Classic Audiobook Collection - Bucking the Tiger by Achmed Abdullah ~ Full Audiobook [mystery]

Episode Date: February 12, 2024

Bucking the Tiger by Achmed Abdullah audiobook. Genre: mystery A group of down-and-outers decide on the ultimate gamble: they will bankroll one of themselves, chosen by lot, to live well for a year. Then the one chosen must commit suicide after that year, so that the others can cash in on his life insurance policy. Complications arise when the 'lucky winner' finds an unexpected turn in his fortunes. How can he get out of it with his honor intact, or will he 'welch' on the deal? 'Bucking the tiger' refers to the game of Faro, one of the most popular card games played in saloons and gambling halls in the 1800s. The name is thought to have come from early card backs that featured a drawing of a Bengal tiger. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:11:17) Chapter 02 (00:35:36) Chapter 03 (00:51:23) Chapter 04 (01:08:18) Chapter 05 (01:32:19) Chapter 06 (01:49:04) Chapter 07 (02:07:44) Chapter 08 (02:29:39) Chapter 09 (02:50:26) Chapter 10 (03:07:02) Chapter 11 (03:27:28) Chapter 12 (03:47:41) Chapter 13 (04:01:58) Chapter 14 (04:18:32) Chapter 15 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

bucking the tiger by agmed abdala broke richie macdonald was broke for the second time that year for the fifteenth time since he had left princeton seven years ago and this time he was broke for keeps there was no doubt of it in his mind he'd worked all summer and right into the winter in a coal prospect beyond the border near ferny british columbia and the heart of the cutinase four dollars a day five a week for board and no liquor allowed in camp he'd saved practically all his pay and his pay and had come south to Spokane, with several hundred dollars jingling pleasantly and invitingly in his mackinor, and then, well, it had been the usual thing, and this morning he had awakened, in the rear room of Tom Williams's saloon, the splitting headache, a dark brown taste, and ten cents in his pockets. Therefore he had begged Tom Williams to stake him to breakfast, which Tom, who had once been an officer in the Royal English Mariners, had done in regal style. He then bought himself a cigar with his last ten cents, and had finally disposed to him.

of his overcoat for three dollars to an itinerant lumberjack who had just drifted in from an Idaho camp, now he walked along, worried in a way, but jauntily, his five-foot-ten of broad manhood erect and lithe, muscle answering to muscle, he smiled. He cocked an imaginary beaver at the sombre face of misfortune, and told himself that all things come to an end. The first thing to do would be to raise some money. The second to procure a job. It was characteristic of richie MacDonald that he thought of the former before considering the possibility of the latter. Rapidly he ran over the list of what he called his pawnable acquaintances. All of them were working for wages, and spending as fast as they made,

after the manor of the northwest. There was only Marshall Houghton, who was in business with his father, real estate, insurance and promoting. So he walked up to the Payton building, and a minute later he sat facing his old college mate in the latter's simple but luxurious private office. What on your mind? Marshal Houghton asked smilingly. MacDonald stated his demand with brevity. Stake me to a hundred. Marshall Houton usually with the embodiment of warm, massive solidity, but suddenly a thin, cold, bland atmosphere seemed to settle over him, to envelop him from his neatly parted, honey-coloured hair to his well-polished boots.

Awfully sorry, old man, but I can't do it. My own account of the National is overdrawn, and the bank is raising cane, and father's taken and run up to Victoria. on business. I don't know when he'll be back. Drop him a line. No use, old man. You know my father's motto. He pointed at the wall where, above father's desk, a large bit of pasteball was fastened. On it was printed in heavy Gothic letters.

We don't lend money, we borrow. MacDonald read, he flushed under his tan, but he proceeded. What about his job? The other hemmed and hoard. Out with it, MacDonald commanded. Then, as the other did not speak, what's the matter with you you've got half a dozen jobs kicking round loose he pointed at a map which showed the new howton residential edition in blushing rose and hopeful green turn me loose on this let me sell some lots for you you know i can work like the devil when i have to i've held more than one job that's exactly it the other replied his voice was cold you've held more than one job you've held too many jobs you've ranched and surveyed and railroad and god knows what else you've held too many jobs that's held too many jobs that's a lot of you've held too many jobs that

that's the whole trouble. He wagged his finger in a didatic manner. Friendship is friendship, and business is business, and I cannot. Can that friendship interfere with business? I got you, and I guess you're right. He opened his mouth, he's going to say something else. But MacDonald interrupted him with a loud laugh. You're on the right track, my boy?

The right track for business with a large, fat capital B. Stick to it, and you'll be as rich as that famous King Solomon of whom the Bible says. I forgot the words. But, for the love of Mike, don't try to sugar. of the pill? Keep that mouth of your shut tight. He looked like a sea-bass with the mumps. He left the office. Of course, the other was perfectly right, he said to himself. He'd never made good in anything, and he was a college graduate. What was his father's fault, he decided, for that staunch old capitalist had given him $3,000 a year while he was in college,

and as soon as he'd got his degree, he'd expected him to make a living. He'd tried, and he had failed. That $3,000 a year had spoiled him. He had failed from New York to Winnipeg, and thence to the coast, and now he was broke again. He strolled down Riverside Avenue, turned into Sprague Street, and walked into the office of the M&PS. Mr. Robertson in? He inquired? Yes, sir.

All right, don't announce me. He walked into the private office of Gordon Robertson, the Division Freight Superintendent of the line. He'd lost $200 to that short, black-haired Scotchman during the memorable three days' poker session at the club. "'Robinson seemed to be blessed with a full, working portion of that second sight for which his race is famed. "'I cannot give you any money, Mac,' he greeted his visitor. "'I am a very poor man. Have a year's cigar about you.' "'No,' he smiled at the other's naivety. Then he continued.

"'But did you guess I was going to strike you for a loan?' "'Robinson looked perfectly serious. "'It's uncommon cold outside, and ye're not wearing an overcoat, hey?' "'Go to the head of the class, Robertson.' "'What about it? a job. I cannot give ye a job, Mac, Scotchman replied, and turned to the papers on his desk. I've made it a principal never to give jobs to people who play poker, MacDonald interrupted. No, my lad, who lose at poker, the other said, with a dry chuckle, and I wish you a very good

morning. I am a busy man. McDonald walked out into the street, a winter sprung high in the west, trailing with it the frosty pine centre of the coast range. He shivered. and regretted having parted with his overcoat after all there wasn't much difference between three dollars and nothing he turned up his coat collar might as well go back to his hotel he thought he crossed the tracks of the o r n and turned into railroad avenue at some stage of spakeane's development an evil destiny must have struck this part of the town and it had never been able to shake it off the street was lined with dull grey-frame houses mostly empty and its desolate as a forgotten mining camp at the very end of the street a ruggedy building with a potential designation of Eslech's Grand Palace Hotel offered abruptly its towering gables to the skies. It seems

be one of those helpless buildings which change owners, but which never change as mortgages, which are sold for taxes once every seven years, and which are a source of continuous income to the title guarantee companies, one of those pathetic old houses upon which even fate wears in vain, which will stand to all eternity, getting more regattie and more desolate as the year swing by, and smiling vaguely, through dusty, broken,

window panes, at storms and tornadoes and fires and a dozen other calamities which would bring a right-minded house to the verge of despair. Macdonald stopped in front of the hotel. He thought of the promise his past had held, with a shabby present, the bleak, barren, hopeless future. He felt wary and utterly despondent. Then he smiled, as he looked at a pine tree which was raising its gaunt black arms to heaven on the edge of the pavement.

For little birds fluttering from a branch to branch like a loose autumn leaf, its brown plumage brushed by the evening sun with Ruby in old gold. It was vainly picking at the bark of the tree for a worm or another bit of food. Wrong, old top, MacDonald addressed the bird. It's the early bird that catches the worm, not the late. I know. He opened the door. The large round lobby was thick with smoke.

The wars were covered with advertisements of eminent Kentucky distilleries and the inedible traces of many generations of flies. The whole place was musty, second-hand, and speakably sordid. It was steeped in an atmosphere of publicers. poverty and sloth, a commingling of dust and whiskey, of cheese sandwiches, wet tweeds and cold cigars, and the ceiling of really magnificent bronze chandelier was hanging down. Put there doubtless by the first proprietor in the mistaken hope that the town would grow out his way and that his hotel will be the scene of many in very expensive festivities. Nobody had ever had the energy to

take the chandelier down and sell it, so it hung there and seemed like the sunrise on the wrong end of the day. Three men were sitting around a huge cast iron stove in the centre of the room, which was glowing through the awkward tobacco smoke like an evil thing with ruby eyes. They mumbled greetings at McDonald's entry. Hello, Mac, hello yourself. He knew them all. He'd only met them a short time ago, but he knew them well. He was familiar with every chapter in their lives, for they were broke, just as he was. Poverty is both sociable and garrulous. Two of the men had drawn up a box close to the stove and were playing cards.

The third, a good-looking elderly man with pointed moustache and an eyeglass hanging from a broad silk ribbon, which added a mocking note to his shabby coat and grease-stained sweater, was watching the game. One of the card players looked up. He cared to take a hand, Mac, he asked, a plain pitch, and trying to teach his Dutchman's bit even if he hasn't got a cinch high, low, jack in the game.

MacDonald shook his head. Thanks, Andy, he said, and broke. Auntie Watch looked up. pain surprise in his honest brown eyes that ain't no reason why you can't sit in and play we can know each other can we broke hell ain't i broke too ain't chore broke he pointed the tall thin german with whom he was playing cards ain't french you broke too hey there frenchie repeated with a loud voice and turned to the man

who's watching the game ain't you broke busted no mun savvy yes i am the other replied in careful beautifully modulated english with the faintest trace of an accent I am, uh, broke. I am so broke that every morning I have to collect the tiny little pieces of myself and tie them together so that I can leave the room. Ain? But I have told you often. Oh, so often that my name is not Frenchy.

I am the Comte Jean de Salle La Terrier. Not on your life. You can't sport them double-barreled names round this Commonwealth. You're Frenchy and you're broke. He turned again to Macdonald. Hey Mac, Mac, roll broke. even our two festive britishers they're in the bar room now I guess

telling each other what a swell time they used to have before their dad stopped sending them remittances to say even hazes broke he tried to borrow two bits off in the chink bar keeper this morning what did the chink say waltz smiled wait and see he turned in his chair and roared

chung oh chung the door at the farther end of the lobby which connected with the bar opened in a slant you call andy A high-pitched Sing-Song voice inquired Yes, you overfattened yellow peril The door opened a little wider Right you want eh

Stake me to two bits The reply came low-voiced, Passionless, but decisive Me bloke too And the Chinaman shut the door with a bang End of Chapter 1, read by Ingle Chapter 2 of Bucking the Tiger This is the Librevox recording

All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Read by Lindsay Ann Cameron Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah. Chapter 2. Seven Men from All the World MacDonald sat back comfortably in the creaking rocker. He studied the other occupants of the room from beneath lowered eyelids. An idea was forming. in his brain, but so far it was shapeless. He only felt in a vague way that it had something to do

with the other guests of the Islech's Grand Palace Hotel and with Hayes, the insurance agent. Broke, all of them, he said to himself, yet though in the beginning they had less chance than he, they had had more ambition, they had felt more respect for the duty they owed to themselves, In a way they were martyrs to their principles. Therein they differed from him. Andy Walsh had been a cow puncher, born and bred in Wyoming. He had ridden the range from Arizona to Montana, and when cattle gave way to sheeps and farms,

he had crossed the border in the wake of the stamping steer and had worked for Peter Burns, the Canadian Cattle King. Then, ambition had taken. him by the forelock, and he had followed the gold lure, and had gone prospecting in the hoodoo mountains of Idaho. He had come away from their broke, and he couldn't go back to the Burns outfit in Alberta, whom he had left with riotous tales of the wealth he was going to annex. He refused to return broke, a thing to be jeered at and joshed. Traub, the tall fin German, was another illustration of ambition defeating its own end.

He had been a waiter. Steady, sober, conscientious. He had worked his way up from Scullery Boy to Captain at the Savoy Grill in Seattle. Then, last year, a tall Alaskan had drifted into Seattle on the Irene, the first boat on the south run after the ice had gone out of the Bering Straits. He had looked ruffiantly and unkempt, but his buckskin pouch had been filled with nuggets. He had entered the Savoy and had shouted for food, lots of it, done up in style and damn the expense. Probe had looked at the Alaskan, and somehow he imagined that the latter was of German origins,

anti-descendants, and therefore culinary longings. He had sped to the kitchen himself, and 15 minutes later, he had served the Alaskan with a meal worthy of a homesick, teutonic stomach. There was sauerkraut, succulent and pale yellow, pathetic little sausages smothered caressingly in a sour cream gravy, the Baltic, which was now done up in vinegar, and the juice of selected onions. There was a pot of nut-brown beer, some sterling-minded limb burger with slices of hardy rye bread, followed with a slushy cake, which answered to the name of Zunenusin-Tort. The Alaskan had taken one long, comprehensive look at the meal. Then he had given his war cry, for his name was Patrick O'Dwyer Mulqueen.

There had been a fight in which the Sourcrowt and the Zunei Nusentort had played homeric roles. The Alaskan was a wealthy man with influential connections all through the Northwest, and he had sworn by all the kings of Munster that he would have revenge on what he called the unprovoked insult to his national honor and racial dignity. So Troube had been blacklisted through all the restaurants of Washington, Idaho, and British Columbia. He would not go to Milwaukee or St. Louis, where cousins of his were offering him jobs, for he had an ambition, and it kept him in the northwest where he was blacklisted. He wanted a cafe of his own, in Seattle or Spokane, and he had sworn by Thor or Wooten that he would get it.

The Frenchman's case was slightly different, although even he was, in a way, a martyr, a scion of the oldest nobility of France, a dreamer and an enthusiast. He had come to America in search of liberty and democracy. He had found it, had loved it, and proceeded to write a book about it. He had been writing this book for the last 20 years.

It was only half finished, but meanwhile his money had given out. He earned a stray dollar now and then, but he refused to take a steady job. He said it interfered with his style and his clearness of perception. MacDonald got up and walked over to the card players. Troubeau was playing carefully, slowly,

and winning game after game from Walsh. He knew that the cow puncher could not play, and Walsh knew that the German could not pay if he would lose. Yet they played intently. Gold lust was stamped in every lineament of their faces. MacDonald smiled as he noticed it. Somehow he felt that this very characteristic would fit in well with his half-shaped scheme. Even the Frenchman, who was only looking on, was intent on the changing chances of the cards.

MacDonald saw, again he smiled. There was a rush of frosty, pine-scented air as the outer door opened and shut again. A short, stoutish, pasty-faced young man came into the lobby. He was dressed in vaguely sporting clothes of an audacious cut, and his pockets were pulled out of shapes by masses of booklets and papers. There was about him that indefinable something, which stamped him as an insurance agent, not a successful one, and the golden bear in his buttonhole proclaimed him beyond doubt as one of California's native sons. California, too, was his breezy greeting. Hello, hello, hello, brother down and outers. He hailed with a piping voice, which was curiously in

contrast with his stout body. Good evening, Hayes, MacDonald replied. He looked at Hayes reflectively, soliciting insurance all day, doubtless, he thought. There were little booklets and paper blanks, with which his pockets were filled, life insurance. Suddenly, he laughed out loud. He had it. His vague scheme had assumed definite shape. But he needed the others to put it on a working basis. He would have to nurse them along carefully. Otherwise, they might fight shy. So, he returned to his rocker and assumed once more his former attitude of dejected nonchalance. But he was alert. watching for his chance. Hayes slipped off his overcoat and hit the Frenchman familiarly on the shoulder. Well, count, what do you, medoodle? He said, studying another one of our great American games.

The other looked up with a charming smile. Yes, I should put it in my book. Hayes laughed good-humoredly. Say, old cock, don't you forget to push a little chapter or two about my line of graph? It's also strictly and uncompromisingly American. Life insurance? The Frenchman inquired. MacDonald looked up quickly, but relapsed at once. He said to himself that he couldn't afford to show his hand too soon. You're on, kid. The Californian replied. The Frenchman winced at this appellation, but Hayes continued in his usual loud piping tenor. Yes, life insurance, the greatest little old buckle game west of the divide. He laughed. Speaking about Bucco games, he went on.

Where's Hillier? Spokane's Prize book agent. Where's that ha-hying little specimen of arrogant British humanity? And where's his noble running mate? Captain the Honorable Ralph Vasur and something Graham. The next moment, a furious commotion which drifted into the lobby from the adjacent barroom, answered Hay's question. At first came the faint sounds of a low voice, evidently British and probably drunk. It went on for a while in an argumentative solo, steadily crescendo, and emphasizing a point now and then with the clink of a glass against the bar.

Then another voice, of the same insular origin and the same probable state of alcohol inflation, chimed in. The two voices rose to a very loud duet, and then a third. joined in very suddenly. The third voice was Mongolian, sing-song, bitter, excited, and v2 purative in every word and inflection. Finally, it won out over the other two. It became louder and louder, bouncing up with fantastic kangaroo leaps and burst of breathless speech, of which it was not always easy for the men in the lobby to pick up the thread. But even the few words they heard distinctly were descriptive of the scene, which was being enacted in the bar room.

You get a hella out! Sing songed the voice. You bloke, bloke you no damn good. A short pause. Again, the rumbling British duet. Then a shriek of Mongolian, which rose into an ear-splitting yell. You get a hell out pretty quick. I don't care who you are, and you know good.

I savvy that! The last word with thudding emphasis, a confused answer from the duet, and again the Mongol solo. What do you mean talking like that, hey? You know like American? You get out. You bloke American. You bloke everywhere, savvy. All you do is kick, kick, kick, kick and drinkie, drinkie, you know drinking for drinky. You drinkie for drunky. You drinkie for dronky. There was a splintering sound as a glass being smashed. The next moment the bar room door opened, a flash-like vision of two yellow fists in a substantial Chinese foot covered with a padded slipper, a final shriek of victory in triumph, and two figures were precipitated out of the bar. After them came hurtling a couple of glasses and a tall brass cuspidor, which luckily missed

their aim. Then the door shut with a slam. The two men who had been kicked out in such in such in a small, ignominious fashion, slowly pick themselves up. The first took the form of a tall, slight, yellow-haired man with a hooked Norman nose, sharp blue eyes, and a boldly receding chin. His clothes of a violent and very hairy green tweed still spoke of Seville Road through their tatters and stains, while his necktie, a chaste silken blend of Cherise and Rose, fairly shouted of the Burlington Arcade.

The other was younger, very short and exceedingly broad. He had clothes curling, chestnut brown hair, and the face of a cherub, who for years had been dieting on underdone chops, Cumberland Pie, and Scotch Whiskey. His clothes were of the hand-me-down variety. His hat was a Stetson. But still it was not hard to classify him as one of Britain's younger son, the sword who receives a quarterly remittance on the understanding that the tight little aisle shall know him no more. The two men looked at each other. They were suddenly quite sober.

My word! said the shorter one, William Hillier by name, with a little pathetic catch in his voice, and his friend, Captain the Honorable Ralph Vasur Graham, drummed out of the Cape Mountain Rifles because he had played cards. too well, replied in kind. My word, I'm blessed. Then, on MacDonald's polite inquiry as what seemed to be the trouble, he added, O'Illia and I had a slight difference of opinion with that Chinese blighter in there, you know?

There was a roar of laughter. Graham looked, stony-eyed, impertable. Hillier broke at first into a little chuckle, but, noticing his countryman's sphinx-like countering, he spedily readjusted his facial muscles and said once more. My word. But this time, with a certain error of dignified finality, but MacDonald had his reasons for insisting.

He knew the more bitterly dissatisfied these broken men were with life, the more easily he would be to win them over to his scheme, which he had thought out. Come on, Graham, he said. Tell us what happened. Graham yawned. He spoke with ponderous precision. We had a few drinks, Celia and I, and we both broke, you know, and so quite naturally, I asked the beggar to charge him up. Then he got positively rough.

Very, very! chimed in his cherub to face a friend. And then, Graham continued, I explained him, wrong of me, I fancy, always rotten faux par to get familiar with the serving class, that I explained to him the reasons for our temporary pecuniary embarrassment. I imagine I rather talked a bit above his head. I told him it's the fault of his a curse country. I beg a pardon, Mac, but he got very indignant. Told me something about America and getting out. MacDonald laughed.

I heard that part. Graham flushed. I couldn't very well argue the point with him. Walsh looked up from his cards. You bet your sweet laugh you couldn't. He broke in and pointed at the cuspidore which the infuriated Chung had hurled after the two Englishmen. Graham continued as if he had not heard the interruption. You know I'm right, Mac, take me and yourself and Ilya.

Take the count. All of us chaps of ability, education and personality, and not one of us able to make a living here. In a new rich country by Jupiter. it's a shame. Right on, a blooming shame. Hillier emphasized. MacDonald smiled.

The situation was developing the way he wished it to. He thought of a letter his father had written him after his last demand for money, and he quoted, more or less, unconsciously. There's a job and a future for every man with energy and brain in this country.

