his own son.
“Then you want credit?” said he.
“Look here, dad!” Archie burst out; “of course, I want credit. I’ll tell you all about it,” he rattled anxiously. “We want–we means Billy Topsail, Jimmie Grimm, Donald North and me–they’re all Ruddy Cove fellows, you know–we want to charter the On Time at Ruddy Cove, call her the Spot Cash, stock her cabin and hold–she’s only a twenty-tonner–and ship Bill o’ Burnt Bay for skipper and trade the ports of White Bay and the French Shore. All the boys–”
“My traders,” Sir Archibald interrupted, quietly, “are trading White Bay and the French Shore.”
“I know it, dad,” Archie began eagerly, “but–”
“Will you compete with them?” Sir Archibald asked, his eyes wide open. “The Black Eagle sails north on a trading voyage in a fortnight. She’s loading now.”
“That’s all right,” said Archie, blithely. “We’re going to–”
“Encounter harsh competition,” Sir Archibald put in, dryly. “How will you go about it?”
Archie had been fidgeting in his chair–hardly able to command his politeness.
“A cash trader!” he burst out.
“Ah!” Sir Archibald drawled, enlightened. “I see. I see-ee!”
“We’ll be the only cash trader on the coast, dad,” Archie continued; “and we’ll advertise–and carry a phonograph–and sell under the credit prices–and–”
Sir Archibald whistled in chagrin.
“And we’ll make good,” Archie concluded.
“You little pirate!” Sir Archibald ejaculated.
Father and son laughed together. Then Sir Archibald began to drum on the desk with his finger-tips. Presently he got up and began to pace the floor, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his lips pursed, his brows drawn in a scowl of reflection. This was a characteristic thing. Sir Archibald invariably paced, and pursed his lips, and scowled, when a problem of more than ordinary interest engaged him. He knew that Archie’s plan was not unreasonable. There might– there ought to be–good profit in a cash-trading voyage in a small schooner to the harbours of White Bay and the French Shore. There are no shops in most of these little settlements. Shops go to the people in the form of trading-schooners from St. John’s and the larger ports of the more southerly coast. It is in this way that the fisher-folk procure their flour and tea, their medicines and clothing, their tackle, their molasses, pins and needles, their trinkets, everything, in fact, both the luxuries and necessities of life. It is chiefly a credit business, the prices based on credit; the folk are outfitted in the spring and pay in salt-cod in the late summer and fall. Why shouldn’t a cash-trader, underselling the credit plan, do well on the coast in a small way?
By and by, his face clearing, Sir Archibald sat down at the desk again.
“How much do you want?” he asked, directly.
Archie took a grip on the arms of his chair and clenched his teeth. It took a good deal of resolution to utter the amount.
“Well, well?” Sir Archibald impatiently demanded.
“A thousand dollars,” said Archie, grimly.
Sir Archibald started.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars in cash,” Archie added, “and seven hundred and fifty in credit at the warehouse.”
“What’s the security?” Sir Archibald blandly inquired.
“Security!” Archie gasped.
“It is a customary consideration in business,” said Sir Archibald.
Archie’s house of cards seemed to be tumbling about his ears. Security? He had not thought of that. He began to drum on the desk with his finger-tips. Presently he got up and began to pace the floor, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his lips pursed, his brow drawn in a scowl of reflection. Sir Archibald, recognizing his own habit in his son’s perturbation, smiled in a fatherly-fond way. The boy was very dear to him; no doubt about it. But Sir Archibald was not sentimental in the affection.
“Well, sir,” said Archie, by and by, his face clearing as he sat down, “I could offer you security, and good enough security, but it doesn’t seem quite fair.”
Sir Archibald asked the nature of the bond.
“I have a pony and cart, a motor boat and a sloop yacht,” Archie replied, grinning. “I ’low,” he drawled, with a sly drooping of his eyelids, “that they’re worth more than a thousand dollars. Eh, father? What do you think?”
Sir Archibald guffawed.
“The trouble is,” Archie went on, seriously, “that you gave them to me; and it doesn’t seem fair to you to offer them as security. But I tell you, dad,” he declared, “if we don’t make good in this trading cruise I’ll sell those things and do without ’em. It isn’t fair, I know–it seems pretty mean to you–it looks as if I didn’t care for what you’ve given me. But I do care; and you know I care. The trouble is that I want awfully to go trading.”