The West is all right. Look at men. Right in this day, town. Men like Houton and Kennedy? They started with nothing. See what they are today? Graham looked annoyed. The idea of others having money had always been distasteful to him, something in the nature of a personal affront. He was about to speak, but MacDonald continued. It's we who are at fault, not the land. He was beginning to convince himself, and he waxed enthusiastically. We are broke because we deserve it.

I fancy you ought to know. Cram broke in with sardonic mildness. You bet I know, MacDonald replied with uttering ringing conviction. I've had a lot of chances. I've held a dozen jobs since I left Princeton and shed my blushing peg top pants. I made money, too, lots of money. He laughed a little bitterly.

But I lost the dollars, as fast as I roped them in. Blugie, bang! Whop, gone! To the devil. And nothing to show for them except a ruined liver, a bulbous conscience,

and a taste for gin-fizzes in the morning. It's our fault. Not the countries. Walsh suddenly threw down the cards. He turned. Say, you fellas. What's all row about?

McDonald explained, and the cow punchers snorted contemptuously. Why the hell don't you want to work if he want money? Graham shrugged his shoulders. His lips were twisted in a thin, unpleasant smile. Very democratic and very American, I am sure. Suddenly, he was quite serious,

and his ordinary mannerisms were dropping away from him. I personally do not work, because the game isn't worth the candle. I can make two dollars a day here, I fancy. We can all do that. Well, tell me, what is it, $2 a day. Give me a few thousand dollars. Cash down. Give me steak worthwhile. I'll show you what I can do. There was a general murmur of assent. MacDonald was secretly delighted. Things were coming exactly the way he wanted them to. He walked over to the window and looked out. The sun had sunk behind

the canyon of Hangman's Creek. A fleet of little vagabond clouds were sailing across the sky. which was rapidly changing from gold to pink and from pink to silvery gray. Suddenly, he turned and walked back to the center of the room. Look here, you fellows, he said. They looked up. MacDonald's voice was loud, ringing. It compelled their interest. Just imagine, MacDonald continued.

Here we are, seven men, all of us in the prime of our life, and as healthy as baby steer. Some of us are highly educated, just as strong and powerful. But with all these qualities, the qualities which go to make a man, what are we, eh? What have we accomplished? He laughed. I'll tell you what we are. He jumped onto the box on which Walsh and Traub had been playing cards

and addressed them in a manner of a sideshow speeler. Exhibit A, he shouted, pointing an accused finger at the German, "'Eertraub, cursed with the prefix got Lieb. "'Once you were a slinger of high-classed hash "'for the gentry and nobility of Seattle, "'once you used to coax the merry dollars "'from buckskin pouches of furry Alaskins. "'Then you fell foul of an Irishman.

"'What are you today? "'You're broke. "'You're down and out.' "'He paused for a moment, "'glancing around the circle of laughing men. Then he singled out Walsh. As Exhibit B, we have Andy Walsh. Formerly the Terror of the Wyoming Plains,

the champion bull thrower of the Grand and Cocky State of Arizona. And what is he now? Broke, down and out. He bowed. Mocked ceremoniously. Captain the Honorable Ralph Vasur Fitzherry's Mordaunt Graham. Have I got it all straight? Take yourself, formerly the intrepid killer of many and hairy bowers,

the pride of Mayfair and despair of Petticoe Lane. What are you now? You're down and out. Graham was about to give a sharp answer, but MacDonald continued quickly, turning to Hillier. Step forward, friend Hillier, from Hillier, Supermare, Sussex England. Step forward! Descendant of a thousand generations of, of fox-hunting squires who died like gentlemen from the gout.

Once you carried tea baskets to ancient female villagers, once you played rustic games with the daughters of the vicarage, then you got thirsty. Oh, so very thirsty. And what are you today? You sell the history of the United States in 15 volumes 10 cents down and three cents every five minutes. In other words, your...

down and out. He addressed the Frenchman with a little sign. Comeeth now the flower of the floor boy, St. Germain, the monocled hero of the inner boulevards, the Cangine de Salaterine. Think back, monsieur. Remember the dear old days when you fought bloodless duels, when you flirted with the wife of your best friend, when you charmed feminine ears with those lyrics which a poet in a moment of inspiration compared to the scintillating magnesium of a steamed clam. Are you still arrayed in white spats and a comic high hat? No, you're bust, you're down and out. He continued after a short pause. Remains Donald Pays. The native son, the booster from Boosterville on the broad Pacific. Where the climate and the oranges and the fleas come from. The sun of the wild 40s.

49ers who cross the prairies and stalk gold and bears and Indians and other savage things. Tell me, Hayes, do you still stock Indians and bears like your renowned, thorough, unwashed ancestors of the 49ers? No, by heck, you stock the petticoats to her savage layer. You stock grocery clerks to the suburban homes and beguile them into buying insurance from the Western Crown Life Insurance company, step back. You're down and out. Quail, par, what about your sale? Wallstrawled.

McChonald jumped down from the box. He laughed. You know yourself, he said. That I've a little more nerve than the rest of you. But what of it? I used to lead the coltolition in the best southern houses in Washington, D.C. In my slightly swollen veins, runs the blood of the sons of the American Revolution,

the Grand Army of the Republic, the daughters of the Confederacy, and the Elks. When I played football for Princeton, I killed two men of Yale and seriously crippled three others. And what of that? What has remained of the past glories? Nothing, my friends.

I'm broke. I too am down and out. What do you won't do about it? It was Walsh who spoke. Are you going to work? No, said McDonald. Not if I can avoid it. I've got a plan that's got work skinned a dozen miles.

Listen, you fellows. There was a general commotion, a plan which didn't imply work. That sounded promising. They pulled up their chairs and gathered closely around MacDonald. Shoot! Commanded Walsh. End of check.

Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of Bucking the Tiger This is the Librivox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org. Read by Lindsay Ann Cameron. Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah. Chapter 3. The Plan Let Us, MacDonald began, and we were, was suddenly silent. Let's what? asked Andy Walsh. For several dragging seconds, MacDonald studied the eager faces about him. He said to himself that it would be a good deed to put a puppy with hydrophobia out of its pain, though it would probably struggle for the miserable

tatters of its life while it was being killed, and that it would be as deserving a deed to do away with these rotten human failures around him. Still, a great science, might extract some life, giving serum from puppy's stark corpse. So why not? He smiled. Let's wood! Walsh asked again. McDonnell lean forward eagerly, gathering eyes like a hostess who is about to rise from table. Let's discount our own death, he said. There was a patch of silence, Hillier closed his eyes and opened his mouth in a manner of an aged but desolate sturgeon. I say, old chap, he ejaculated. You aren't spoofing by any chance. Not in the least. MacDonald turned to Hayes. Tell me, my native son. How much premium does your company

charge for an insurance, straight life, of $100,000? Hayes took a long, slim booklet from his pocket, and commence turning over the pages. It all depends, Mack, he replied. The cheapest insurance, the Western Crowns, writes, is one, well, it's meant for suckers. It don't cost so very much for the first year, nor the second, but the premiums rise gradually, year after year, and by the 10th year, you've got to hand over a pretty penny, and you got to keep on coming across until you die. The longer you live, the more you got to pay. ain't the sort of insurance for a healthy man, nor can you borrow a single cent on it, and of course,

if at any time you fall down on a single premium, you don't get back a cent, you lose your whole ante. That doesn't matter. How much is the first year's premium? What age? MacDonald glanced around the company, quickly striking an average. About 30 years, I guess. 100,000 bones, you say?

Yes, Hayes pointed at the book. There you are, Mack. Two thousand bones premium the first year. What do you want to know for? He laughed. You aren't thinking of taking out any insurance, are you? Perhaps I am, MacDonald said, ignomatically. Perhaps I am, Hayes.

Perhaps you are, he added. Perhaps Graham is. Perhaps Walsh. Perhaps. He ignored a somewhat wild expression on the faces of the others. and continued with eminent cheerfulness. You see, it's funny. You pay your little premium the first year.

2,000 bones, you say. Well, suppose you die right after you've taken out your policy. At once, your weeping airs collect the 100,000 plunks. Damn good investment, if you asked me. Graham laughed. A lot of good it would do when you're dead and buried. Right on, chimed the cherub-faced satellite, emphasizing the point as usual.

A blooming lot of good. MacDonald planted the points of his ten long fingers on his knees after the manner of a visiting clergyman come to console the widow and the orphans. He smiled reflectively. That's just what I said. It's too bad there isn't a way by which a man can discount his own death, collect the insurance while he's still alive.

Traub and the Frenchman looked at each other, the century-old hatred of continental neighbors fell away before this transatlantic madness. The two Englishmen looked frankly bored. But Hayes and Walsh, being Americans, were even willing to discuss the impossible. Say, it was the cowpuncher who spoke. That'll be a hell of fat proposition for the company. MacDonald replied in a low voice, and yet violently. And what of it?

And if it's right for the company to bet against your death? is it wrong for me to bet against the company? Sure it ain't, laughed Walsh. But the company deals, always. And the company stacks the deck, always. MacDonald stuck to his position. He spoke solidly. Well, suppose I showed you a way of stacking the cards against the company,

of cutting the deck and dealing yourself. Suppose I show you a way of making some money, real money. Are you with me? All of you? Money? There was a sweet sound to the word. Sweet and soothing. Even the Europeans showed interest once more. The six men knew that MacDonald was no fool. They could sense that he had a concrete idea in the back of his brain, but they feared that the idea had something to do with broad. They were not adverse to fraud on any moral grounds, but they feared the legal consequences. Hayes voiced their sentiments. Say, Mac, your little game has been tried. The Walla Walla Jail's full of impetuous promoters who've tried to stack the deck against life insurance people.

Say, those companies wouldn't believe you dead even if they saw you buried in your grave. You got to die before five notary publics and three witnesses, and they appoint the witnesses. Then he hedged. Still, if your scheme's really worthwhile, I guess we'd be willing to... He paused and looked at the others. Say, fellas, wouldn't we? There was a feebly fluttering murmur of assent. It was not very hardy.

They did not want to commit themselves. Yet MacDonald had spoken of real money. Why, yes, they declared. They are willing to be shown. MacDonald congratulated himself. He saw that they would be reluctant if he could show them how to break the law without rude interference

on the part of the district attorney. and he had no intention of breaking the law at all. He spoke very slowly. Suppose we all chip in together. Suppose we buy a heavy insurance, say $100,000 for one of our number. Well, what good would that do? Inquired, Throb.

The fellow votes insured ain't going to die just to oblige the others, is he? Why not? MacDonald asked casually. and was silent. The others looked at him aghast. They drew a little away from him, as if he was a dangerous maniac. MacDonald continued, in a quiet but ugly voice. Why shouldn't you die, Troub? Why shouldn't Graham die, or the Count, or myself, or any one of us, for that matter? Will there be anyone to regard us, to mourn us, our nasty lounging ways, our ineffective kicking

and snarling, our rotten little failures, our filthy little joys, he stopped. He had the look of something isolated and hostile amid the subdued excitement of the others. Subconsciously, they knew what MacDonald meant. Subconsciously, they were afraid of it. So there was a little surprise at McDonald's next words. The man whose life we ensure will have to commit suicide. That's all. There was a great gust of odd silence, but MacDonald continued without giving them breathing space, turning loose his whole forcible personality like a cyclone. I'm perfectly serious, he shouted.

We're broke. We're down and outers. Nobody gives a damn for us, and we don't give a damn for each other or for ourselves. We're sick of being broke. We're sick of earning a miserly little three or four hundred bones now and again. We want real money. Three, four, five thousand dollars. Enough to give us a chance.

Enough to give us a new start. You bet your laugh. Walls chimed in, and the others agreed in a rumbling chorus. You see, you agree with me, MacDonald continued enthusiastically. There's exactly one way, and I've pointed it out to you. We'll chip in. All of us, all but one. We buy a heavy insurance for that one.

He kills himself, and we divide the money. Hillier burst in with a laugh. Right on, ripping idea, regular sizzler route. But Hayes shook his head. There's a little nigger in your woodpile, Mac. For, you see, my company don't pay in case of suicide, unless... MacDonald smiled. He had known the objection, and had already discounted it.

Unless what? he asked. unless a year has elapsed between the date on which a man takes out his policy and the date on which he commits suicide. And that's all right, too, MacDonald replied. It simply amounts to this, that we have to chip in a little more, all of us. Hayes was going to raise another objection, but MacDonald cut him short impatiently. Good heavens, man, can't you see? It's as clear as pea soup. We've got to stump up enough money to pay the first year's premium. that's the main proposition. But it appears that our suicidal appointee has to live a year before he can make his grand kickoff, which allows us to collect his insurance.

All right? So all we've got to do is chip in a little more cash. The man has to live a year before we can realize on our investment. Don't you see? If a fellow's kind enough to cut his throat, as so to line our pockets, we've got to be a sport and make that last year one grand little spree-free for him. We've got to chip in more. We've got to make the last year worthwhile for him. No work for him, eh? No worry, just the continuous alcoholic bliss. And then, at the end of the year,

the kickoff. Again, odd silence swept through the room. Only Hillier, at the thought of the whole year's alcoholic bliss, ejaculated aloud, hurrah! But was instantaneously quiet when he noticed the rather tragic expressions of the others. But the silence lasted only a few moments. There were excited whispers and exclamations. Gold. Gold, they thought. A chance and a start. A new start. Trobe thought of the cafe. Hayes thought of an orange grove in Southern California. Walsh of a riotous and plutocratic descent upon his former fellow cowpunchers in Alberta. While the Frenchman was considering vaguely how long it would take. for him to finish his book and how much it would cost him to be his own publisher.

Only Graham stuck a discordant note. He disliked the American instinctively. What is it, Mac? He said with a smile which seemed molded in marble. The survival of the fittest, or the extinction of one of us, who is the most unfit? MacDonald hardly heard him. He rose to his feet, gesticulating, excited, carried away on his own eloquence.

What does death amount to after all? He cried. And what does life amount to for that matter? The difference between the two is nothing but a wrong calculation. Don't you see that unless you're rich and carefree, you're paying too big a price for the privilege of living? We're broke. The world's against us.

And here's one way to get the best of that beast of the world and to make life worthwhile and to put us on our feet. Here's the way for all of us. All of us but one. Yes, the Frenchman said softly. But what about that one? MacDonald laugh. Well, count, it's the old story of the sailors who were shipwrecked on a desert aisle.

They got hungry, very hungry. They didn't like the idea. Didn't care much for roasted sailor, but they had to do it. They had to eat one of their numbers to keep alive. we too are shipwrecked sailors shipwrecked in the gales of life let's turn cannibals let's eat one of ourselves what do you say quick decide come on don't be pikers there was an uncomfortable silence suddenly each of the six men decided that he would be the one who'd have to commit suicide at the end of the year and the thought dampened their enthusiasm macdonald sensed their hesitation and he perceived their hesitation and he perceived seated to whip them into line once more. Come on, he shouted furiously. Let's see if you've got two ounces of sporting blood left. Don't be afraid. This is as straight a gamble as there ever was. We all have the same chance. For six of us, a substantial sum of money at the end of the year.

Enough for a new chance, a new start in life. And for the seventh one of peace and plenty. No worry, no hunger, no thirst, no tramping in the streets, no hunting for job, no dirty, nasty laging houses. And at the end of the year, he lowered his voice. At the end of the year, a quiet, quick, clean death. And the comedy is finished. Good God, what more do you want, you cowards? Do you want to live forever? Wals jumped up as if raised by a spring.

I'll go, ye old sport. He shouted, then he turned. turned to the others. Come on in, the water's fine. And the next moment, with shouts and yells and sporadic spurts of hysterical laughter, they had all agreed to the crazy proposal. Even Graham lost some of his sneering composure. Faint red spots appeared on his pallid cheeks. All right, he said, and his voice trembled a little. Oh, blooming right, you mean. Broke in his countrymen and faithful satellite, then he turned to MacDonald and shook his ham, pump-handle fashion. Glossal brain you've got all top. Corking idea extraordinarily feasible, very sporty, in fact,

only... He scratched his curly hair. If you will pardon me for introducing sorrow details. How much were this little escapade cost us a piece? And who's going to be the blooming goat? End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Bucking the Tiger This is the Librevox recording All Librevox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer

Please visit Librevox.org Read by Lindsay and Cameron Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah Chapter 4 The Turn of a Card Hilliard's remarks had certain reactionary effects on the outflushing enthusiasm of the others. While MacDonald was speaking, they had felt themselves caught in an uncustom eddying of things happening, things new and strange, with a golden bait wriggling at the tail's end.

But here was something concrete. The Englishman's materialism had put it into words. How much would it cost them? and who would be the goat. MacDonald settled the first question in short time. You heard what Hayes said. $2,000 premium the first year. I'll knock off my commission.

Say, $800? Interrupted the Californian. Leaves 1,200, MacDonald continued. Now how much for our candidate to live on during his last year on earth? A thousand dollars? It was a Frenchman who spoke. MacDonald laughed. Not on your life.

You can't expect a man to kill himself for six bits. Also, don't you think Hayes would look rather fishy to the insurance people if a man who can afford to take out a whopping big life insurance has to live like a piker and pinch and scrape? Yes, the Californian agreed. That's right. 3,000 bones. McDonald and says.

That's the very least we can give to our suicidal appointee. Add the $1,200 insurance premium, and you have $4,200, divide by six. He figured rapidly. There you are, fellows. Each and every one of our cannibals will have to contribute $700. Hillier gasped with amazement. $700. $700. My saint is great and you fro a nia. There was an expression of hurt surprise on his round cherub face, which made him look like a saint with a tile loose. Bloody stiff that, Mac. MacDonald laughed.

But you're cheap for the investment. At the end of the year, you'll get your dividend. One sixth part of a hundred thousand dollars. Figure it out for yourself. They all started figuring excitedly. A little over $600,000 apiece, Hillier announced, and again a wave of enthusiasm spread over the company. Say, Walsh cut in, that ain't bad, but all the same, Pog. How in the name of Hades are we going to earn the money for the jackpot?

We've got to, MacDonald replied, and this time he found a hearty supporter in Graham. Look at you, Andy. The ex-warrier said with convincing. addiction. That is right. We've jolly well got to. Besides, hang it all, it shan't be so deduced to earn $700, while we are men of education and ability of strength walked. He quite forgot the sentiments he had expressed only half an hour ago and continued serenely. The country is young and rich. Pardon my word. I am convinced that personally I shall be able to earn my little bit to no time. A sarcastic remark trembled on MacDonald's lips, but he suppressed it when he saw the lugbureous expression on Hillier's face.

What is it? he asked. I was just wondering, the other replied, If my governor can be persuaded to remit that much. He looked a little more hopeful. Still, by Jupiter, I've got a dast-old spincerant in the Midlands, very wealthy, large, sympathetic sums in the 3%, positively reeking with hoof, used to tip me guineas when I was in Arrow. Fancy, I'd tap that old girl by cable. What do you think? Perhaps you won't have to cable, MacDonald said quietly. You can't tell you, you know. Perhaps you'll be the candidate.

Oh, Moses, King of the Jews! Hillier exclaimed fervently and collapsed again. A wave of dejection settled over the crowd. Their enthusiasm was flickering out like a candle in the wind, but MacDonald gave them no time to reflect or recant. Let's quit this shilly-shallying and get down to brass tacks, he cried enthusiastically. We've agreed on the principle of the thing. We've agreed on its poetic, justed, and imminent feasibility. We've agreed on the amount we've got to sump up for the jack-part. Now, let's agree on the candidate. Any volunteers? He glanced around him. encountering only frowning distinctly negative faces.

Of course not. Walsh jumped up. Let the cards decide, he cried, and swept the greasy deck from the box where he and Trouba had been playing pitch. Here, Mac. He gave him the cards. Shuffle.

Cut of myself and deal. Go on. The first ace means, you know, don't you? Death? MacDonald queried. You're wrong. Go ahead. McDonald looked at the others for confirmation of the cow puncher's proposal. They look gray, dejected. The idea that in a moment, a bit of painted pasteboard would decide life and death between them. Pass not so much across their minds as across the pit of their stomachs.

Only Walsh and Hayes kept their nerves under fair control. Graham was conscientious of a greasy, sickly taste on his lips, while Trobe caught himself just in time from executing a frantic leap in the direction of the door. The Frenchman stared at the wall, his eyes protruding on his bullet-shaped head, and Hillier, a cherub, curly-haired studied in the most appalling shades of dejection and despair. But automatically, while their souls seem to be contemplating some very distant and not very cheerful object, They mumbled, yes, go on, like a Greek tragedy chorus. MacDonald shuffled the deck with steady fingers. He cut and commenced stealing from left to right, turning the cards face up as he dealt them. Here you are count.

He set in a great oracle toll base and gave the first card to the Frenchman who bowed gravely, remembering even that in a moment of fear and expectation, what was demanded of a man who bore the oriflom of St. Deney on his stutcheon. The aid of spades, save for France and glory, at least so far. The Frenchman gave a joyful exclamation, but instantaneously resumed his tragic expression as he looked at the others. MacDonald had turned up another card. He gave it to Hillier. The nine of diamonds, old man. You may have to cable to your aunt after all. Graham was next in line. He had to react with all the force of his will against the success.

sensation of faintness running down his legs. Goon, go on, he said thickly. Cut out the shafing. MacDonald laughed and dealt. The king of spades, danger lion, my boy, reminds you of the bowers, eh? Walsh was next and received a small diamond while Tob got the queen of hearts. Ah, he exclaimed huskily, then, with an excess of heavy Teutonic humor. quote blessed the ladies but nobody smiled hayes seemed afraid to open his lips lest a groan should escape him hey there you wooden face panjamram macdonald shouted and tossed him a card it was the four of clubs he paused for a moment then he swiftly dealt a card to himself

he picked it up looked at it and tore it into a dozen pieces what is it what is it what is it graham demanded with an ugly oath? MacDonald laughed. What do you think it was? I think it was an ace, by Eck. Again, the other laughed. You're right. It was an ace.

There was a sweep of utter silence. The six men sat rigid, looking into each other's faces, guiltily. Then, suddenly, Graham jumped up. You. You! He stuttered in his excitement, and his face,

turned purple. You lose. Damn you. You lose. You won't back down. You live up to the compact. You. MacDonald looked him up and down. Of course I will, you damn cad, he said in a level voice. I'll live up to it, and I'll die when the time comes. Graham controlled himself with an effort. I beg you pardon, he said stiffly. I did you. I did. mean to. Shut up. Walsh interrupted him with a roar. Shut up your puttered yellow liver,

slobbering mouth, sheep herding coward. Shut up your spotted body snatching guild monster. He turned to MacDonald. Look a here, Paued, he said. I'm sorry as hell to put it mildly and say, let's call this whole thing off. I don't like it.

McDonald shook his hand warmly. Well, Alkalai Bill, you weren't such a bad glink after all. And don't tell me that you're sorry. Because you're not. You're glad. Man, you're tickled to death. And you bet I'd be if I was in your boots.

Walsh was going to say something else. But MacDonald continued. Cut the soft pedal, Andy. We played for a stake. I lost. And you won. And that's all there is to that. And I don't want you to release me from my compact.

He broke into loud laughter. "'For you mustn't be too damn sure that I am the loser "'and that you are the winners. I've won too.' "'What do you mean?' Graham asked sharply. "'Are you trying to edge? It was an ace. You owned up to it. We all urged you.' MacDonald smiled serenely. "'I tell you I won. Why? You fellows will have to work like the devil to get me the money, the money for the insurance and my own little pile, the 3,000.

And just as soon as I've got my three, I'm going to begin my last chapter, and believe me, it's going to be some chapter. The fat of the land, peace and plenty, no more cheap tobacco, no more ham and round of the Dutchmen, no more cheap lodging houses. No, I'll live at a decent place. I'll join the club. I'll have a hell of a dime.

But you, he jeered at them. You poor simps, you'll have to work for me. God, you'll have to work to make that 700 plinks apiece, and you'll make it. You bet you'll make it, because you know it's a cinch, because you know that I won't welch. Yes, you, down and outers, you'll have to work like fiends, and I, I'll be the gentleman of leisure. There was a short pause. My word, murmured Hillier. There's something to that.

Suppose the governor refuses to remit. Suppose the aunt. My word. He said again, and goggled up like a dying fish. The thought of how hard they would have to work to contribute their $700 each struck them all with sadness. Hayes signed. He pointed at the bar room. Let's have a sniffer, he said.

It'll cheer herself. There was a general movement in the direction of the bar room, but McDonald's stopped them with a gesture. I wouldn't, if I were you, he said softly. They turned and looked at him questioningly. You see, he continued with the same sardonic mildness. You see, I want the last ounce of flesh. I want every cent of that 3,000, and I want it darn quick.

I give you a week to come across with the boodle. A week? Graham gasped. Exactly. You must respect a dying man's last wish, don't you think? Then he continued seriously. Yes, a week. Not a single day more.

Mark my words. You'll have to start out, bright and early tomorrow, and work. God, how you'll work. So take my tip and cut out the booze. Off to bed with you. Don't hang around to pick flowers. Remember, 700 bones apiece and seven days to earn them in. They filed out, one by one, without another word. Walsh was the last to go. He turned at the door and walked up to MacDonald. Look a here, pard. He began hoarsely. But MacDonald cut him short.

That's all right, Andy, he said. I know what you're going to tell me. No, no. Forget it. cheese it, dry it, keep it undercover. Let me alone. You're a decent sort, but he pointed at the door, and Walsh left. McDonnell walked up and down. He was deep in thoughts. It had all happened just the way he had wanted it, for he had lost and he had wanted to lose. He had even cheated as so to lose. For remembering an old trick he had learned in college, he had palmed, card after a card as to not give an ace to any of the others. And when his own turn had come, he had torn up his card before any of the others had had a chance to see it. He picked up the pieces which were littering the floor and put them together. They took the form of the jack of diamonds. He laughed and put the

pieces on the stove. He walked up to the window and looked out. He was surprised to see that night had passed, and that the gray-white and early day breaks had already come. One year, 12 months, 365 days, and then? He wondered if he had been a fool, or a very, very wise man. He felt, as he imagined, a high-flying bird must feel, alone in the upper space. Suddenly, the air in the room oppressed him. He felt slightly sick. The atmosphere was acrid, greasy, intolerable. He flung open the window and led in a rush of cool morning air. He looked at the landscape with steady eyes. The east was drowning in ensanguished color,

and a soft, lazy, sleepy flame was creeping over the tips of the pine trees down in Hangman's Canyon. He looked up the street. All the common, wretched things, the ugly, desolate framehouses, the rickety fences, the slanting chimneys were losing their drab. Under the pagan gold of the morning, they burned like costly and curious jewels. He passed his hand over his forehead and was surprised when he felt that it was covered with moisture. Suicide, he thought. Final oblivion.

The beyond. And no more worries. Also, one year of plenty. $3,000. $3,000. He buried his face in his hands. $3,000, he said to himself, what a chance you would have for a new start, a new life with $3,000 in real money.

Gee, what a chance. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of Bucking the Tiger This is a LibreVox recording. All Libra Box recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visitlibbock.org. Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah

Chapter 5 Max Jackpot Strike me pink For an anky-panky-Panky hilltillion organ-grinder If I goes and medals with this here ruddy swine of a jack-a-a-ape's What got more pants than all scents Briefly and casually remarked Lord Graham In the general direction of his wife and the sizzling coffee urn

Lady Graham, sweet-faced, corpulent and white-haired, looked up with a smile. What is it, dear? Her husband did not appear to have heard her. Ah, for a bloomin' dust-bin, he said with a veritable shriek of agony. This time, even Stubbins, the immaculate funeral butler, who stood behind his lordship's chair, came out of his professional calm. I beg your pardon, my lord.

Did you ask for a, uh, a dust-bin? "'Right, oh!' came the uncompromising answer. "'Thank you, my lord,' said the butler, "'and added, after a discreet pause, in a very still voice, "'Pardon me, my lord, but may I ask what for?' Lord Graham turned in his chair and threw a withering glance at the faithful stubbens. "'To bury my head in, you plurry fool!' Then, with another shriek of rage,

"'Take that oggy-muggy yours out of this here room. Go on. Sling your hooks.' "'Thank you, my lord,' Stubbins bowed and withdrew. Lady Graham had been quietly buttering the goldenest, fattest muffin that ever came out of an English kitchen. "'Oh, what's the matter, dear?' she asked again, smilingly. Her husband slammed a pudgy, dimpled, babyish hand on an open cable gram, which was resting again the sugar basin. "'Did you ask what's the matter, sirrah? Why, this here bloomin' tuppin' te'-penny muddling rotten?' Words failed him for a moment.

Then he added, fervently, incontinently, "'Ah, Lord, stop the bus!' Lord Graham jumped up from his chair and walked up and down the length of the cheerful, well-furnished breakfast-room, which overlooked the Sussex Downs. His wife watched him, a frozen little smile on her face, but she did not ask him again. He would tell her in his own good time, she knew.

For nearly fifty years, she had been his wife and his only sweetheart, his friend and faithful ally. She had been his wife in the old days when he kept a fried fish shop on the barbarous confines of Pimlico. Later on, when he expanded his fried fish enterprise from shop to shop, until it covered all of Pimlico and half of Soho. When he became the fried fish monopolist of the metropolis, with branches all over England and Wales,

when he turned his business into Graham and Company, limited, he himself being both the Coe and Limited, and finally, when a judicious contribution of half a million pound sterling to the Conservative Party Fund precipitated him, bride fish and cockney accent and all, into the House of Lords as Lord Graham of Penville. She had been the shareer of his deep joy when, late in life, she had given birth to a son and heir,

and of his horrible, inarticulate sorrow, when the same son and heir had been cashiered from the army and the company of decent men for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. Together with her husband, helpless, hopeless, she had seen their son go down the ladder, rung by rung. And now the boy was over there in America,

and Spokane, as far as she knew, for they only heard from him when he got into a specially disgraceful scrape and had to have money. Six months back, Lord Graham had sworn that he would not send his son another shilling as long as he lived. She knew that her husband stuck to his decision

once he had made up his obstinate old mind, and now she was horribly afraid of what the cable might contain, for it was doubtless from Ralph. So she watched her husband with a smile on her face, but it was a make-believe smile, and her old hands were trembling. Finally, she could,

could no longer stand the suspense. Is it? she asked brokenly. No, Sarah, old dear. This time it ain't that Johnny boy of ours. It's that friend is. That here young William Eiler. Sir Charles's son? Right, oh.

And he began to explain. You see, Sirrah, Sir Charles is done just the same as me. He stopped sending him remittances. The old codger told me so himself. And now that son of his is, has gone and married a blooming Indian. One of them air red females, all paint and feathers, and... He went rapidly over his literary recollections. And scalp locks, and bleeding tomahawks, and...

And all that, he finished lamely. But what did he cable you for? His wife demanded. He didn't. Ralph did. Ralph, our son? Yes. He cabled.

me that Williams coming home to England. God knows how he raised the money for the trip, but common ome he is. Indian wife and paint and tomahawk all complete. And he's going to disgrace and shame his father, Sir Charles, just out of rotten

cutlessness. Oh, Lord. But what does Ralph want you to do about it? Break the news to Sir Charles? Not at all. On the contrary. Ralph says he had a talk with this here Indian wife of Williams, and for a thousand dollars

she's willing to sling her blooming hooks to run away from her husband. Ralph says to cable the money to him at once. Lady Graham smiled. You must do it, dear, at once. But I've sworn I wouldn't send any more money to that precious son of ours. This is different, dear.

This isn't for Ralph. It's really for Sir Charles. He is a good friend of yours. "'He has been so nice to us, introducing us to the country gentry and all that?' "'A ride, oh, gill. Right is rain.' He kissed his wife. "'I'm off to London, off a jiff, and cable this ear money.' Twenty minutes later he was on the station platform, waiting for the Brighton South Coast Express.

And the last man to enter his compartment, red, hurried, perspiring, was Sir Charles Hillier, William's father. Sir Charles was a proud and wealthy man of a family which had been identified with Sussex for over a thousand years. My dear sir, he used to say, the Hilliers ate Sussex mutton and drank Sussex ale long before the conqueror stuck his ugly Norman nose across the channel. His motto was, I church, high Toryism, and old port forever. And he hated radicals, dissenters, the London County Council, and self-made men. But his most venomous hatred was directed against the House of Lords, which he called, that infernal breeding-place of bloated, mediocre provenues, that dumping ground of a noble wholesale butcher's, brewers, carterers, and licensed

victualers. But, since he made a point of not living up to his ferocious Tory principles, he had somehow taken a great liking to the Cockney Pier, Lord Graham of Penville, who, had bought the estate next to his. Hello, Graham! Hello, Charles! The greetings were friendly and informal enough. Yet Lord Grantham was embarrassed as he looked at his vis-a-vis and thought of his Wild West daughter-in-law,

and a shrewd observer would have noticed that Sir Charles was just as embarrassed. But between cursing the Liberals and deciding that free trade was ruining England, the two gentlemen managed to keep up a friendly flow of conversation, which lasted them until the express drew in. to Waterloo Station. There were a few hurried words of farewell. Then Lord Graham took a taxi cab, and so did Sir Charles, and both machines whirled off in the direction of the city.

Half an hour later, Lord Graham was at the Smith and Union Bank arranging a cable transfer of $1,000 to his son in Spokane, while Sir Charles was at the Lloyd and Globe, where he drew his check for $1,100 to be wired to his son, for he, too, had received a cable gram this man, morning from his son, practically identical with the one over which Lord Graham had fumed so at breakfast. Only in Sir Charles's message, it appeared that it was the Honorable Ralph who had taken a squaw wife to his bosom, and William, being a little more far-sighted than his friend,

had cabled that it would cost $1,100, and not a thousand, to buy off the squaw. Thus, 24 hours later, Hillier Jr., and Graham, Jr., were silently shaking hands outside of the Spokane branch of the Bank of Montreal, where Fred Cummins, the manager, had just paid $1,100 to the former, and $1,000 to the latter. They stepped around at once to the old National Bank and paid $700 each into the account which had been open for the contributions of the members of the syndicate. Illier was for a speedy and eminently festive investment of the remaining $700. "'I say, old fop,' he said, "'let's buy clothes and things. Let's have a gin and bidders and a few cocktails.

Then a bit of food, what? Then... But Graham, true, though, desolate son of the fried fish monopolist, pronounced a stern veto. No, by Jupiter. We've $700 left,

and we're going to save it. One of the other chaps might fall down on his payment, you know, and then we can buy him out. No danger of Mac welshing, what? Graham laughed.

Not he, the bluen fool. Come on, for a car ride, the fresh air will do us good. So they boarded the next car and were off toward Cordillane Lake. Early that morning, Count Jean de Saul La Terrier could have been seen leaning over the railing of the bridge which spans the Spokane Falls. He was letting his thoughts take possession of him, and the rhythmic gurgle of the falls seemed like a modulator of the visions of his life that floated through his mind. They were black thoughts, blacker visions, and deep in his heart,

he envied MacDonald, who had drawn the ace two nights ago at Eslux. He envied him, Nome de Chien, he, a gentleman of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, the descendant of men who had been peers of France and Chevaliers of Saint-Asprit. The Count felt dejected. His soul was both lumpy and leaky, and as he looked down at the white puffy froth of the falls, as he listened to the slow-lapping sound of the waves further down in the whirlpool, as he saw the red rack of the rocks and heard the sucking of the green turbulent water, he felt like jumping down from the bridge and ending it all.

His heart was like a weary seabird, far out on the ocean, when the night is down and no ship near on which to flap down and rest. He had started bright and early on the day before to earn the $700. He had begun by taking the last one of his heirlooms to Rostrovsky, the pawnbroker. It was an exquisite gold-framed, miniature on ivy of a saucy belt of the first empire of his own great-grandmother. But Ostrowski had shaken his head. Oye, o'y, what will I do mit the picture of a dead Frenchwoman.

It ain't salable and it ain't warrel. Frenchwoman ain't? Nebish. What's fern mechugis? he exclaimed. I tell you what I do. I give you three dollars worth cash with the frame, and I swear to you by the god of Abraham and Jacob that even then I am cheating my. children's children. And he had wiped an imaginary tear from his face

at the distressing thought. The count had taken the three dollars. He had collected another free from the kindly French couple who managed the wine cellar of the Hotel Spokane. Of course, there were French priests of Gonzaga College, the Jesuit High School on the other side of the railway tracks.

They would give him ten, perhaps twenty dollars, out of pity, and because of his great name. But he decided he would not go there, No. And he only had five more days to earn the $700 in. So he thought, and suddenly an idea came to him. He knew where to go for information. For, like all free thinkers, he was a great believer in the written word. He crossed the bridge, turned up First Avenue, and walked up the steps of the Carnegie Library. He stepped to the information desk. Madame, he said timidly, politely. Miss Haddy Reeves, capable, kind-hearted, used to the strange riff-raff from all the world which drifts to the northwest, to the broken gentlemen who dream away the greatness of an occasional hour by pouring over books oddly in contrast with their ragged clothing, asked if she could be of service to him.

The Count explained his wishes in his soft, exquisite English, and a few minutes later he was tucked away in a corner of the capricious library with half a dozen books in front of him. There was a complete history of Jesse James and one of Mosley's guerrillas. There was a volume which spoke about the grisly deeds of Travers, the bad man par excellence of the inland empire, and similar tomes dealing with the blood-curdling specialities of Sophie Smith, Swiftwater Bill, three-finger deafenball, and other such heroes of the highway. The Count read, making copious notes,

returning the books to the librarian and bowed himself out of the library. Then he walked down the street, purchased a revolver in a black neckerchief at Ben Breslowers' second-hand emporium, and invested the rest of his six dollars in a substantial meal at the club cafe, carefully studying between bites, the notes which he had made at the library. He left the town, walking in an easterly direction. He swung along steadily. It was late when he reached the place on which he had decided. The sun had gone down, and the clouds were like films of fire, and as he gazed at them, he felt that he was moved by a spirit greater than mere-sorted love of treasure. For even thus had his ruffianly ancestors descended from their rocky fastnesses to levy toll from merchant and monk.

He fastened the black neckerchief across his face and got his gun in readiness. A minute later he heard the faint whirring of the electric car, a few breathful seconds, and he saw the huge white-glaring headlights which brought the lonely landscape into sharp relief. He hailed the car with a loud voice, and it stopped. The Count was quick and strong despite his years, and it took him but a few seconds to swing himself aboard the platform, to frighten the motormen and the conductor into obedience, and to march them into the car, ahead of him at the point of the gun. He ordered the motorman to take off his cap as a sort of collection box for the passengers.

Put him up and keep him up, gents, he said in his close intimation of the approved highway diction as he could muster. Shell out and be darned quick about it! Three passengers were in the car. The first was a fat banker whom he knew by sight as a president of the farmers and merchants national, and whom he had often watched through the windows of Davenport's restaurant, eating his fill and being otherwise objectionable. First, the gent, the count ordered the conductor. The latter obeyed, and took a well-filled, hearty pocketbook from the banker's inside pocket,

which he dropped into the cap. But when the count got a good look at the other two passengers, his iron will failed him, and his revolver waver wavered the least little bit. they were Graham and Hillier, his fellow down and outers, his fellow members of the suicide syndicate. They had their hands up. Both looked goggle-eyed, unhappy. Scared to death, the Count decided, and he was about to pass them over. Heavens, he thought, they were as broke as he himself. But on second consideration, he said to himself that, so as to avoid all suspicion, and to leave behind him as few clues as possible, he had better carry his bluff through. But he nearly fainted,

when, acting on his orders, the conductor tapped their pockets and relieved Graham of a fat roll of yellow backs. He swept the contents of the cap into his pocket, backed out of the car, dropped from the back platform, and ordered the motorman to go on. Travel part, and keep on a traveling, he said, again quoting from the history of Jesse James. The motorman obeyed the order implicitly, whilst the count plunged into the woods. He reached the river, threw gun and neckerchief into the turgnawed waters, and returned to touch. town in a roundabout way. He sat down on a bench and Manitou Park, and striking match after match, he counted his ill-gotten gains. He found that the roll taking from Graham contained

$700 even, while the bankers added up to the tune of over 2000. A happy, childlike smile spread over the face of the count. "'See Dennis and fifteen million pale blue rabbits,' he exclaimed. "'But this is the wealth of a fear. The purse of a fortune. the treasure of the queen of Sheba. Oh, by the fifty-five little curly-tailed guinea-pigs. He put the $700 in his hip pocket. Just the sum he needed as his contribution for McDonald, he said to himself with a chuckle.

The other role he buried in his inside pocket. He would see by and by what to do with it. The first thing, of course, would be to redeem the little miniature which he had sold, and then, Ah, well, he would see. And, happy as well, and whistling again and decided the mundane French song. He left the park and turned into

Pacific Avenue. He was about to turn into Sprague Street, on his way to Eslux, when a crowd at the corner attracted his attention. Many men had gathered there, mostly minors and lumberjacks in the nearby country come into town for a spree, and they were surrounding somebody who was evidently haranguing them. He could hear a stray word now and then, tried to push his way through the crowd and take a look at the preacher, but could not break through. Some Salvation Army man, he decided with a shrug of the shoulders and a pitying smile for all such uniformed Anglo-Saxon sentimentalities. He was about to turn away when a word from the unseen preacher riveted his attention.

He listened. I don't believe in just honest, eh, jones, came the voice from the thick of the crowd. You can call me a damn sheepherding son of a coyote if I don't believe in what the good book calls the golden rule. since I've reformed leastwise. Say, Pod, when did you reform? Came a revolt, alcoholic query. But the orator paid no attention.

He continued in a tremendous basso. No, jens, there ain't a wicker to sin than stealing. Unless it be sheepherding. Say, back home in Wyoming, I once saw a chink lynched for stealing a pair of pants and damned rotten pants there were too, not worth two bits. And once I saw him stringling.

up a couple of greaser cattle rustlers when it swipes of old mangibbon's yailings. Damned hard punishment, says you. Undammed square justice, says I. It ain't the pants, nor it ain't the little calves. It's the all-fired principle the thing, gents. Well, there ain't no greater crime than stealing. Always accepted sheepherding. And there ain't no excuse for it at all.