“It is the only security you have?”
“Except mother,” said Archie. “But,” he added, hastily, “I wouldn’t–I won’t– drag a lady into this.”
Sir Archibald threw back his head and roared.
“What you laughing at, dad?” Archie asked, a little offended, if a quick flush meant anything.
“I’m sure,” his father replied, “that the lady wouldn’t mind.”
“No,” said Archie, grave with his little problem of honour; “but I wouldn’t let a lady in for a thing like that.”
“Son,” said Sir Archibald, now all at once turning very serious, “you have better security than your pony and sloop.”
Archie looked up in bewilderment.
“It is your integrity,” Sir Archibald explained, gently, “and your efficiency.”
Archie flushed with pleasure.
“These are great things to possess,” said Sir Archibald.
“Thank you, sir,” said Archie, rising in acknowledgment of this hearty compliment.
The lad was genuinely moved.
CHAPTER XXIV
In Which the Honour of Archie Armstrong Becomes Involved, the First of September Becomes a Date of Utmost Importance, He Collides With Tom Tulk, and a Note is Made in the Book of the Future
Sir Archibald began again to tap the desk with his finger-tips. Archie strayed to the broad window and looked out upon the wharves and harbour.
“Is that the Black Eagle at the wharf?” he asked.
“The Black Eagle, sure enough!” Sir Archibald laughed. “She’s the White Bay and French Shore trader.”
“Trade enough for all,” Archie returned.
“George Rumm, master,” said Sir Archibald.
“Still?” Archie exclaimed.
The sailing reputation of Skipper George had been in question through the season. He had come within six inches of losing the Black Eagle in a small gale of the last voyage.
“Who’s clerk?” Archie asked.
“Tommy Bull, boy.”
No friend of Archie!
“Sharp enough, anyhow,” the boy thought.
Sir Archibald put his hands in his pockets again and began to pace the floor; his lips were pursed, his brows drawn. Archie waited anxiously at the window.
“When,” demanded Sir Archibald, pausing abruptly in his walk–“when do you propose to liquidate this debt?”
“We’ll sail the Spot Cash into St. John’s harbour, sir, on September first, or before.”
“With three hundred quintals of fish in her hold, I suppose?”
Three hundred quintals of dry fish, at four dollars, roughly, a quintal, was twelve hundred dollars.
“More than that, sir,” said Archie.
“Well, boy,” said Sir Archibald, briskly, “the security I have spoken of is all right, and–”
“Not worth much at auction sale,” Archie interrupted, grinning.
“There’s no better security in the world,” said Sir Archibald, “than youth, integrity and capacity.”
Archie waited.
“I’ll back you,” said Sir Archibald, shortly.
“Father,” Archie declared, his eyes shining with a little mist of delight and affection, “I’ll stand by this thing for all I’m worth!”
They shook hands upon it.
Sir Archibald presently wrote a check and scribbled a few lines on a slip of paper. The check was for two hundred and fifty dollars; it was for running expenses and emergencies that Archie needed the hard cash. The slip of paper was an order upon the warehouses and shops for credit in the sum of seven hundred and fifty dollars.
“Now,” said Sir Archibald, “it is explicitly understood between us that on or before the first of September you are to turn over to the firm of Armstrong & Company a sufficient quantity of properly cured fish to liquidate this account.”
“Yes, sir,” Archie replied, earnestly; “on or before the first day of September next.”
“You perfectly understand the terms?” Sir Archibald insisted. “You know the nature of this obligation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, son,” said Sir Archibald; “your honour is involved.”
Archie received the two slips of paper. It must be confessed that they burned his fingers a little. It was a good deal to come into possession of all at once–a good deal of money and an awe-inspiring responsibility. Sir Archibald watched the boy’s face narrowly. He seemed to be pleased with what he found there–a little fear, a little anxiety, a great deal of determination. The veteran business man wondered if the boy would sleep as easily as usual that night. Would he wake up fresh and smiling in the morning? These were large cares to lie upon the shoulders of a lad.
“Shall I give you a–well–a receipt–or a note–or anything like that?” Archie asked.
“You are upon your honour,” said his father.
Archie scratched his head in doubt.