The Count blushed furiously. Perspiration studied his brow. Good Lord. He had stolen money an hour ago. He had held up an electric car. He had... But he had to have money. He had to.

What did that sniveling, sentimental salvation army man understand of the tribulations of a man like himself? Again he turned to go. But more people had gathered in back of him, and he found it impossible to break out of the circle of listeners. He listened in spite of himself. "'And who's responsible for stealing?' the voice continued. "'Let me tell you. It's them saloons, gents. It's them whiskey-selling dens of—of iniquity and shame.

Believe me. It's them gin-sinks was rotten the guts out of our manhood and the bread out of our children's innocent mouths. I'm for prohibition, gents. First, last, and all the time.' There was derisive laughter. But the unseen old. Orator continued unruffled. Come on up, gents, and do a good deed. I'm collecting for this here anti-boos campaign, for I says that lips would have touched liquor, be it whiskey, gin, or even plain ordinary beer,

shall never touch mine. Hey, who the hell wants to touch your lips anyways? Came a challenging roar. But the preacher paid no attention to it. The Count, somehow or other, felt a strange softening sympathy for this rough-voiced enthusiast creep over him. He edged up closer to see, but could not.

Directly in front of him a huge French Canadian timber cruiser was standing, barring the view. Step up, gents, continued the orator. Contribute your little might toward this here fund. I ain't asking you to ante up your hard-earned money. But if you have a few

simoleans kicking around sort of loose what hasn't been earned exactly honest, if you have a few ducats what you've won at poker or slops, or pitch or one of them games of inequity, then I ask you to dig them up from your pants and to put them in this here hat. Remember that stealing is a stinking, rotten sin,

and there ain't no blessings of any sort whatever on money what's tainted. So, if you have any of this here tainted money about you, drop it in the hat. There was a roar of laughter. Then once more the orator's voice boomed out. Come on and pay up. Don't rob the widows and orphans.

A deep raucous sob came from the throat of the count. But this rough man was right, he said. It was not a good deed to rob the widows and orphans. And perhaps the two thousand and odd dollars he had taken from this fat pig of a banker belonged to some poor woman. But he couldn't touch such money. Neither could he go to the banker and confess. Yes, he must make some sort of restitution.

He groped in his inside pocket and counted the banker's role and threw it over the edge of the crowd in the direction of the orator. "'Here, monsieur,' he shouted. "'A small contribution! "'use it for the widows and the little orphans!' And he broke away from the crowd, penitent tears coursing down his cheeks. A few minutes later, the orator—it was Andy Walsh, gazed at the role which the unseen stranger had thrown him from the crowd.

"'Two thousand hundred dollars,' he said with a beatific smile. 700 bones from Max Jackpot and still 1,400 perfectly good bones left for Little Andy. Gee whiz! End of Chapter 5. Recording by Todd. Chapter 6 of Bucking the Tiger. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibertyVox.

Vox.org. Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah. All in. It was early the following morning. McDonald was warming his toes at the glow of the cast iron stove in the lobby of the Hotel Eslick, while Graham, Hillier and Count Jean de Sal La Terrier were sitting about in corners of the room. In various attitudes of dejection, silent, bruised.

unhappie. The only sound was the plaintive, minor note of a Chinese love song, which drifted in from the bar where Chung was wiping glasses and dreaming of former joys when he was still a peaceful bean planter on the banks of the pie hoe. The song got on Graham's nerves. He rose, walked up to the bar room, and shut the door with a bang. Then he sat down again in his former attitude of despair. McDonnell burst out laughing. What's the matter with you, fellows, he asked. Each and every one of you has earned $700 in two days. If you don't want to tell me how you did it, that's your own lookout. I am not kicking at that. But can't you even say a decent word? There was no answer. Say, McDonald commenced again.

you two Britishers look like Liverpool ship owners, whose last turbiner has just been submarines. And you count. Why man, you have the guilty appearance of a cat coming from an alleyway. Its whiskers still wet and white with telltale cream. Fess up! Did you rob anybody? Are you expecting a plainclothes man to drag his broken arches across the threshold and lead you off to the jug? The Count gave a little shudder at the last suggestion and glanced furtively at the two Englishmen who kept their stony silence. Can't you say a word? McDonald asked again. What is it? A hangover? You seemed quite sober when you came home last night. Hillier looked up with a snarl. He was formulating a series of disparaging remarks concerning McDonald's face, figure, and moral habits. But he suppressed them as once more the pathetic remembrance of his financial loss came back to his mind.

$700, gone up a perfectly useless spout. He hadn't even got as much as a cocktail's worth of change out of it. If he only had not listened to Graham and had invested it the way he had wanted to, in a large and festively alcoholic spree. My word, he turned to his countryman. You're all sorts of a bloody fool, aren't you? Chiviot, go to the devil, came the uncompromising answer. Hillier turned purple with rage.

He would have clenched his fists and gone for the other if he had not been constitutionally averse to all unnecessary bodily exercise. For he had endowed indolence with a profound, semi-religious impulse, which was every bit as mysterious and coercing as the millionaires hunt after the glittering double eagle. What's the matter with you? McDonald asked once more. You have done nobly. You've earned your ante in no time. Do you regret our compact? No, bellowed Graham. McDonald smiled. All right, he commented peacefully. If you can't

talk, for heaven's sake, don't try to. A minute later, Walsh came down the steps and walked into the lobby. The others looked at him in surprise. Four, in spite of his threadbare clothes, a certain indefinable aura of happiness and solid prosperity surrounded the rugged bulk of the cow puncher. There was an almost dewy freshness about him. His boots were shiny, his thick black hair was parted down the middle with mathematical precision, his cheeks were freshly shaven and rubbed to a hard, glossy, hygienic red. He walked up to McDonald with a heavy swagger and plumped a fat roll of yellowbacks down in front of him. Cast your peepers over these old hoss and count him, he said with a loud voice, count him careful and slow, 700 plunks even, or I'm a Mormon. The other

others heard and looked up with starts of surprise. Walsh enjoyed the sensation for a few seconds, tried to strike a negligent attitude, failed miserably, and continued with a yet louder voice. Pay him into our account at the old National, Mac, if you happen to pass that way. Why don't you pay them in yourself, Andy? McDonald inquired. I ain't got the time, Walsh declared pompously, and produced another role of bills, even larger than the one which he had handed over. I've a little business to see, too. Got to invest some of these here, boys. So long, gents. And he walked to the door with the same heavy rolling swagger. Hey, Andy, wait a second. I'm coming with you, a high voice pipe from the

bar room door, which had just opened. It was Hayes, the insurance agent. All right, Hayes, the cow puncher replied. They left the hotel. us looked together and turned up Sprague Street. Real money? The insurance agent demanded as he looked at the role of bills in the other's hand. You bet your sweet life, Walsh replied, and patted the roll of money with a caressing paternal hand. Hayes surveyed this evidence of luxury and opulence with a proving but envious eyes. He drew his arm through Walsh's. What are you going to do with it? he inquired.

Walsh tried to assume the festive air of a Wall Street broker who has just sold out his best friend over a stock deal. Invest it, he remarked casually. All of it? Yep. How much have you got there? 1400 plunk. Hayes made a rapid calculation. Then he asked, trying to keep his trembling voice on an octave of solid, disinterested friendship. What are you going to invest in? Anything special? Walsh drew a gaudy prospectus from his pocket.

Fasten your little orbs on this here, pard, he said. A prospectus of the international coal and coke company. The swellest and most attractive proposition in the whole northwest. Ten cents a share and dead short a pop to par inside of the year. Just listen. And he read out loud the glowing passages of the promoters, the usual comparison of the new mine with the Bunker Hill, the Calamette, and the LaRoy. I'm hiking right round to old man Houghton at the Peyton Block to stump up my little auntie, Walsh continued. Say, ain't it a swell chance? Hayes smiled. Andy, he said, are you going to speculate, or are you going in for a straight, solid investment? Invest. Surest thing you know. I don't believe in no speculating. And there ain't no speculating about this here or mine.

Not by a darn sight. It's a cinch. That's what it is. A double-barreled Canadian cinch, fixed up with round Oregon stirrups for safety's sake. Listen once more. Hayes winked elaborately at nothing in particular. Listen here, Andy, he said. If you really want to invest, you listen to me. And he pulled from his bulging pocket a pamphlet of the Western Crown life insurance company. Now, be it remembered that. Before selling life insurance, Hayes had been a real estate agent in Los Angeles,

that he had sold cannery stock in Portland, Oregon, Apple ranches on the Hood River, placer gold shares in Seattle, oil properties in Vancouver, and building and loan units in Calgary, Edmonton, and Saskatoon. Thus, two hours later, Andy Walsh had taken out a nice,

all-wool, burglar-proof, Harvey-Eyes-Stele Life Insurance Policy with the Western Crown. The first year's premium was a little over $2,000, of which she had paid $1,400,000, cash and the rest in notes. Needless to say, Hayes had manipulated the deal so that the company received the notes while he himself retained the cash as commission, which the cashier of the company, being a friend of Hayes may or may not have known. Walsh returned to the Eslick, while Hayes walked to the

old National Bank, where he deposited $700 to McDonald's account. He said to himself that he deserved a little alcoholic refreshment, so he turned into Post Street and entered the festive swinging doors of Jake Messer Stetcher's Germania Cafe. In the entrance, he bumped against Troub. They exchanged greetings. Sympathy was not one of the Californians' many failings. He was a firm believer in single-minded Nietzscheism, brought up to an up-to-date American business basis. But now his share in the suicide syndicate paid up and fat yellowback prosperity lining his inside pocket. He felt a little affected as he beheld the lugubrious hatchet-like face of the German. What seems to be the trouble, Dutch, he inquired? Has a blight struck the sauerkraut crop?

Have the Limburger veins of the Westphalian mountains pinched out? Has the Kaiser shaved off his mustache. Ach, gut, nine, vorce than that, Troub sighed, and pointed a broad, short-nail thumb in the direction of Jake Messer-Stetcher's Germania Cafe. Jake, he, he continued after a pause and was silent again. Well, what's Jake gone and done? Traub explained, it appeared that Jake Messer-Stetcher was an old friend of his, that they had visited the same school together back in Germany. So he had tried to borrow from the wealthy saloon keeper the $700 which he needed. He had offered him security, for he had told him that at the end of the year,

he was sure to receive a large amount of cash, and that he was then going to open up his cafe. And as a bonus for the loan of $700, he had offered to Jake a half interest in the future enterprise. Black-on-vike did I offer it to him. Trowb wound up his tail, before witnesses and mitt a seal of their notary booblich attached. And Jake didn't want to come through with the spondulix, I take it,

Hayes asked, grinning. Exactly. He laughed at me. He said I was a damned fool. And then he called me very bad names in German, which I am ashamed to translate into English. Hayes laughed. Forget your troubles, Trowb, he commented. and have a drink on me.

No, tanks, I am too sad. Beer would not taste good, admit this sadness inside of me. Akya, I am so unhappy. Again, a wave of sympathy swept over the Californian. I tell you what I'll do, he said. I'll play you a game of cards. Penknuckle? Troub asked, with a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

Sure, Pinockel it is, Hayes replied. and he led the other up the street and into the back room of Miller's Cigar store. Two bits a game, Trow, and not a cent more, he remarked as he sat down. I ain't much of a pinnacle player. Sure, two bits suits me fine, the German agreed, and broke the seal of the deck against the edge of the table. They played. Late that night, Richie MacDonald was again presiding over the gathering in the lobby of the Eslik. The six contributing members of the suicide syndicate were present.

They had all paid up their full shares of $700 each. But they were all singularly quiet as to the methods by which they had earned it. Trout had been the last to pay up. He had come into the lobby only a few minutes before, tightly holding on to a roll of bills which he had given to McDonald. Now he sat in a corner next to Hayes, whose usually pasty complexion was tinged with an angry red. The insurance agent was talking to the German in an earnest, passionate whisper,

but the other was defending himself stoutly. His words boomed out clear and distinct. Well, it ain't my fault if you keep on raising their limit, is it? Vot good is a limit unless you stick to it. There ain't no damn sense and a limit vats got no limit. What's the row, McDonald inquired? Nothing, nothing, Hayes replied.

And the Germans seconded him. Nottings at all. McDonald rose. All right, fellows, he said. You've done nobly. You've done your part. Tomorrow, bright and early, I'll step round to the Western crown with Hayes

and have that painless little insurance operation performed. And the same evening I shall begin to wrestle with the 3,000 bones you so kindly contributed. There was a long silence. They looked at McDonald, who sat hunched up like a large bird of prey, his pipe casting a grotesque shadow over his square chin. He walked to the door. So, I bid you all good night and goodbye.

What do you mean goodbye? Hayes asked. Ain't we going to see you anymore? McDonald laughed. I told you that I was going to be a gentleman of leisure during my last year on earth. I can't afford to run around with a bunch of bums who live at the Eslik. Say, honest, it was Walsh, you spoke. Ain't we going to see you no more at all? Sure you'll see me. Tomorrow's the first of April, isn't it? All right, you'll all see me at my funeral, a year from tomorrow. He walked as far as the door. Then Graham ran after him.

I say, Mack, he commenced. What is it? McDonald demanded stiffly. Do you think you could lend me a hundred tomorrow? Just for a few days? I am rather stony broke, you know. McDonald laughed. Hold out another year, Graham, he replied.

You won't be broke 12 months from tomorrow. And he walked into the bar room. End of Chapter 6. Read by Marissa D.6, Largo, Florida, May 26, 2023. Chapter 7 of Bucking the Tiger. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit

Librivox.org. Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah. The Midas Touch Within 24 hours of his suicide compact having been made hard and fast by the writing of the insurance and its assignment as security for a loan to the six and the making over of the $3,000 at Old National Bank,

Richie MacDonald struck the more unchecked components of the city and the society of Spokane with the strength and the enthusiasm of a flying blast. He made his former expeditions into the realm of gaiety, champagne, and over-manicured fingernails looked like the tenth part of a silver dollar multiplied by three. He took up quarters at a leading hotel, and once more his former friends of the respectably festive section gathered around him. They gathered with exuberance, mixed with thirst and expectation. For McDonald, when in funds, had the well-deserved reputation of touching only the high spots.

He had also the gift of spreading about him a wave of quite inexplicable joy and happiness. and this time he was wallowing in a positive anarchy of joy, and he treated life as an obstacle race composed of hazardous though pleasant obstacles. He footed the bills in regal style, and the consequence was that credit was practically forced on him. He accepted it gratefully, for, knowing that in a year his race with life would be run out, he did not take the trouble of taxing his brain with the finding

problems of the future. He seemed to bear no grudge against Marshall Houghton for having denied him both a small loan and a job, but this recollection was rather embarrassing to Marshall Houghton. Look here, Mack, he said blushing. Were you really broke when you came to my office a few days ago, and McDonald interrupted him with a laugh. Forget it, he said, and then a spirit of mischief caused him to act. had. Of course I wasn't broke. I was just play-acting. Trying to fool you. Marshall Houghton grasped the opportunity of saving his face. You didn't fool me a bit, old man. I knew you weren't broke.

Of course, he coughed. If you had been, you know I would have. You bet, MacDonald broken. I know. Marshall Houghton felt relieved, for he knew. that McDonald's father was a very wealthy Easterner. He also knew that father and son had parted financial company and consequence of the latter's repeated failures and general mode of life. But then, perhaps, they had made up, and the thought had worried him a little. For Marshall Houghton was a true son of his father, J. W. Houghton. J. was today a man of wealth and standing, but originally he had been a wild catter of the most aggressive type,

who had made his first stake by squatting on somebody else's property with a persuasive Winchester in the crook of his arm, and who had gradually increased his fortune by selling whiskey to the guileless sea wash, copper prospects to the guileless millionaires of Boston and London, and later on by making a specialty of the sale of town lots, which had to be marked by a bobbing boy, when the tide was running high.

Today, most of his wealth was solid and guilt-edged, but he had still a constitutional aversion to see loose money jingling in somebody else's pockets, and his son ran true to type. And it was evident that McDonald had money to burn. Marshall leaned forward in his chair. Look here, Mack, he said earnestly. Of course it isn't any of my business,

but what exactly are you doing? Just now, I am making a scientific investigation. Marshall Houghton caught his breath. Mining our water power, be thought, and most likely for his father. He must find out the details, so he dropped his voice to a confidential, caressing octave. Mind telling me what it is? Perhaps I can be of help to you. MacDonald grinned.

you are old man you are for you see i am making an investigation of alcoholism in all its phases and you must own up to the fact that here is a science which is still in its infancy The other forced himself to smile. Of course MacDonald was hedging, he said to himself. So he was convinced that something worthwhile was in the wind. You might tell me, Mack, he said, if you're looking for investments, for your father perhaps. Macdonald tried to look mysterious and succeeded. He dropped his voice to a whisper. Marshall, my boy, I am not exactly looking for an indefinitely.

investment. For I've got a cinch. I've a half Nelson on the infinite, and the infinite has a toehold on me. And he smiled grimly at the thought that he would be face to face with the infinite in a little less than a year's time. The other rose to the bait. Talk sense. What do you mean by the infinite? Some business deal? You guessed it first time, old man. Business deal it is, and damn big business at that. Why, there's an initial payment of $100,000 cash involved, he added casually. Handling it yourself? Marshall Houghton's voice was eager. Good Lord, no, McDonald replied quite truthfully. A syndicate is backing me up. And he rose and left the room. That evening, in his home on 7th Avenue, Marshall Houghton

communicated the news to his father. That conscientious financier smiled a heavily oriferous smile. Then he winked an elderly, steel-gray eye. I had an idea that young boob had something up his sleeve, he replied, chewing an unlit cigar. By the way, you know that I had to take over control of the Western Crown, don't you? Yes, Marshall replied sadly, for he believed, that for once his father's astute brain had played him false when he had commenced meddling with the affairs of the local insurance concern.

Well, the father continued, I had a look at the books this morning, and I saw that McDonald's taken out $100,000 life insurance just a few days back. Payton notes, I guess. Wrong, he paid spot cash. What do you make of it, Dad? That ain't the question. my son. The real question before the house is what I am going to make of it.

Marshall suddenly jumped up. He spoke excitedly. By Jingo, I've got an idea. Mack told me a syndicates backing him. But I lay you ten to one his father is the syndicate. Why? Why? Why? Good Lord. Mack's father is the president of the Sun Life Insurance Company, the biggest concern of its kind in the country. Houghton Sr. gasped with surprise. He had a rapid,

pleasurable vision of pressing a lengthy contract, unread, and a fountain pen upon McDonald, and of receiving from the latter a blank check signed by his father, and he smiled at the thought. My son, he said,

you must cultivate the friendship of that young man. Have him around to the house, often. Has he a card for the club? Yes. Plays poker, I suppose. You bet. He's nuts on it. Good again. Ask him to come to the club next Saturday night. First we'll have a bang-up dinner, and then we'll have a little game. Marshall looked up anxiously. You don't mean to, to J. W. Houghton smiled genially. My son, he replied, Be frank with the only father you've got.

Also, don't be a damned fool. I've no intention of doing Young Mac out of a measly thousand bones over a poker game. On the contrary, I want that boy to be friendly with me. I want him to win. I'm going to ask old Pat Kenny to take a hand in the game, he added significantly. Marshall burst out laughing.

"'Poor Pat,' he said. "'Poor Pat! Hell!' J.W. replied, banging his hairy fist on the table. "'He got me into that Western Crown deal. He's as rich as mud, "'and it'll do him good to lose a few thousand plunk to young Mac.' "'Father and son looked at each other. Then the latter winked at the former. "'Sort of, a, salting the mine, are you?' he asked. "'Right.' So it happened that on the following Saturday night, the small poker room at the club was thick with the smoke of four fat cigars and sickly sweet with the exhalation of much assorted liquor.

Four men were grouped around the poker table, the two Houghtons, Richie MacDonald, and Pat Kenny. Kenny was one of the leading businessmen of the Northwest. Though the tang of the steerage had never left him, he handled all deals involving mines and contracts and real estate with a clear-eyed vision that was positively uncanny. He had become thoroughly Americanized in everything, being a good Irishman, except in poker, for he still believed it to be a logical and not a psychological game. So he sat there losing pot after pot with the air of a melancholy dropcicle camel, and it was with deep, inward grief that at the end of the session, early Monday morning, he handed over a check of four figures to McDonald.

McDonald played cards two or three times a week after this, winning steadily, and so, in spite of the fact that he spent money like water, his account at the old National Bank grew instead of decreasing. He made a point of keeping away from Railroad Avenue. He had no desire to see the six broken men at the Eslik. He was not a coward, and he really believed that life was nothing but a rotten gamble with a stacked deck,

and that suicide would he the cleanest end to the plague-spotted failure he had made of his life since he had left Princeton. Also, in a way, he liked at least two of the down and outers, the cow-puncher and the count. But the idea of the six men in that rickety dive on Railroad Avenue, waiting for him to die, struck him as disagreeable and slightly obscene. They reminded him of six starved, black, red-necked vultures, sitting all in a row on a low wall and waiting for the death agony of the victim before swooping down on it and rending it to pieces.

He could not banish the picture from his mind, though he tried his best, and he wished that the end of it all would come sooner. Still, there was that suicide clause in the insurance policy. He would have to wait until the 1st of April of the next year. So he drank and gambled harder than ever. And he won steadily. It was natural that Ritter, the president of the old National Bank, who saw his new client's account increased by leaps and bounds,

and who had received a tip from Jay Houghton, one of the bank's vice presidents, that McDonald was in Spokane in the interest of a great Eastern syndicate, should look at the young man with favor. Also, since it is right to stuff a goose before you pluck and kill it, he gave him a little whispered advice once in a while about Curd-Alane and Kootenai mining stocks. McDonald, with the recklessness of a man who knows that his days are counted, followed the advice, and everything he touched seemed to turn into gold.

By the end of May he had over $30,000 on account with the bank, not to mention various small blocks of stock. When one day Marshall Houghton, with elaborate carelessness, asked him if he took any interest in the stock of the Western Crown, the idea of it struck McDonald as deliciously funny, and he replied, quite truthfully, You bet I do, the Western Crown is a matter of life and death with me. Marshall Houghton made a note of the remark.

This was the first direct admission McDonald had made about the matter, and that night he mentioned it to his father. That gilt-edged, old stock bandit congratulated his son warmly on his acumen. Fine and dandy, Marshall, he said. We'll have young Mack take an option on the Western Crown's stock in no time. Lay low for a while. Meanwhile, let's investigate if the Western Crown has any

assets that are any damned good at all. He investigated. Shortly afterward, there was an informal little director's meeting in Houghton's office in the Peyton Building. The two Houghtons were present, also Kenny and Ritter. There was a good deal of talking and figuring. You see, gentlemen, J.W. said, it's easy. It is that, Kenny agreed, and a beatific smile spread over the red, pulpy acreage of his face. But we got to be quick and careful about it, he added with delicate restraint. You see, the fact of the matter is

that there's a bunch of brand new Rube legislators up there at Olympia just now, and they're threatening to spring a new bunch of insurance laws on this Commonwealth. So the four directors were quick and careful, and inside of ten minutes, a motion had been proposed, seconded, and unanimously carried,

which transferred certain of the Western Crown's holdings to a brand-new syndicate in consideration of a block of stock in the Red Canyon Copper Company. It was, of course, only a coincidence that a good deal of the capital stock of this mining company had been owned heretofore by the two Houghtons, Kenny and Ritter, and that the same four gentlemen composed the new syndicate. On the evening of the same day, MacDonald entered Benson's Barber shop in search of a nail polish. He walked straight through to the manicurist, who had a little box-like room of her own, and opened the door. A man was sitting opposite the manicurist, with his back to the door,

and just at the moment of McDonald's entering, he made a remark to the girl, which caused her to scream, and which caused McDonald to clear the width of the room at one jump, and to strike the man in the face with the full force of his clenched fist. The man fell like a log. MacDonald bent over him. Why, it's Graham, he shouted, surprised. A moment later, Graham picked himself up. You'll pay for this, he mumbled thickly. He looked at McDonald in a manner which made even that bland disdainer of life shudder the least little bit, and he left the room without another word.

McDonald dropped into the seat which the other had vacated. He looked at the girl who was breathing heavily. It was neither a handsome nor a pretty face with its thin outline, its slow, silent eyes, and the lips curled a little indistain. But there was a deep, fine sweetness in it, McDonald thought, and also pluck, downright pluck. He wondered how she came to be working at this trade, and he put his wonder brusquely into words.

What's the idea of your doing this sort of work? You know what to expect from half the men who come to have their nails manicured? The girl had regained her composure. She smiled. I've got to live, she replied. And I've got to work for my living. It's right, isn't it? Everybody's got to do some sort of work.

Don't you think so? MacDonald looked up, puzzled. Why? I don't know why exactly, but I guess that's what we are sent into the world for, to work. Don't you think so? McDonald laughed. Then he boomed out a sonorous, vibrating, no, that wagged through the air like an undocked tail. End of Chapter 7.

Read by Marissa D.6, Largo, Florida, May 20, 26th, 2023. Chapter 8 of Bucking the Tiger. This is the Libre Vox recording. All LibreVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Lindsay Ann Cameron. Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah.

Chapter 8. Mac Hires an Office. When Richie MacDonald left the club that same night, the thought came to him that he was perfectly sober, and that this was the first night, since the signing of the suicide compact, on which he had sought his couch without at least one sheet trailing in the alcoholic wind. The consciousness of this fact disturbed him, and for a while he tried to play hide-and-seek with himself, but finally he decided that, since in a little over ten months he would be confronting eternity in the making,

or in the unmaking, he wasn't sure which, he might as well enjoy the luxury of being honest with himself. Cold defeat? Pat Kenny had sneered when he had dropped out of the game of California Jack in the middle of a phenomenal run of luck. Signed the pledge, Marshall Houten had asked when he steadfastly refused to take another drink. he had not replied. But he knew why he could not concentrate his thoughts on the game and the

crowd he was with. There was no doubt in his mind that all evening he had been thinking of the little manicured girl in Benson's barber shop. There was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to see her again. Very soon he decided, for, after all, he didn't have so very many months more to live. Then an idea came to him. He hypothesized himself with a loud voice to the great surprise of a white-robed Mexican who was selling tamales on the street corner. You are a bulbous ass of Don Quixote, but you are a man enough to admit it, and to do it right. And he winked at the moon and imagined that the moon was winking back at him, with an air of benign

sympathy. He walked back to his hotel in a roundabout way. He enjoyed the exercise, for it was a peering. peaceful night of late spring, with a low hum of a sleeping world. The sky was clear, and a throft of yellow stars was flung over the crest of the night. The next morning, punctually at eight o'clock, he entered the box-like little room of the manicure. Without a word, he stretched out his hands. She smiled and shook her head. You don't need it. I fixed your nails yesterday. He laughed. It was such a Frank boyish, good-natured laugh that she joined in it.

Sure, you fixed them, he said. I forgot. He fumbled for the right words. Then he continued, brazenly, what's your name? A sharp reply trembled on her lips, but she controlled herself. She looked at him and decided that the man's face was neither vicious nor mean. My name's Emily Steves, she replied. Nice name, real nice, homemade, green apple and raisin pie name, he commented with another laugh, and again she joined in it, hardly knowing why. There was a short silence. Then he continued, my name's MacDonald, Richie MacDonald.

Again, there was silence. Then he asked suddenly, Stuck on your line of work, Miss Thieves? The question caught her unprepared, and she answered without thinking. but with ringing conviction. You bet I'm not. Then, he said, waving a didactic finger,

why do you do it? She answered with a little rebellious note in her voice. I told you yesterday. I remember, he said, sad necessity of earning a living, nobility of labor and all that sort of thing. You told me, but there are other jobs in the world

besides cutting and polishing the claws of the male beasts of prey. Now there's stenography. Ever try it? Yes, but there isn't enough money in it. Twelve per? That's the highest I ever got. How much do you make here? Once more his clean, good-natured counterint disarmed her suspicions, and she answered readily enough. Eighteen per's my average. A little more in the winter, a little less in the summer. Why? McDonald lit a cigarette Comin stognog for me he remarked casually

I'll give you 40 a week The girl blushed scarlet She had worked long enough as both manicure And stenographer to understand the delicate As well as the indelicate approaches of the other sex Say She flared out You're a fine one to knock down other men

For a fresh word as you did yesterday And now you come here here the very next day and you suddenly she stopped there was such a look of honest hurt bewilderment in the man's face that she did not know how to continue perhaps you're just joshing she concluded lamely no i am not he declared decisively now look here miss thieves forget for a moment that i am a man-male and you are a woman female banish the thought kill it with a cleaver and bury it i like you Get that? I like you and nothing more. Get the nothing more? Fine and dandy. Well, but... He waved her interruption aside. Wait, I'm coming to that. I'm a man of affairs.

I have, oh, investments to look after, letters to write. And I... He tried to assume the pathetic error of a chronic invalid failed and finally compromised by faking a hollow cough. I beg your pardon, he added in a thin, weak voice. I get these attacks every now and then. I look very healthy, I know, but it's deceptive. My days are numbered. Well, what? Tears came into her eyes.

MacDonald tapped his chest and had another coughing fit. One more year, he said laconically. What do you mean? That's what the doctors give me, Miss Thieves. one more year. The girl felt horribly distressed. She gave a little cry of pity and sympathy. Oh, Mr. MacDonald, I'm so very, very sorry. Thanks. That's kind of you. I'm glad you feel sorry for me. You see, I need help to straighten out my affairs, to keep books and write my letters. Now don't you think that a man whose days are numbered has a right to have a girl about him who he likes?

So I know it's hard to work for a man who is dying before your eyes, by inches, so to speak. He gave another cough. That's why I'm willing to give you 40 per. The girl stretched out her hand impulsively and shook his. I'll come. When? Remember, time presses. Just the year.

Every day counts. I'll come tomorrow. Thanks, he rose. Tomorrow then. He walked toward the door. The girl called after him. Where's your office? Mr. MacDonald?

In the Payton Building, he replied, giving the first address that came to his mind. Walking down the street, it occurred to him that it was a lucky thing that Houton and Sons had owned the Peyton Building, and that he would, therefore, have no trouble about renting an office. For he knew instinctively that the girl was both shrewd and proud, and that his story would have to dovetail in every particular as so to prevent her from seeing through his charitable. intentions. He was well aware of the idea that some of the intentions of the two Houtens regarding himself and he decided to utilize them. Marshall Houten was eager to give him all the office space he wanted. What about the Kona office on the 10th floor, Mac? he asked.

Belden-Waylon have an out, but they're going to vacate on first. MacDonald shook his head. See here, Marshall, he replied, I want only a small office, but for reasons of my own. I want it right away, and I want it in this building, and I want some furniture that's been used, and it looks like it has been used. Let me some of yours, if he will. You see, I have a special reason for my demand, he added impressively. Marshall Houton smiled. He knew, he said to himself. He also knew why MacDonald had quit the club so early the night before. Some of the people who were backing him, perhaps his father himself, were evidently coming out to Spokane to look over the situation. And so, MacDonald wanted to give the correct business-like appearance. Don't worry,

Mac, he said. I understand. Mom's the word. There's an office right next to our main office. How will that do? Fine and dandy. All right, I'll fix it up with some of my own stuff right away this afternoon. He lowered his voice to a confident whisper. Are you going to start your active campaign for the syndicate you spoke about? MacDonald thought of the syndicate of the six down and outers at the Islux. He smiled. You bet, he replied, but keep it under your hat. It's confidential dope. But I'm going to step into the arena. I shall be deck myself in the lonesome apparel of the American businessman. I shall wear rubbers, an umbrella,

and an unlit cigar. I shall spread about me a general atmosphere of financial finesse and the culpability that goes with it. I shall play the part of a gifted and single-minded conover at legalized craft. I shall hard-boil my conscience and fan it with a gold brick.

I shall take an interest in the Western Crown, Marshall interrupted craftfully. MacDonald winked at him. Early next year, he replied, around the 1st of April, but not before. When Marshall Houton told his father that evening about his conversation with MacDonald, the elderly financier smiled delightedly. Marshall, he said, It's a shame. It's like taking bumper nickel out of an harmless Dutchman's mouth.

It's like converting a Turk to Mormonism. It's too easy. It ain't worth my financial ability. but I've got to do it. Marshall looked slightly bewildered. I don't exact get you, Dad, he said. Of course, I know that you intend to unload your Western Crown stock on Mac, but his father looked at him, pityingly. Marshall, he said.

If it wasn't for the fact that you got me for a father, he'd have to rely on the ravens to feed you, like the prophet Eliah. You'd have to swipe embroider penwipers from high school girls' charity. bazaars for a living. And then you tell me that you aspire to a profitable and appropriate realm of high finance? Why, boy, you don't even understand the first little Euclidean problem in thimble rigging. But, but nothing. Consider, here's young Mac working either for a syndicate or for his father makes no difference, which, and it's a cinch that he's got a free hand, he's taken an office, which proves that he's actually going to do business.

And it also appears, for he was enough of a damn fool to let that particular cat out of the bag, that he ain't going to talk terms before April of next year. He told you that, didn't he? Marshall looked at his father with reverence tempted by envy. Yes, Dad, he said. Houton, Sr. smiled. That's a sure sign, ain't it? And if he's going to lay low and watch the company we want to sell, don't we? Figuratively speaking, we want to use a nine-inch piece of lead pipe on Max Coco, eh? Now, if you want to sell a stock of a company, which you control, it's a damn good business to mitigate the company's assets if you can do it without incriminating yourself. We've done that. We've done a little trading. I and you and Ritter and Kenny.

We've taken over real estate of the Western... crown, and given to it instead a bunch of Red Canyon copper stock. That's all right, considering that the truth of the matter is that Fat Kenny owns the rest of the Red Canyon stock, and that he also owns the SA people, body and soul, and that these SA people are making monthly reports on the oarledges of that desolate bit of Godforsaken desert land, that they'll make Aladdin's cave look like a piker's dream. So you see, there won't be any of the same. There won't be kick when Mack examines the investment part of the company's balance sheet. The next item on the bill of fare is to boom the company's business.

Now it appears that the main business of an insurance company is to insure people. The hell's these sort of people who keep on digging up. We've got to write insurances like the devil. He thought for a moment. Say, Marshall, who's the liveliest wire agent the Western Crowns got? There's that fellow that wrote the $100,000. insurance for Macdad, fellow called Hayes, I believe. Fine and dandy, you get a hold of him. He's the boy for us. I'll talk to him. So the two Houtons stepped around to the office and looking

over the books of the company, they discovered that Hayes lived at the Islicks Hotel. Houten Sr. looked at his watch. Only seven o'clock. I'll go around to the Islicks and interview the Hayes party. He slapped his son Jovilly on the back. So long, Marshall, yolksin' away. I'd go a filler busterin. And he was off. The conversation between Houghton Sr. and Hayes was short and to the point. Sure, the pasty-faced native son emitted.

I'm the glink who pulled off the 100,000 plunk's MacDonald insurance. He paused. He wondered if somebody had blabbed, and if the powers higher up had received information about the suicide compact. so his voice trembled a little as he continued. Say, Mr. ain't, ain't it okay? Houghton smiled at him like a benign elderly wolf. You bet my boy is more than okay.

He drew Hayes into a corner, for he noticed that the five shabby, hungry-eyed men who crowded about the stove to wit, Walsh, Troube, Graham, Hillier, and the Count had cocked up their ears at the mentioning of McDonald's name. Look here, young man, he continued. That McDonald's insurance was a bright and noble piece of business.

I honor and I respect you for it. Put it here. They shook hands. I guess you know Mac pretty well, don't you? Sure. He's a friend of mine. And I'm quite sure you wouldn't mind doing him a good turn if you could. He winked at him and added hastily.

And if it wouldn't mean money to yourself. You bet your sweet life. Hayes replied fervently. That's good. Listen. I know for a fact, the McDonald begins to buy control of the Western Crown. Hayes nearly collapsed with surprise, but somehow succeeded to keep a straight face. And so, Hootin continued, If as a good friend of yours as McDonald wants to buy something, you want that something to look good, and you'll do all in your power you can to make it look good. Won't you? Don't reply, my boy. I can tell by the expression your honest eyes that you agree with me.

Put it here again. Once more, they shook hands. So I want the company to look its very best. Hootin went on. I want insurance taking out oodles of them. And you're the boy to turn the trick. Ensure everybody. Ensure those gentlemen over there near the stove. Ensure the chink bartender. Ensure the Indians. Ensure the lame, the blind, and the crippled. appoint your own subagents. Take the premium in notes, any old notes, but insure them. What about my commission?

Hayes inquired. It's all right for the company to take those notes, but I, his voice was determined. I gotta have cash. Houghton patted his shoulder caressingly. Don't you worry, my boy. I'll pay you cash. I'll pay you personally. They talked a little over the details, and Houghton returned.

turned his home on 7th Avenue, well pleased with himself. The moment he had left, the other down and outers surrounded Hayes with eager questions. Say, Walsh inquired. Who is that elderly part with the undivote smile? Hayes told them, and they were utterly amazed. The Count smiled. Pleasant blue, he exclaimed. But he's doing well, our friend MacDonald.

Ain't he, though? Walsh agreed. Graham flushed an angry red. He hated MacDonald because the latter had knocked him down the day before, and now his hatred grew when he heard how well MacDonald had done with the money, which he and the others had contributed. Our friend Mac evidently intends to Welsh. He sneered.

What do you mean wails? The cow-puncher inquired with an ugly scowl. Graham laughed. It's self-evident, isn't it? Hayes tells us that MacDonald is about to acquire control of the Western Crown, so he's made money with the $3,000 we gave him instead of spending it, as he said he would. And a man who intends to commit suicide wouldn't bother his head about making money. Right on.

Hillier seconded. Walsh flared up. Look a here, Mr. Captain Graham. He thundered. God knows the Mac's trying to make a money for The Max's a man of his word You know that yourself Your sinful and tedious ornery hog

I wish to God he would wails I've been sorry about this here Damn suicide compact since April I ain't no blood-sucking vampire I ain't But I know that Mac ain't going to Wales Not he Graham smiled He saw the battle glare in the cow puncher's eyes

and he had no appetite for physical combat. All right, all right, Andy, he said soothingly. I'm sorry I said it, but look here, all of you, McDonnellad has done jolly well with the little jackpot which we contributed. We, on the other hand, are as hard up as we've ever been. Why, hang it all? Only this morning, old man Islick told me we'd have to clear out. Every one of us by the end of the week,

unless we paid him a substantial something on account. Max made a pile of money, and whatever he has, he owes to us in the first place. Isn't that so? Right. Chimmed in the cherub-faced countryman. Bloody right. So I propose, Graham continued,

that we call on McDonald and ask him to, um, declare a dividend. That'll only be cricket I fancy. It ain't. wall scrowled. Nor baseball neither. It's his money. We were all tickled stiff when he drew up them their suicide ace instead of us. We didn't kick then. We were so damn glad to give him those three thousand bones, and now he's got the right to do with them what he pleases. We ain't got no right to sponge on him. I against it, fellas, but he was overruled. Suppose we call on him tonight. Immediately,

and took the matter over with him. Graham continued. Sure, Raoulb agreed. I second demotion. And so the motion was earned, against the vote of Walsh, half-heartedly supported by the count. Graham telephoned to MacDonald's hotel, but was informed that MacDonald had gone to the club. Royton, said Graham. We're off to the club. He rose, picked up his hat, and walked out into the street, the others following. Walsh was the last to go. Graham looked at him with a sneer. Coming along, Andy? I fancy you've reconsidered.

I haven't neither, the cow puncher replied. I'm trailing along to see fair play. End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of Bucking the Tiger. This is a Librivox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org. Read by Lindsay and Cameron.

Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Adula. Chapter 9. The Deputation Richie MacDonald had gone to the club earlier in the evening, on a sort of a farewell visit, as he said to himself, for he knew that, to carry through his plans in regard to the little manicured girl, whom he had engaged as secretary and stognographer,

he would have to make his bluff good. During the past weeks his check account and his investments had grown steadily in spite of himself. Now he would have to look after them. He would have to attend to business. Otherwise, being shrewd and proud, the girl would see through his charitable intentions and he felt sure that she would never forgive him. And the thought of hurting her feelings struck him as peculiarly disagreeable. But was it really charity which he intended towards her? the thought came to him, and with it a faint wonder, like a light in a dark house. He dismissed both

thought and wonder, of course it was charity. What else could it be? Also, why the deuce shouldn't he be allowed to do some practical charity? For he honed up to the fact that during all his life, while he had never done a really mean thing, a good thing to be morally ashamed of, he had never had the energy to do a decently good thing either. He had been an idler, a failure, and a waste roll. He told himself fiercely, and everyone knew it. His father knew it, his mother, his sister, his friends. He knew it himself. Of late, he had made a little money. That was true. But he had made it gambling and not working, and its very initial stake, the $3,000 which the six down and outers at the Isleks had contributed, he had received, thanks to a compact by which he was gambling away the most precious thing given to man,

life itself. All right then, he said to himself, he would unselfishly make up to somebody else since he had lost his chance to make up to himself. He would pay the little girl her $40 per week, and later on he would surprise her by leaving her every cent of his money on his death. So here was an additional reason why he would have to look after his money and his few investments, why he must secure and increase them. He wanted to make the stake worthwhile for her. So since this was to be his farewell visit to the club, he had played two-handed stud poker with old Pat Kenny with the open sky for limit. An expensive Princeton education, blended with the experience of his wonder yard, had made him an expert at this homicidal variety of the Great American Game.