“Your honour,” Sir Archibald repeated, smiling.
“The first of September,” Archie laughed. “I shan’t forget that date.”
In the end he had good cause to remember it.
Before Archie left the office Sir Archibald led him to the broad window behind the desk. Archie was used to this. It was his father’s habit. The thing was not done in a spirit of boasting, as the boy was very well aware. Nor was it an attempt to impress the boy with a sense of his own importance and future wealth in the world. It was rather a well-considered and consistent effort to give him a sense of the reality and gravity of the obligations that would some day be his. From the broad window Archie looked out once more upon the various activities of his father’s great business. There were schooners fitting out for the fishing cruise to the Labrador; there were traders taking in stores for the voyage to the Straits of Belle Isle, to the South Coast, to the French Shore; there were fore-and-afters outbound to the Grand Banks and waiting for a favourable wind; there were coastwise vessels, loading flour and pork for the outport merchants; there were barques awaiting more favourable weather in which to load salt-cod for the West Indies and Spain.
All this never failed to oppress Archie a little as viewed from the broad window of his father’s office.
“Look!” said Sir Archibald, moving a hand to include the shipping and storehouses.
Archie gazed into the rainy day.
“What do you see?” his father asked, in a way half bantering, half grave.
“Your ships and wharves, sir.”
“Some day,” said Sir Archibald, “they will be yours.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that, dad–at least, not just in that way,” said Archie, turning away from the window. “It sort of frightens me.”
Sir Archibald laughed and clapped him on the back. “You know what I mean,” said he.
“You mean that the firm has a name,” said Archie. “You mean that the name must never be disgraced. I know what you mean.”
Sir Archibald nodded.
“I hope,” said Archie, the suspicion of a quaver in his voice and a tremble in his lower lip, “that I’ll never disgrace it.”
“Nor the name of the little firm that goes into business this day,” said Sir Archibald.
Archie’s solemn face broke into a smile of amusement and surprise. “Why, dad,” said he, “it hasn’t got a name.”
“Armstrong & Company, Junior?”
“Armstrong, Topsail, Grimm & Company,” said Archie, promptly.
“Good luck to it!” wished Sir Archibald.
“No; that’s not it at all,” said Archie. “Billy Topsail schemed this thing out. Wish luck to the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company.”
“Build the firm,” said Sir Archibald, “upon hard work and fair play.”
Archie hurriedly said they would–and vanished.
“Son is growing up,” thought Sir Archibald, when the boy had gone. “Son is decidedly growing up. Well, well!” he sighed; “son is growing up and in far more trouble than he dreams of. It’s a big investment, too. However,” he thought, well pleased and cheerful again, “let him go ahead and learn his daddy’s business. And I’ll back him,” he declared, speaking aloud in his enthusiastic faith. “By Jove! I’ll back him to win!”
At the foot of the stairway Archie collided full tilt with two men who were engaged in intimate conversation as they passed the door. The one was George Rumm, skipper of the Black Eagle– a timid, weak-mouthed, shifty-eyed man, with an obsequious drawl in his voice, a diffident manner, and, altogether, a loose, weak way. The other was old Tom Tulk of Twillingate. Archie leaped back with an apology to Skipper George. The boy had no word to say to Tom Tulk of Twillingate. Tom Tulk was notoriously a rascal whom the law was eager to catch but could never quite satisfactorily lay hands on. It did not occur to Archie that no wise skipper would put heads mysteriously together in a public place with old Tom Tulk of Twillingate. The boy was too full of his own concerns to take note of anything.
“Hello, Skipper George!” he cried, buoyantly. “I’ll see you on the French Shore.”
“Goin’ north?” Skipper George drawled.
“Tradin’,” said Archie.
Skipper George started. Tom Tulk scowled. “Goin’ aboard the Black Eagle?” asked Skipper George.
“Tradin’ on my own hook, Skipper George,” said Archie; “and I’m bound to cut your throat on the Shore.”
Tom Tulk and Skipper George exchanged glances as Archie darted away. There was something of relief in Skipper George’s eyes–a relieved and teasing little smile. But Tom Tulk was frankly angry.
“The little shaver!” said he, in disgust.
It was written in the book of the future that Skipper George Rumm and Archie Armstrong should fall in with each other on the north coast before the summer was over.