And so he separated the old Irishman from a check which ran to a staggering four-figure amount. Kenny had only given up the struggle after his wife had telephoned for the third time. You'll give me my revenge tomorrow, Sonny, he had said on parting. But McDonald has shaken his head. Nothing doing, Pat, he had replied, after tonight I'm going to ischew this den of poker and punch, of bridge and brandy, of wist and wickedness. I'm going to occupy myself slowly with ducats and divorce. I'm going to foreclose on whatever business ability I possess and watch the gold dush drop into my poke.

No more cards until April of next year. Near sport. Kenny had growled savagely. You've so darn tight that the good lord has to use a shoehorn to squeeze your heart to into your body. Bad luck to you and lots of it. But in his own heart, Kenny was glad that MacDonald was going to attend to business. It was a sign that he was ready to put the finishing touches on the Western Crown deal, which, according to Hewton, had brought him to Spokane. And so, since he still owned a minority interest of the company's shares, he said to himself that in the final settlement he would get back from MacDonald every dollar he had lost to

him at poker, with a handsome bonus added to it. Now, MacDonald was alone in the card room. It was between the afternoon and the evening session. Between the bridge and the poker hour, the members had gone home to eat dinner and growl at their wives, and would not be back before an hour or so. MacDonald walked up and down the length of the room. He looked approvingly at the little tables covered with green cloth. Cards had been good to him. Cards had given him the groundwork for that neat little fortune which he proposed to leave to Emily Steves. Again, his thoughts concentrated on the girl, and then, very suddenly, he knew that he loved her. Ridiculous, he said to himself, a man doesn't fall in love at first sight, within 24 hours, but why not? whispered another cell in his

brain. Man is born in an hour and dies in a second. Why can't he love in a day? He did love, her. He was certain of it. The thought came to him like a shock. He loved her, yes, and his love was like a fine rain, the kind which one neither sees nor hears, which is unceasing, chilling, penetrating. What is it? His love would never do him any good, nor her any harm. God bless her, he completed the thought. One must live to love, and he would be in his grave in a little bit. over ten months time. He supposed he might be able to strike some sort of bargain with those fellows at the Islix so that they would let him off his contract. What of that? He would have to pay over his money to them. He would be as broke as he had been before. He would not be able to make life easy

for her, which was the main thing. Also, he would have to make full confession to her. Why, damn it, this very morning he had told her that he was very sick. that he only had a year to live. He had worked on her sympathies to get her to accept the position as a stenographer with him. And now, if he confessed, there would come her contempt,

perhaps, which was still worse, her pity. No, couldn't be done. He'd stick to his bargain, suicide as per arrangement with those six vultures as the Islicks, and little Emily Steve's to get his money. The one decent thing in his,

life. Then he thought of the Hutans, father and son, and he was amused, why those two efficient and hold-hearted grand sachems of the ancient and belevelant order of grafters and kidnappers were figuring on doing him up brown over a bunch of stock in the Western crown. That much he had read between the lines. All right, he decided. He would have some sport with them before he died. These last ten months wouldn't be devoid altogether of laughter and merriment. He walked over to the window and looked out. The day was closing in, and the sun had moved down the horizon into a deep, inky black banks of clouds, transfusing them with pink and orange edges.

The foaming, turbulent water of the Spokane Falls was green one moment and gold the next. And where the evening wind blew, there was a great blotch of silver, and the little crinkled waves looked like the ruffled feathers of a wild bird. He opened the windows and filled his lungs with fresh, chill air. It was a beautiful, beautiful world, after all, he thought, and he, in one more year, I beg you, podin, drawled a soft African voice from the door. I beg your podin, Mr. MacDonald. MacDonald Turn, one of the stewards had entered the room.

What is it, George? The Stewart bowed. Mr. MacDonald, sir, these tramps out yonder waiting for you, sir. They all say they're going to see you, sir. They're very insistent, sir. Did you say tramp, George, or tramps? MacDonald asked. Did you mean tramps, in plural?

Or is it said plural only a slip of your nubian tongue? No, sir, the Stewart replied. There's several, six, I guess. counted them, sir. MacDonald smiled. By ginger, he said to himself, that must be the Islick's bunch, the hungry six. He turned to the steward. What do they look like, George? I don't know, sir. I can't exactly describe them, sir. MacDonald sat down. Is one of them a tall streak of misery, with a shape like a drink of water, haughty, British? You go in blooming well be damned manner? Yes, sir, yes sir.

The Stewart broke into a high-pitched guffaw. And is there one, MacDonald continued, who looks like a villain in a moving picture drama? French, you know, spiked mustache, pointed boots, runs away with the pretty dame who has all the money, grave cowboy to the rescue revolversought, stars and stripes, and all the rest of the properties? The Ethiopian Ganymede broke into another reverberating fit

of jungle-like cackination. "'Yes, sir. That's them.' He replied with choking voice. MacDonald lit a cigar. The Islick's bunch or I'm a Dutchman. I bet they've come to collect a dividend on my prospective corpse. The Stuart looked bewildered. "'I beg you pardon, Mr. MacDonald.'

He stammered. MacDonald laughed. "'That's all right, George. I was just talking to myself. Show the gentleman in.' The Stewart left and returned a minute later, together with the six down and outers. Mr. MacDonald, he said, Here am the gentleman.

And he left the room. Graham, Troub, Hayes, and Hillier advanced with an air which was a peculiar mix of arrogance and embarrassment, while the cow puncher and the count lagged behind exchanging whispered remarks. Graham dropped into a chair. That's right. McDonald commented with a laugh. Make yourself at home. Graham did not reply.

He looked about him. He saw the solid luxury of the room. The splendid brown wainscoting. The bronze chandeliers which deepened from the high, slightly vaulted ceiling. The fresco paintings which ran round the walls, the warm red carpet on the floor. He saw MacDonald's well-cut tweed suit,

his expensive silk shirt, and the fat black cigar. between his lips. He turned white with hatred and envy, and a deep rage rose in his heart. Finally, MacDonald himself broke the silence. Well, gentlemen, he said, to what pleasant chain of circumstances as I indebted for this charming visit on Mass? Say, Mac, Wall shouted from the door, I swear to heaven it wasn't me, nor the county either, who's responsible for this here deputation, It was at no count, cried a snatching, yell livid, I sore of a Graham. At the sound of his name, Graham forgot his rage.

Of course, he hated MacDonald. There was a memory of the blow, the luxury which surrounded him. Still, business was business. So, he spoke suavely and consciously. Exactly, MacDonald. I, myself, suggested this little visit. We heard of your tremendous good fortune. don't you know?

Right on. Chimed in Hillier. Jolly ripping good fortune, I call it. Bunches and bells of the ready, eh? What? Sell out. Graham stared stonely at his jovial compatriot. Shut up, you bugling blighter!

He whispered salvagely. Then he turned again to MacDonald. Yes, old chap, we've heard that you've made quite a lot of money since you left the Islicks, And so being, as so to speak, your silent partners, we came to being my what? inquired MacDonald softly. Your silent partners. The other repeated icily.

MacDonald laughed. All right, if you want to put it that way, go on. Being, as I said, your silent partners, we came to, to congratulate me, I suppose, MacDonald interrupted. Again, a great rage rose in Graham's throat, but he controlled himself. He bowed slightly. Of course, of course, he said. We came to congratulate you, but we also came to, to get money. MacDonald interrupted once more. Hylir burst into a guffa. My word, old chap, how the deuce is did you get it? Second sight, old man, MacDonald replied with a smile. Then he addressed Graham direct.

If I may put it in my own crude way, you have come here to collect an interim dividend on my prospective corpse. Not a bit, answered Graham. We have come to the conclusion that there is really no necessity of your following the silly contract at all. Right on. The irrepressible Hillier broke in. The whole thing was meant in a fun. Meant to rot you a bit, you know. MacDonald leaned back in his chair.

He observed the others from beneath his lower eyelids. He had an idea as to what was coming next, and he was not mistaken. Suppose you pay us instead of waiting for April of next year. Graham continued, and then, I may be allowed to live? Yes, that's it, exactly. You see, old cock. Hillier put in, in spite of his countrymen's warning glances and whispered admonations, We thought we'd give you what the Yang's collar square deal, and that's sort of a piffle.

MacDonald smiled. Very square. I'm sure, he admitted. Hillier grew enthusiastically. Isn't it? You see, we are dustedly hard up, rather stony broke, in fact, and you've got barrels of the filthy stuff, and we're offering you a bargain. MacDonald was in thoughts. Life, he considered.

life and a chance and the girl how much do you want he asked abruptly traub opened his mouth for the first time it ain't de question of how much vivant he said coolly and briskly the question is how much hafukot what d'ye mean mcdonald retorted and a little sharp note crept into his voice it's easy to see what we mean the german said stubbornly They ask you how much money have you got, no? Hayes pushed the German to one side. Dutch is right, Mac, he said, pass over your cash box, your bank book, your pawn tickets, and the keys to your private vault. Come through with the dough. Say, you don't want to cut your throat because of a few measly copecks.

You ain't going to be such a tightwad, are you? And of course, Graham added with a sneer. You're not the salt to Welsh. We have your word for that. And, and is. Yes, and is. He repeated as he saw the questioning look in McDonald's eyes. Our cow-punching friend is quite a champion of yours.

Never mind, lookie, he said, leaning across the table. Suppose you figure out how much you got. Of course, we'll leave you enough so you can keep on going, right, for a month or so. Right on. Hillier interrupted. You are no end of a clever guy. cap, Mac, amazingly thunderously clever, regular blasting whirlwind of brains, what? It's ain't take you long to make another pile, you know. MacDonald did not reply for a few moments.

Then he spoke icily. I guess all you fellows agree with Graham. Want me to divvy up between you what I've made, and make me a present of my life instead? He glanced inquiringly around. Graham was about to answer, but Walsh got there ahead of him. Mac, he said solemnly, this ain't any of my doing, nor the counts, neither. We two are against it, dead against it, but you overruled. Graham interrupted quickly. We full are in the majority, and Mac, we give you your choice.

Cobb, Hillier, and Hayes gave a rumbling chorus of assent, and Graham continued. pay up, divide whatever you got or, you know. And he moved his thumb in a downward direction, like a Roman emperor commanding a gladiator to death. There was a long silence. MacDonald looked straight ahead into nothingness. Here was a chance. Should he accept it?

Should he let Graham blackmail him? Should he let these useless waste rolls have the money which he had decided to leave to the girl? He looked at the men. studying their faces narrowly. They seemed eager for life, eager for money, eager for all the grossnesses of what life and money could buy. They represented to him everything he hated in his own life, everything he despised in himself. They were broke, financially and morally. It did not take him long to decide, and when he spoke his voice was hard and cold, dismissing with its first word the possibility

of any alternative. No, he said, and rose. Not a cent. I stick to the original bargain. Get out. Hillier walked up to him. But I say, old chap, don't be so bloody big-headed.

MacDonald took him by the shoulders and whirled him towards the door. Back to your tent, so Israel, he said laughingly, and very suddenly he lost his temper. Get out. All of you. Before I can.

kick you out. Get out, damn you, he shouted with a thundering voice. Walsh and the Count were the last to leave the room. MacDonald detained them by a gesture. You're broke too, you two fellows. Aren't you? He asked. You bet. Walsh replied fervently, while the Count raised his hand to the ceiling in a gesture which was a superlative yes. All right, MacDonald continued. I'll give you two fellows a chance. opened up offices in the pay-tip building. Come around tomorrow at 8-sharp, both of you. I'll give you a job. There's just one condition.

You've seen tonight that I intend to stick to our suicide compact. I'm going to stick to it, whatever happens, for reasons of my own, and I don't want you fellas to ever talk to me about it. Not to try to dissuade me. Promise me that? The two men looked at each other. Then they looked at MacDonald. Finally they gave a half-hearted promise.

And so it came about that when Miss Emily Steves appeared at the Peyton building the next morning at half-past eight. She found an extremely busy office there, with her new boss giving rapid directions to two employees who looked suspiciously like vagrants, but who seemed to be in great favor with MacDonald and who repaid him with dog-like devotion. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of Bucking the Tiger This is the Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org.

Read by Lindsay and Cameron. Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah. Chapter 10. The Booming of the Western Crown. During the next few days, a veritable cyclone of insurance agents rooting for the Western Crown struck the peaceful city of the Western Crown. struck the peaceful city of Spokane and the surrounding inland empire. For Hazett appointed the two Englishmen and the German as sub-agents. They commenced proceedings by ensuring each other for hearty amounts,

paying the premiums and notes and turning them over to the company, and mulching Houten Sr. for the cash equivalent of the commission, do them in hard-hearted, merciless cash. The elderly financier smiled and his usual afferous smile. Go to it, boys, he said. Bring along the baggage train and the munitions, the mounted infantry, and the big hoesets. Descend into the lowlands, the low, and the climb the highlands, the high. Open up fire under the white flag.

Prove that you've learned something about up-to-date warfare and spare neither woman nor child. Open fire on the Commonwealth and the smiling rural land. landscape which surrounds it. Ensure everybody. And God bless you. And cheered up by relays of square meals, the four men responded nobly to the Clare on call. They button-holds strangers in the streets and forced applications and fountain pens into their hands. They approached seawashes, lumberjacks, lawns, members of Chinese togs, state senators, second-story men, holy rollers, grocery clerks, free rule, delivery, letter carriers, and the president of the local Bonae birth. In the payment of the premiums, they took enthusiastically everything in the way of long-term

unsecured notes. They claimed high, low, Jack, the Joker, a grand slam, his nibs, and the big casino, and cleared the board of all insurable people. Houghton Sr. was torn between two emotions, for while every new insurance written cost him so and so much money out of his own pocket for commissions to the agents, the stock of the company, while advertised in the local newspapers, went soaring sky high. So he went about with an air of an undertaker, but of an optimistic undertaker who had received authentic news from the United States Health Bureau that a horrible and killing epidemic is due to arrive on the next spring wind. He had occasional conversations with Richie MacDonald, who freely admitted that he was very much interested in the worldly fortunes of the Western Crown, but he still seemed to be waiting for something before he declared himself. Yes, yes, he replied, the company is certainly booming to the beat of the band.

I'm damn glad of it, for your sake, since you own control. Hout impaled, but cheered as MacDonald continued, and also for my own statement. and also for my own stake, for you see, next April, promptly on the first, I shall take a more active interest in the affairs of the Western Crown, and now, will you pardon me if I go into executive session with myself? Which last meant that he was about to dictate a half a dozen unnecessary and very lengthy letters to Emily Steve's, punctuating the diction with hollow coughs for reasons of local color, and speculating, meanwhile, if her gray eyes was light up when she looked at the man she loved.

Houghton was considering, by April of next year, promptly on the first, MacDonald had told him, he was wishing both devotedly and profanely that April would come a little sooner, for the commissions he had to pay to Hayes and the three sub-agents were rapidly growing in size. He was afraid to call the agents off, as he knew that a decade in the volume of business would cause the stock to slump. So Hayes, Traub, Hillier, and Graham continued to write insurance. They wrote it as it had never been written before.

Their campaign marked an epoch in the history of the Northwestern Life Insurance. One curious consequence was that it caused the two Englishmen first to take an interest in their work, since it brought easy and profitable returns, and second, to take a certain amount of pride in the company for which they were working. Let it be remembered, the Graham was eaten, Oxford, and Army, while Hillier was Harrow and Cambridge, and that they had thus gone through a classic course of education, which taught them all about the Kilquot, the cockleine floods, and the curse of Scotland, about juvenile, jingalism, and jockeys, about Baucus, bridge-width, and the baccany philosophy, but which, on the other hand,

had achieved the ethical aim of a British pedological system by carefully untraining them for the vulgar pastime of the pro teriant called business. Not even the fish-fried ancestry of Graham could counteract what brazen-nosed college and mess rooms had taught him, and it was the same with his cherub-face retainer and compatriot Hillier. They saw that the business of the Western Crown was increasing rapidly and that the stock was storing. They did not realize that there was as much difference between unsecured, long-term notes and cash, as there had between a package of green goods printed for the Arkansas RFD routes and a certificate of U.S. steel common stock. My word, Graham said one day. I wish I had a slice of this Western crowned stock.

Rather, not half, regular blooming bonanza. Hillier agreed. But what's the good of wishing? It's like asking a chap for change of a quid Which he hasn't got and don't look like he's ever getting Why? He pointed at the local stock report of the Spokane Spokesman Review The shares were up 417 yesterday

If I only end done my governor so much in the past Graham signed I might Hillier looked up with a gleam of hope in his pale blue eyes Nice a old chap, let's try it Sort of a long shot, you know, but let's do try. I'll write to my governor, and you write to yours. Let's do the Peter Pachaviagov's stuff, violins in a harpsichord in the orchestra,

all that sort of thing. Turned over a new leaf, don't you know? See the error of our formal ways and learn to a blooming lesson here in America. Going to stick to business in the future, what do you say? All right, Graham agreed. Let's try. It'll only cost to survive since Stamp. So they wrote home.

Meanwhile, MacDonald kept faithfully the promise he had given to himself. The club saw him only at lunchtime. He attended strictly to business, and by the dint of trying hard, he discovered that his cranium a brand new, though slightly rusty set of business abilities, and diligence whose existence he had not hitherto been aware. He did some shrewd trading in real estate

and inquired a seat on the local mining stock exchange, doing here so well and withheld, so honestly, that the members hailed him as a new prophet, arisen in Israel. Gradually he learned to love the prosaic serenity of the daily task that gives bread, whose main reward is not the money involved and made, but the perfect love of the work itself. Battling and working successfully for the future and the welfare of the girl whom he loved, he proved the inner worth of his soul, the tempered edge of his steel, the quality of his energy,

the secret truth of his laughing pretense, not only to himself, but also to others. The girl frankly admired him. He had told her that day in the barbershop that he had less than a year to live, that, according to the doctor, he had already one foot in the grave. And yet, in spite of these dire prospects, he was always good-natured. He was kindness personified to her as well as to the two men and his employ. She knew that he was comfortably well off, yet kept on working with a tremendous energy in Plunk, doubly admirable in a man whose days were numbered. Only a few days back, though he had so little time to live and enjoy the fruits of his labor, he had taken over a large piece of residential property near Lincoln Park, paying a substantial amount in cash and the rest in mortgages,

and now he was busily engaged in subdividing the property and selling it in building lots. She felt very, very sorry for him. Mr. MacDonald, isn't there anything in the wide world that'll save your life? Prolong it? She asked him one day impetuously, as he was looking over her shoulder at a letter she was typing. For a moment MacDonald felt ashamed of himself. Hang it all, the girl was worrying about him. He appeared to himself in the light of a super cannibal, delighting and tender, red-lipped human emotions, and pink-cheeked girlish sorrow. He felt as utterly ashamed of himself as a professional witness

for attraction company. But he managed to tone his voice to a blending of self-pity and plucky nonchalance. No, Miss Emily, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. Why? Do you care? But immediately he was sorry for his last words, and he added, I beg your pardon, that wasn't a fair question. The girl had blushed Scarlet, and she went on without flinching. Yes, I do care. Why don't you try a change of climate? Alaska, or the arrow lakes up in British Columbia. Surely you're working too hard for a man who is, Who is? Don't trouble to pick out tactful or soothing words, Miss Emily, MacDonald interrupted. You are 67 varieties of a brick. You're a deer. As a stodographer, you're like that perfect apple, known to be vulgar as piping. And someday you'll be some good man's good wife. But don't bother about me. You see, I am dipping nuts on ducats. My ear is chromatically attuned to the harsh class of silver dollars, the delicate tinkle-tinkle of the double eagles, the eerie rustling of the

yellow bricks. I'm money-mad. That's why I'm desecrating my last year on earth by biting big businessmen in the chest. That's why I'm going tooth and nail after this new real estate venture of mine. Just then the door opened and Walsh and the Count came into the room. They had changed during the last few weeks. It is true that the former still had the rolling, towed to the front gate of a cattleman, and the out curve at the knees from the saddle grip, while the latter still sported a monocle and waxed his mustache with that aromatic mixture of oval margarine and lamp black, which delights the female hearts of the inner boulevards. But gone were the shabby clothes, the hungry eyes, the general air of pathetic neglect. They were

broke no more. Walsh was exuberant. Say, Mac, he shouted. Roping Mavericks is sure swell training for a hustling American real estate man. I sold two of them Lincoln Park lots this morning. But the count seemed dejected. What's the matter, Frenchie? MacDonald inquired. The Frenchman dropped into a chair. At last, he exclaimed. I saw him Kennedy. I talked, I argued, I calduraled, I obligerated, but he would not buy that lot in Lincoln Park. He says he will not pick cash. He says that the word cash will always remain a stranger to the vocabulary of his business life. He says that perhaps he will trade.

Walsh pointed a broad thumb at the count. Say Mac, he said. French, you can't help it. He ain't no good at this here real estate game. But I try, my dear, my dear, I try, the Frenchman interjected. Sure you do. Walsh remarked soothingly. But you don't do it right. I tell you where you make your mistake. Take that candy party you saw today and what you tried to sell that corner lot to.

You goes to him with a meek air, don't you? As if you were a tax collector or lady with a manly voice who demonstrates gas stove, You know the sort I mean. Once I used to belong to a number one southern family, but since dad had to sell all his 15,000 slaves, and since my brother Jefferson, Beauregard, Polk, took to come home every night lending a cute little jag by the hand, I got to work or starve. And so won't you please buy one of these them here stoves and wrap it up in my wife's Christmas stockings? I need a kumish. I bet that's the line of mushy hand out, don't you? Well, of course, that candy party gives you a withering tornado look and sits on you and brands you with a hot iron and kicks you lightly in your teeth and tells you to go to hell and stay there and not to bother him again and to try your three-card Monty game on his soft gazer fresh from the east.

Ain't that so? Now let me tell you the real way to sell real estate. Walsh cleared his throat preparatorily. to a lecture on real estate salesmanship, but MacDonald interrupted him. He turned to the Frenchman. Did Pat Kenny say what sort of trade he was willing to make? Yes, yes, the other replied. He said something about the stock of the Western Crown?

And he blushed guiltingly as he mentioned the name of the concern, which figured so prominently in MacDonald's suicide compact. MacDonald laughed. All right, he said. I guess I'll step round to Pat's office and interview him myself. I may do a little trading with him, after all. He left the room. Walsh sat down across from Miss Steve's.

Say, Miss Amble, he said. Ain't Mac the Swale guy, though? Yes. She smiled, and then a pathetic little note crept into her voice. But isn't it too bad that he's in such wretched health? Both the count and the cowpuncher look startled. What are mean by Ed Hale? The latter exclaimed.

Why, don't you know? Hasn't he told you? No. So, she told them. They listened, aghast, dumbfounded. A suspicion of the real reason for MacDonald's stubborn resolve to carry out his part of the suicide compact crept into their understandings. And that night, as they were returning to the Hotel Islicks, where they still lived, in spite of their change of fortunes, Walsh turned to his companion with an oath.

Say, he exclaimed, I'll be everlastingly damned and picked in sulfur and brimstone if that man ain't the wettest man in the state of Washington, whack clean through to the marrows. And the Frenchman so far forgot himself in his usual soft, beautiful English, as to chime in with a slangy but fervent. Yipetchchukhuts, andee. End of chapter 10. Chapter 11 of Bucking the Tiger.

This is a Librevox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah Chapter 11 An Option If the consciousness of their fidelity and the loyal sense of their friendship

had caused Walsh and the Count to discover the real reasons for MacDonald's stubborn resolve to carry out his part of the suicide compact, Graham had arrived at the same conclusion through a complication of hatred and a sinister purpose of malice. It was not only that he hated McDonald because the latter had knocked him down that day in the room in the manicure,

nor because he was so evidently booming along toward a big success with all sails set to the wind. It was rather because MacDonald's decent, unselfish intentions toward the girl shamed his own foul corruption into a yet deeper abyss because he was conscious of the fact that he himself had neither the pluck, nor the stamina, nor the moral conviction,

to lift himself up as the other had done, done, and to reconstruct his life on a sainer, sweeter basis. His was the eternal hatred of the weak and unclean for the strong and clean, and his hatred grew day by day until finally he persuaded himself that it was a just and right hatred, and until he nursed it into something secularly holy. Like many cowards, he was peculiarly sensitive to the mental and moral atmosphere which surrounded him, and so he felt a crazy sense of outrage when he saw, he felt a crazy sense of outrage when saw that Walsh and the Count were also about to reconstruct their lives with the help of McDonald,

and that they freely acknowledged the debt of gratitude and friendship which they owed to the latter. He knew from Hayes that, according to Houghton Sr., McDonald intended to acquire a controlling interest in the Western Crown. He himself, believing the stock of the concern to be an extremely good buy, had already written home for money so as to be able to purchase a substantial block of shares, and his friend Hillier had done likewise. But when a casual word which the cow-puncher let drop one evening at the Eslick showed him that McDonald's was ready to act, that in fact he was about to trade in some valuable real estate in Lincoln Park for some of Pat Kenny's Western Crown Holdings, he felt more than ever convinced that it was up to him

to move heaven and earth so as to get there ahead of McDonald. He wanted more than a mayor voting slice of the company's stock. He wanted control. He wanted to frustrate the very deal which, he thought, MacDonald had set out to accomplish before he died. Both he and Hillier had saved a few hundred dollars from the commissions which they had been earning. He had a short talk with his compatriot. Then he called on Houghton Sr. That elderly mining stock and real estate corsair smiled rather a wry smile when the Englishman sat down beside his desk. "'Sacred wildcats,' he thought. "'I wager this diligent sub-Aption of mine has sandbagged another insurance victim,

"'and I got a shell out more cash for commission.' He put his hand in his pocket and fingered coquettishly a roll of bills which was reposing there. "'How much?' he inquired, with a loud voice and a subdued sigh. Graham waved the proffered money aside with a lordly gesture. "'Nothing,' he replied. I have come here to talk business, Mr. Houghton. Houghton felt relieved. He let the roll of money drop back into his pocket with a little satisfactory plump.

Business, with him, spelt the taking, not the giving, of money. Gladly, gladly, he exclaimed, shaking Graham fervently by the hand. Proceed, you interest me. That last statement was perfectly true. I would like to acquire an interest. in the Western Crown, that is, if it's for sale, the Englishman began lamely. It seemed to howden that sweet and soothing chimes were tinkling in the distance, but he never winked an eyelash. In fact, he managed to look slightly bored.

Yes, yes, he replied with a voice which was as throbbing with emotion as an ossified bagpipe. Lots of people want that. He paused and stifled an elaborate yawn. "'Cash transaction?' he asked casually. The Englishman blushed. He felt uncomfortable and cheap, the very thing Houghton wanted him to feel. "'Why, no,' he stammered. "'That is, I fancy I could muster a little cash. "'Not very much, though.

"'A fact is, I want a—' "'He hunted nervously for the right word, "'but neither Eden nor Oxford nor the army came to the rescue. "'I want a—' What a deuce do you call those dashed things? You don't exactly buy, don't you know, but you have the right to buy at a future date. Oh, I get you. You mean an option? Houghton suggested suavely. Yes, quite so, quite so.

Houghton, Sr. thought rapidly. Not for the tiniest fraction of a second did he believe that Graham wanted the option for himself. Of course he had come here only as an agent for Ritchie MacDonald. Pat Kenny had told him this very morning that McDonald had very nearly traded in a lot in Lincoln Park for some of his Western Crown holdings, but had backed out at the last moment with a laugh. It was evident to Houghton that Kenny had asked too much, but it was also evident that McDonald's wanted the stock badly. MacDonald seemed to think that he would be able to strike a better bargain through Graham than if he came in in person.

All right, he'd see that he was mistaken. He was altogether too eager to buy. So Houghton discouraged Graham's proposition with his first words. Not for sale, he declared with an exorable accent. Not for sale, he repeated, and turned to the work on his desk. But Graham was not so easily discouraged. Somewhere, in a half-forgotten cell in the back of his brain, the hoxering spirit of the ennobled fried fishman novelist who was his father,

rose screaming, "'Look here, Mr. Houghton,' he commenced with a firm voice. There followed a Homeric battle of words. The curious thing about it was that both Graham and Houghton, though they did not suspect each other of it, were unanimously intent on doing McDonald, the former by trying to keep him from obtaining the stock, the latter by trying to sell it to him under a guise of coy unwillingness.

Both men were moved by the lust of gold. Graham wanted to buy something which he thought was good. Houghton to sell what he knew to be bad. Added to this was Graham's bitter hatred of McDonald. Houghton, on the other hand, rather liked McDonald. Still, business was business, and so he felt toward him like an undertaker who was about to plant his best friend in a palatial $2,000,

silver-edged, velvet-lined coffin, and the bereft widow ready to hand over the cash. At the end of an hour, the two gentlemen agreed, Graham paid over as margin most of the cash he had in his pocket and received a 90-day option from Houghton for 51% of the capital stock of the Western Crown. I suppose you're acting for McDonald, Houghton inquired as he was about to fill in the name of the option buyer. A nothing of the sort. I am acting for myself.

Graham replied so heatedly that the aged financier shrugged his shoulders and filled in Graham's name. But he smiled as Graham's. lucked the office. What infantile precautions and subterfusures, he thought to himself. He knew better. Of course McDonald was the man behind the gun. So he ambled over to the club, where he bought an especially good lunch for himself and his admiring descendant. Marshal, my lad, he said, rubbing his hands. You have a right to be proud of your old dad. Efficiency is my middle name. My dome is mahogany trimmed and satin wood lined. I am an undersea boat in the ocean of trade, and nobody can hit my periscope.

What's the matter, Dad? Houton Sr. covered a piece of bread with butter. Covered the butter with New Vachel cheese. The cheese with a pimento, and the pimento with paprika pepper. Then he inhaled the hole, smiled me tifically, and replied, I have done young Mac. I have done him richly and for keeps. I have sold him an option on the Western Crown's stocks.

How much per share would you say, a rough guest? "'Four hundred and seventeen,' Marshall O'Pind, quoting the market price. When Howden Sr. shook his head and told him the real price he had asked and obtained, his son paled with emotion. "'Father,' he said with a firm voice, "'the next round of drinks is on me.' Graham, meanwhile, returned to the Hotel Eslick. He felt elated, pleased with himself.

He looked with an approving eye at the many evidences of the town's opulence and prospect. In the past, while he had been at Brazen-Nose College, and later on when he had borne his majesty's commission, he had felt secretly ashamed because his father had made the peerage via the fried fish route. But today, the commercial instincts of his blood came to the surface with a pop. He had the option on the Western crown stock snugly tucked away in his inside pocket. He would manage to take it up when the time came. He would make the thing pay, and best of would spoil MacDonald's plans thoroughly. When he entered the room, which he shared with his compatriot Hillier,

he found the latter in an attitude of deep dejection. But he was so primed with his own news that he did not stop to inquire after the cause. Did it, old chap, he exclaimed, got a 90-day-day-s option on 51% of the Western Crown's stock. I paid down the few hundred dollars we saved up as a sort of retainer, don't you know? "'Jolly proper piece of business, I call it,' he added triumphantly. Hillier's answering voice was hollow. "'Did you pay out all the money we saved up?'

"'Well, nearly all,' Graham said airily. "'There's about thirty dollars left.' Hildier groaned. "'Good Lord,' he said. "'I wish you hadn't.' And he buried his face in his hands. Graham looked at him and discussed. Oh, what's the matter with you? Off your feed?

I would. We talked it all over before I went to see Old Houghton. What the devil's wrong? Hildier pointed at a letter which lay on the table and which bore an English stamp. This came while you were gone, he replied on a hollow voice. From the governor in answer to my letter. The one in which I asked him for money to buy Western Crown shares with. "'Yes, yes,' Graham interrupted eagerly. "'What does he say?'

"'What does he say? What does he say? What the deuce doesn't he say? He says all sorts of things, rude, hard, unfeeling, not at all paternal. He reminds me of the fact that he passed his blooming word of honour over a year ago that he wouldn't give me another ruddy penny as long as he lived. He reminds me, curse him, that the Hilliers have lived in Sussex since the days before the conqueror. Curse him, too. That they are pure Saxon, and that they've never broken their word of honor. Then he winds up by asking me if I wanted him to break his word of honor. Silly old Josser. Pure Saxon be damned, he added in an agony of grief. I wish to God the Hilliers had intermarried a little with peasants in trade.

I wish somebody had taught them how to break their blooming word of honor once in a while. I wish— Graham patted his shoulder. Never mind, old chap, he said soothingly. My governor hasn't answered me yet. There's still hope. Meanwhile, I'll write to him again. I shall also cable him.

Don't give up the ship. We shall carry this thing through somehow. He said this was such steely resolve that Hillier looked at him in surprise. eyes. Graham was indeed surprised at himself. For the first time in his life he had decided to do something, to carry it through to the end with single-minded purpose. For the first time in his life he felt energy and diligence fermenting within him, and it was hatred, hatred of McDonald, which had brought the two qualities to the surface. So he wrote and cabled to his father, and he wrote and cabled so urgently, so imploringly, but with so much sense and grasp of business

conditions appearing between and in the lines, explaining how he had earned the money he had paid down as retaining fee on the option by working his agent for the company, how he had obtained an option on the majority of the stock, and closing the option itself, as well as a mass of newspaper clippings, to show how the shares of the concern were booming, and how the business of the company was increasing. That Lord Graham of Penville rubbed his eyes when he read the letter eleven days later. He turned to a sweet-faced wife, with a broad smile. "'Goblimey!' he said.

"'You can call me a Blooming Duckie's horse pen. "'You can call me a—a—a plurry man-eating ring-nosed hot and tot "'if the age of miracles ain't come back on this ear earth. "'Why, Lord, love me. "'Here is this ear brass-headed, moldy-hearted son of ours "'what used to break my art, living like a bloated millionaire, "'eaten dinners down at Hotel Esau with four quids ahead, and Gingellie will kick the out of army on top of it.

Here it is this year Ralph turned into a blooming financier, so help me. Hoay, he added after a short pause for breath. Who, Bloomin' Ray? His wife smiled delightedly. She walked over to her husband and patted his pudgy, rosy hands. Oh, I'm so glad, dear, she said, her aged voice, trembling with joy. Remember that time when Ralph acquired you to send him the money, so he could buy off that horrid Indian wife of young Hillier?

Why, dear, I thought at the time it was real unselfish of the boy, standing up for his pal, and never even asking a single farthing for himself. Right, oh, not off, bit of all right, agreed Lord Graham heartily. That word aft dusty at him, now I come to think of it? Lady Graham smiled. She knew her husband's staunch pride under all his rough conkony phrases. She knew how nearly heartbroken he had been that day when their only son had been drummed out of the army.

And now she was glad at the little ray of sunshine. What does Ralph write, dear? She asked softly. Read for yourself, old gal, he replied, giving her the letter. Then he said, half to himself, I've half of mine, too, too. Yes, blime me if I haven't. She finished the letter.

There were happy tears in her eyes, and she took her husband's hands in hers. William, dear, she whispered, do you remember the day Ralph was born? Yes, wasn't he the cunning little shaver? And the plans we made for him, she continued. Do you remember, the plans for his future? We were old, you and I, when Ralph was born to us.

You had already made your money? Perhaps, her voice trembled a little. Perhaps it wasn't all his fault. What came later? Perhaps we spoiled him a little. He drew her to him. Don't you fret, old gal, he said, patting her white hair. We tried our bloomin best.

But perhaps you're right. Perhaps we did spoil them. He stared into the fire, which was burning in the grate, for a thick white fog was drifting over the Sussex Downs in spite of the June sun. Say, sir, oh dear. He continued after a pause, and a little. low voice. Remember them old days down the Hott-Tot road when I was according to you? I wasn't no bloomin' lord then, with a coronet and a townhouse in a country estate.

I was just plain Bill Graham, fried fish retail, and blooming good fish they was, too. Remember what I proposed to you? You didn't, dear, she smiled. I didn't what? No, dear, you didn't. I was still calling you Mr. Graham, quite a formal lawyer. like. And all of a sudden, it was on a bank holiday and we were looking at the tulips in Regions Park. You put your arms around my waist right in front of everybody, and you said, Damn it, call me Bill, can't you? And give us a bus. Remember?

Lord Graham smiled reminiscently. Yes, old dear, I was always one of them straight-headed crabbing kind. Lord, love me, he added musingly. I do wish Ralph was a bit like his old dad. His wife pointed to the letter. William, dear, why, why don't you? Lord Graham rose very suddenly. Right, sirrah, right as rain, I'll do it.

He walked into the outer hall, picked up his ancient stick and his high hat, which was of solemn, ultra-conservative Sheraton architecture, and a few minutes later, the motor-car was whizzing him toward the station. And so, two weeks later, in his room with the Hotel Eslick in Spokane, young Graham was gazing rapturously at a fat draft on a New York bank. It was for the full amount of his option on the controlling interest of the Western Crown. There was also a letter from his father. It was partly congratulatory and partly minotory. For while his father praised him in moderate terms for his

business acumen and foresight and having secured the option, and for having evidently turned over a new leaf, he warned him of the consequences, should he lose the money. He told him in plain terms that he had made his will in such a way that, if Ralph should, by any chance, as he expressed it, fliver away the substantial sum he was sending him, every penny of his vast fortune would go to endow a home for retired and impecunious retail fishmongers. The letter wound up, I don't care what happens, and how you lose your money. I don't care if it should be your own fault of rotten circumstances. But I shall be in Spokane toward the end of next year

and see what you have done with the money, and how your Western Crown Company is coming on. I shall bring a charter to Counten with me, so you needn't try to flim-flam me. And if your affairs aren't up to snuff, off goes my money to Lord Graham of Penville's home for retired and imprecunious retail fishmongers. You will be able to fight my will, and perhaps even to break it, but I warn you that my will has been made and drawn up by the most competent and guileful legal talent in Great Britain in Ireland. So if you fight and break the will, it will take you 30 years. And by the time you get through, there won't be enough left of my money to buy yourself a glass of bidders. So look out, behave, and don't you squander that money.

Your loving father, Graham of Penville. End of Chapter 11. Recording by Todd. Chapter 12 of Bucking the Tiger This is a Libravox recording All Libravox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit Libravox.org Read by Melissa Marie

Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah Emily Steves Overnight the year had leaped into the softness of full summer The Summer of the Northwest, green and golden scented with the perfume of pine and rhododendron but with a cool fresh tang to it which spoke of the rolling yellow fields of the Palluse to the east, of the open sea beyond the western range, of granite peaks and blue glittering snow far to the north. Graham was swinging down the street, head erect, arms a little akimbo.

He looked at the green tracery of the trees and at the coppery reflections of the sun in the windows. The whole atmosphere seemed drenched in powdered gold, and he decided that life was worth a living. Years of worry and shame seemed to have dropped from his shoulders. He was broke no more. He felt again as on that day when he had received his Majesty's commission, and so he swung along easily, freely, an imaginary cavalry saber clanking behind him on the pavement. Last night, he had received the draft from his father, and just a few minutes ago he had made it over to Houghton's senior in payment for a majority interest in the shares of the Western Crown. The old financier had suppressed an emotional tear at sight of the draft.

He had shaken Graham warmly by the hand. Well done, my young friend, he exclaimed. Exceedingly well done. I turn over the control of this company to you with a certain amount of regret. But no, no, I know that you will follow in my footsteps. Rectitude, honesty, the finer, nobler business ethics. Let these be your motto. Take this stock, my boy,

and God bless you. He had paused for a moment seemingly overcome by his own emotional eloquence. Then he had continued in a more matter-of-fact voice. I suppose you'll want to call a stockholder's meeting very soon to have the new directors voted into office. Yes. I suppose McDonald will be the new president of the company. McDonald be damned. Graham had interrupted savagely. What the deuce has McDonald to do with all this. The old financier had smiled. Of course, if the others still wished to keep up the farce that he had bought the stock for himself and not for McDonald, it made no difference to him. All right, all right, he said soothingly. You elect whom you please. You have the majority of the stock. There are a few loose shares for which I hold the power of attorney. I'll gladly endorse them over to you

so as you can vote them as you please. And then, of course, there are a few. There are a few shares. There are a few shares owned by Pat Kenney. You'll rule that meetings, my boy. You'll be able to appoint as directors, whom you please. I suppose you'll go over the books of the company? Yes, during the next few days. Meanwhile, I'll be very much obliged if you'll have one of your stenographers send out the regular notifications for the stockholders' meeting. Surely, Houghton had replied, I'll do that little thing for you? Graham had left, and Houghton had looked after him shaking his head wistfully. The poor young fish, he had thought as he rang for his bookkeeper to deposit the draft at the bank. The poor canned sardine, the poor lemon sucker. Well, youth must learn, and age must teach him,

and it's right that teacher should be paid. But Graham, as he walked down Riverside Avenue, did not feel poor at all. On the contrary, he felt rich. He imagined that he was holding big business by the tale, and by Jupiter, he said to himself, he had jolly well spoiled Richie McDonald's plans. So he felt independent and very important. He was at peace with all the world. He was about to turn into Murgatroyd's drugstore to telephone to his countryman Hillier that the Western Crown deal was an accomplished fact, when he found himself face to fervous. He was a few. He was about to turn into face with Emily Steves. Immediately, a great rage rose in his throat. The memory of that day in the manicure shop when McDonald had knocked him down came back to him. Also, the memory of that other day when

McDonald had turned him out of the club after refusing to buy himself free from the suicide compact. And all because of this slip of a girl, he said to himself, and he glared at her. Will you kindly let me pass? The girl said crisply. Her voice. Her voice. Her voice. I voice brought him to his senses. He controlled his rising fury and lifted his hat with mock politeness. Why, Miss Steves, as I live, he exclaimed with well-simulated surprise. How do you do? My word, but you do look a stunner this morning, perfectly top and frock, and what a little dear of a hat. Imported French model I warrant, by jingo, manicuring seems to be paying well these days. Will you please let me pass, the girl continued, but with a low voice as she did not wish to create a disagreeable scene on the crowded street corner.

Graham continued as if he had not heard her interruption. But I forgot. You've given up the manicuring business. You're working for Richie McDonald's now, aren't you? The girl did not reply. She did not even look at Graham. Her free, independent young body stood up straight, but her eyes flashed fire under her heavy coil of golden brown. hair, and her little feet tapped the pavement impatiently. Doosidly droll, Graham continued with a smile, also rather a bit thick, don't you think, of old Mac to, oh, to hit me when I wasn't looking, to do all that mammoth twaddling stunt about morality and that sort of thing, and now you and he. Oh well, you tell him that I spoiled his little plan that I bought control of the Western Crown. I've no doubt he'll leave you some

money, my dear, but if you are looking for a real bargain, an eligible and slightly festive gentleman, I beg to recommend myself. Look here, miss. Suddenly, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Shut up, you damned Cad, a hard voice whispered in his ear. Graham turned pale with terror. McDonald had come unseen from the drugstore. Graham tried to wrench himself free. He wanted to run away, but the other's grip was one of steel. See here, McDonald continued in a voice which was as cold and passionless as that of fate. I knocked you down once for bothering Miss Steves. If you do it again, I'll kill you. I'll kill you with my bare hands. Get that? There was a short, tense pause. Suddenly, a sort of courage came to Graham,

the courage of a trapped rat. Right-o, he said with a fair imitation. You know, he said with a fair imitation of nonchalance. He was silent for a moment. Then he continued with an ugly laugh. You just as soon swing for murder today as to blow your brains out on the first of April, wouldn't you? For by gad, I'll see to it that you kill yourself. If you should try to Welsh, I'll advertise you all over this country as a coward and a Welsher. I'll, again, McDonald's voice came cold and passionless. Keep your filthy mouth shut, Graham, or I'll kill you now. Graham stared at him, utterly fascinated, for there was murder in the other man's fine, dark eyes, in the thin, quivering mouth, in the very angle of the blue square chin.

McDonald's whole powerful body seemed tense, bunched, like that of a wild animal, ready to spring and tear. The Englishman turned red and pale by turns. He swallowed hard once or twice, but he was silent. McDonald whirled him round by the shoulders. go, he commanded curtly, and the other went without a word. MacDonald turned to the girl. Let's go up to the office, he said, breathing heavily. She walked silently by his side. Half a dozen troublesome questions were on her mind.

What had Graham meant by his reference to the control of the Western Crown's stock? What had he meant when he had said that he would advertise McDonald as a coward and a welcher if he refused to blow his brains out on the 1st of April. She was positive that she had not misunderstood the words. So she looked up questioningly at the tall man who was talking by her side. But she refrained from speaking when she saw this set, tense expression in his handsome aquiline face. Still, her thoughts bothered her. McDonald had told her that he was a very sick man, that the doctor gave him only a few months more to live. And he had handled that tall, all-strong Englishman as he would a baby. Also, what was all that talk about suicide and about the

money he would leave her? What did it all mean? She was thoroughly mystified. They reached the office in silence, and in silence MacDonald sat down at his desk. He was deeply moved, profoundly disturbed. He loved the girl with all his heart. She was dearer to him than the dwellings of kings, but he would have to leave her behind him. Well off as to money, no doubt, but unprotected. She had told him that she was all alone in the world. She was so pretty and soft, she would be prey for such men as Graham. He knew that the Northwest was full of such men, adventurers, wasterels, English and Eastern remittancemen, the spawn of the social gutters of New York and London and Boston, men who had left their native towns for the town's good. He knew them. He had herded with them in mines and ranches and lumber camps and

gambling dens. Of course, he supposed he could still buy himself free. He wouldn't have to commit suicide, but then he would be as penniless as before. He would have to begin all over again, and the girl, she would find out all about his miserable past, how he had lied to her. So his thoughts went in a mad circle and he was very unhappy. Only of one thing he was sure. He would not Welsh. I beg your pardon, Mr. MacDonald. He looked up with a start. The girl was standing close by his desk. Yes, Miss Emily, he forced himself to say in a matter-of-fact voice. I must ask you a question, she continued haltingly. I, I simply must. Curiosity killed a cat, he replied with a forced laugh. But her face remained unmoved. This is perfectly serious. All right, he said with a sigh. Go on.

Mr. Graham asked me to tell you that he had spoiled your plans, that he had bought control of the Western Crown. McDonnelled smiled. Thanks for the information, Miss Emily, he replied, but it is really quite indifferent to me who owns control of that particular concern. He said it with such evident truth and sincerity that the girl was convinced, and rightly convinced, that the news meant nothing to him. But his subsequent words caused her to look up sharply. I can't see why Graham bothered to send me the message. Of course, my life's insured with the Western Crown, he concluded musingly. There was a short pause. Mr. McDonald, the girl continued steadily and forcing him to look at her. what did Mr. Graham mean when he threatened to, to, when he told you to, oh, that remark of his that you would have to blow out your brains?

McDonald tried to ward off the impending catastrophe with a light word. I guess Graham was just talking through his hat, he said, blushing furiously. Don't you bother your pretty little head about men's quarrels? Emily Steve stamped her foot with a little show of temper. I've got to know, Mr. McDonald, I've just got to. Why? Because, she paused, visibly embarrassed, then continued recklessly. Because it has got to do with you. He looked at her, his face at once, clouding and softening. Like me as much as all that? he asked slowly. She blushed a little. Her gray eyes were very still and dark,

as though she were pursuing something in her thoughts which was both tender and hurting. Yes, she said bravely, I do like you. McDonald rose abruptly and walked toward the window. A gentle breeze came from the outside, bringing with it the velvety softness of the sky, the languor of the summer hot earth, suggestions of infinite repose, the golden gift of endless dreams. He walked back to where she stood and took her unresisting, hands in his. Don't bother, dear little girl, he said softly. Don't bother about me. He gave a short laugh.

I guess everything will come out all right in the wash. There was another short pause. He picked up his hat. I guess I'll go next door and see Marshall Houghton about. About some business deal, he said, with a woeful imitation of his usual business manner. But the girl stuck to her point. You haven't answered me. If you don't tell me, I, I shall ask Walsh. I shall ask the count. Her voice rose a little. If you don't tell me, I shall ask Mr. Graham himself. You, you'll ask Graham? He made a grimace like a man who hears a false note. Yes. You mean that? Yes. All right. His voice was very hard, but there was no anger in it. Only a strange despair, a strange fatalism. Graham spoke the truth. He spoke slowly distinctly. On the first of April of next year,

I shall kill myself. She opened her eyes as wide as they would go. Her lips trembled a little. She was silent for several dragging moments. When finally words came to her, she spoke as if appealing to a third person, but her eyes never left McDonald's face. Suicide. But why? He did not look at her. He was staring into nothingness, grim, frowning, his teeth clenched tight. But why? Her voice came to him again as from a great distance. Suddenly, his concentrated frowning repression relaxed. He turned and looked at her. He spoke wearily, hopelessly. Because I love you, dear, because I love you with all my heart and soul, because all my thoughts are of you, because I adore you, because you are everything to me that is decent and sweet and worthwhile, because you are dearer to me

than life itself. She walked straight up to him and put her hands on his shoulders. Richie, Richie dear, she said in a low voice, but is that a reason why you want to kill yourself, just because you love me? She smiled. But my dear, don't you think it would be fair to ask me if I, if I—she stopped, blushing furiously. A profound silence fell. MacDonald was struggling with himself. He bent over her and kissed her very gently. Listen, dearest, he said, I'll tell you the whole story.

And he did. He told her of his wasted years, of his despair, of his resolve to end it all, of the suicide compact, and how he had cheated so as to draw the losing ace. How fortune had smiled on him so that by gambling he had increased the $3,000 which the others had contributed, how he had liked her at first, and then loved her, how he had made up his mind to accumulate a decent-sized fortune and leave it to her on his death, how later on the others had offered to let him off the suicide compact on condition that he would turn all his money over to them. He did not spare himself in the telling. He spoke with utter merciless truth, and when he had finished, he waited like a man who

expects sentence to be passed. Richie dear, the girl turned to him. You said that all your life, you've been a wasteal. Yes. You said that you'll never amount to anything. Yes, he said bitterly. It's the truth, isn't it? It is not the truth, she replied, why look about you, she continued, pointing at the office with its many evidences of busy prosperity. You've made good, very good, and you don't even know it. He laughed harshly. You're a loyal little dear, Emily, but you can't fool me, and I refuse to fool myself. I've a fair hunk of money in the bank and quite a collection of good investments, I know. But what of it? It's the beginnings that count. I made my first stake by gambling away my life. I increased it by playing poker over at the club with

old Pat Kinney. Fine foundations for a fortune, aren't they? Sure they are, she replied with her straight feminine logic. They all gamble out here in the northwest. I'm a Western girl born and bred. I know. Take the men who put up money in the bunker hill when it was nothing but a prospect hole. My father told me about that. Take the men who put up for the crow's nest coal, the Leroy, the Treadwell, up in Alaska. Take those who bought timber claims on speculation and those who bought desert land and found oil. They all gambled, didn't they? And then, after they made a little steak by gambling, they built up their fortunes. Why, dear, you've done the same. You gambled and you won. I don't know New York, she continued musing. I've never been farther east than But I bet the big men back

there gamble as much as they do out here. McDonald smiled. You bet they do, honey. Well, there you are, she concluded triumphantly, you've no reason to be ashamed because you made your stake by gambling. Gosh, you're a corking little counsel for the defense, he said with a laugh. He walked up to her and tried to take her in his arms, but she moved away. Why, Emily, he exclaimed with surprise, I thought you, you, I do, Richie, she said, and her voice was just a little hard. I do love you, if that's what you mean, but what about the first of April of next year? What do you mean? You know what I mean, she replied perfectly serious. It's quite useless to marry a man who intends to commit suicide. Of course, you can pay off those men and have yourself released from

the suicide compact, but then I'd have no respect for a man who lets himself be blackmailed, and I'd hate a man who welshes. McDonald looked aghast. But for heaven's sake, child, what do you want me to do. She gave him a mocking little curtsy. I don't want you to kill yourself. I don't want you to let yourself be blackmailed. And I don't want you to Welsh. But how, he stammered. How in the name of, that's for you to find out, Richie Deere, she said. She blew him a kiss from the tips of her fingers and left the room. McDonald looked after her in silence. Well, I'll be damned, he said with utter ringing conviction. End of Chapter 12.

Chapter 13 of Bucking the Tiger. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Melissa Marie, Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah. A Gleam of Light During the next few days, neither McDonald nor Emily Steves as if acting under a silent, compact, referred to the words which had passed between them. He knew that it was up to him

to act, but he had not the faintest idea how he could do it. He walked about with a morose air. Even the fact that the Lincoln Park lots were selling like hotcakes did not seem to interest him. Both the cow-puncher and the Count noticed his gloomy silence, and they naturally concluded that the thought of his coming suicide was beginning to distress him. Finally, one day Wal- regardless of the fact that he had promised McDonald never to dissuade him from his resolve, broached the subject, with what he considered to be supreme tact and dexterity. "'Listen here, Mack,' he said, "'whenever I think of your lily white body down there in the grave

"'feeding them nasty crawling green worms, "'it sure gives me considerable pain in my in step. "'Now what the hell is the use to blow out your perfectly good brains "'just because of them four sheep-herdened gander-headed coyotes down at the Eastlick. Say, Pard, you take my tip. Make a noise like a gold brick and treat that their suicide compact like a scrap of paper. Show them that them fur-iners across the Atlantic learned you something about the usages of up-to-date diplomacy. Don't kill yourself. Live and keep on a living. They will say you was afraid. And what of that? I'd rather be a live greaser any day than a dead

cow puncher, and I knows you ain't no coward. So does the count. so does Miss Emily. But does she? McDonald interrupted softly and left the room. Walsh looked after him, scratching his head. He told the count what had occurred, and the Frenchman smiled. My dear Andy, he said, it seems to me that our friend is wavering between the, uh, marriage bells and the funeral bells. Hein? Well, Walsh drawled, I lay you odds on the marriage bells. It's a few months yet before the first of April, and believe me, little Andy's going to help some if he can. So will I, the Frenchman agreed fervently. But all the time, McDonald's continued to be a study in the primitive mudshades of gloom and despair. It was only when he met Graham in the streets occasionally that a certain

fierce joy and resolve came to him. At those moments he said to himself that he would beat that smug-snearing ex-warier and that he would beat him according to the girl's wishes. by honest means, neither welshing nor permitting himself to be blackmailed. The girl was her usual self, a quick stenographer, an efficient secretary, and coolly impersonal. But all the time he felt her steady observation of him like a physical contact, like a soft, firm hand resting lightly on his shoulder, commanding him to go ahead and act. A dozen schemes crossed his mind to be dismissed immediately as unfeasible. But something seemed to tell him that his salvation would come from the Western crown.

He was not a superstitious man, nor was he easily influenced by any psychic suggestions. He was just a hail, clean, young American with a sense of humor and a deep capacity for sweet, unselfish love, a young American who had been a miserable failure in the past, who was making good now, and who had a splendid solid future before him. He was the quintessence of prosaic healthiness, and would have walked underneath a dozen ladders without the slightest qualm, but somehow he could not get rid of the idea that he was receiving a mysterious, subconscious impression which pointed straight in the direction of the Western Crown, the company in which he was insured, the company of which Graham had recently acquired control. Finally,

He decided that he would obey the impulse. He would try to discover what the subterranean message portended. Most likely I'll waste my time and end up by kicking myself for a darned fool, he concluded his thoughts, but he had no idea how he meant to obey the impulse nor why, but he knew at least where to apply for whatever vague, unformed information he was after, for there was Houghton Sr. The man who had formerly owned control of the company and who had tried to unload. on him. So, late one afternoon, he dropped into the old man's private office, he found him alone, as his son had gone up to British Columbia. A wintry smile lit up the financier's parchment-like features at the site of McDonald, but it was a forced smile, and his heart seemed to be plumping into his boots.

Holy subsidies, he thought, as he waved the other weekly into a chair, this young man has already discovered how richly I did do him over that Western Crown deal. In a moment, he will give his war cry and hit me over the head. I have a premonition that he will not respect my gray hairs. Officer, do your duty. Thus, as a slight peace offering, he handed McDonald a fat, gaudy banded, honored and important visitors-only cigar, and started talking feverishly of outside subjects, of bribery, corruption, saloon license fights, indictments of state legislators, and similar kindred political matters. McDonald smoked viciously. He did not know how to begin, since he was not at all sure what he meant to ask, so he too made light conversation. Lovely weather we're having, he remarked,

though a bit late for the season. The prunes will soon be in full bloom, not very many of them, chiefly the pink ones. Also, suddenly Houghton's senior gave a while shriek. He could not longer stand the suspense. Stop! Stop! He shouted. Stop for the sake of mercy and Christianity. Do not mention the weather nor the scenery nor any other bits of local color. Do not speak of the wild verbena which frolics in the greensword. Do not mention the spotted cow which chews her peaceful cud. Come down to tax. Nine-inch, solid-headed, sharp-pointed brass tacks. Call me a wiretapper. Call me a Utah. Republican. Call me a near bulger. Saub on my shoulder and bite my ear. Only say what you have come to say.

Say it quick. I am willing to arbitrate. He was silent. Thank God, he said to himself that he had cashed and deposited the draft which Graham had paid for the stock. McDonald looked utterly bewildered, but Houghton Sr. misinterpreted the expression for one of fury and hatred. Of course you've come to see me in regard to the Western Crue. crown, he said meekly, looking longingly toward the door. Yes, Mr. Houghton. How the devil did you guess it? The financier interpreted McDonald's last remark as pure unadulterated sarcasm. Well, I couldn't help it, he continued a little heatedly. That man, Graham, you sent to buy those shares for you is a damned fool. His hind wheels are locked and his carburetor is out of order. He should have known better. Why,

damn it, he wrote insurance for the company himself. He knew that half, three-fourths of the notes we took in payment of the premiums were unsecured. Mack, I've an idea that measly Britisher double-crossed you. I beg your pardon, Mr. Houghton, McDonald's cut in. I don't know what you are talking about. I didn't send Graham to you. I didn't buy any Western Crown nor any other shares from you. And what's more, he added, under his breath, I never shall buy any shares from you, so help me. He said the last words with such utter sincerity that the age financier felt momentarily relieved. Say, Mack, he said, scratching his mostly bald pall.

Is this the truth you are giving me or some deep-toned nefarious joshing? It's the truth, MacDonald replied. The other was still suspicious, so he continued severely. You aren't trying to be funny, are you? You aren't trying to wheedle me into childlike peace and confidence, and then, when I am not looking, to hit me in a little bit of you, on the vocal orifice with that large hand of yours. You wouldn't do that to me, would you, my boy? You wouldn't be so cowardly as to smite an old man on the top shelf after allaying his suspicions.

MacDonald laughed. I've no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Houghton. I have not the faintest intention of committing assault and battery, and I don't see any earthly reason why I should. Well, the other replied dubiously, you mentioned the Western Crown stock. Donald laughed again. Is that sufficient reason to hit a man? That depends. That depends. Houghton mumbled. Then he continued sternly. Graham didn't buy those shares for you. Really? I swear to you he didn't. McDonald replied. Houghton did not speak for a while. It occurred to him that all his fear had been for nothing, and the thought made him mad. It also made him brave. So he blazed up. Then what the devil do you mean by coming here and talking to me about the Western Crown, he shouted. What the devil do you mean by

introducing this painful subject? Have you no heart? Have you no sympathy? Have you no respect for old age? Well, Mr. Houghton, McDonald replied, I'll be darned if I know why I came here and what I want to ask you. I obeyed a sort of impulse. Impulse be damned, Houghton interrupted. It's so, though, McDonald's continued. I don't know what I want. That's all there is to it. But you must have some reason. Perhaps I have, McDonald's side. It's such a long tale. Go ahead and tell me, Houghton smiled, for in his own way he liked the other, and he noticed that something was really bothering him. MacDonald took a long breath. It's got something to do with the Western Crown, with insurance, and with death. Houghton jumped from his chair as if raised by a spring. Good Lord, he should.

shouted running to the door. I knew you were lying to me. You bought those shares, and now you're sore at me. He flung open the door. Help! He shouted. Help! Murder! McDonald ran after him and pulled him back into the room. Sit down, you silly fool, he commanded, and listen to me for a few minutes. I'll tell you the whole tale from the word go. And so, for the second time that week, McDonald told his woeful tale, including his many earlier failures, the suicide compact, his rise in business, his love for the girl, and the problem which the girl had asked him to solve. Houghton listened in silence. Somehow his heart went out to the young man in front of him, and he felt moved by a genuine desire to help him out of his dilemma. Plain case, it seems to me, he said, you've got to disappoint these four gentlemen who are

waiting for your death, let that fool of a gram advertise you for a coward. What do you care? It will be the biggest free advertisement you can get. McDonald's side, but I told you, the girl doesn't want me to Welsh. I wouldn't Welsh anyway. I'm not that sort. Queer fish, Houghton Sr. remarked and lit a cigar. He walked up and down blowing out volumes of smoke, efficiency, written deeply in every piratical lineament of his face. Suddenly, he stopped in front of McDonald. Mac, my boy, he said, you obeyed an A-number-1 nickel-plated all to the good impulse when you came to me. I have bilked Graham. I built him for reasons of business as part of the day's work, and now, by heck, you and I will bilk him again for reasons of personal animosity.

McDonald interrupted impatiently. But I told you that I've got to play the game square and honest. There's Emily. Damn the woman, Houghton said for and resumed his walk. Then an idea flashed through McDonald's mind. Look here, Mr. Houghton, he said, you told me you built Graham. Is the company as shaky as all that? Very, very, Houton replied, of course, the company won't go bankrupt if that's what you mean. Not that. You see, he added artlessly, we couldn't afford to have her bankrupt. Old Pat Kenny still has a few shares, but a couple of deaths will somewhat dent the company's assets, I'm afraid. Much cash in bank? Well, not so very much. Any other investments besides the notes? Houten blushed. There's a good bunch of Red Canyon copper shares among the

investments. McDonald laughed. You don't mean that stuff which old Pat Kenny is offering to everybody for a tenth of a cent per share. Yes, I do mean it. Fine and dandy, McDonald laughed. That stuff is accessible, isn't it? Yes. And Pat owns control? Yes. McDonald hit the aged financier heartily on the back. Mr. Houghton, he exclaimed, I believe I've got it. Let's hear, my boy. McDonald told him, and when he had finished, the others shook him warmly by the hand. My boy, he said, you're absolutely it. You personify what the magazines call romance in business. You're a bear cat. You instigate a fine cordiality. You instigate a fine cordiality. and a noble admiration in my heart.

There is prismatic beauty in the eyes of your soul. Come with me, and I'll buy you three drinks. End of Chapter 13. Chapter 14 of Bucking the Tiger. This is a Libravox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Read by Melissa Marie, Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah.

Waystrels regenerate With the acquisition of the controlling interest in the Western Crown, a deep and subtle change came over Graham's outlook on life, a stirring of the great curtain which hangs between success and failure. Spoiled as he was by his early training, by Eaton and Oxford in the Army, he had yet a natural temperament and aptitude, redolent of fried fish in the Tottenham Court Road, which had been bequeathed to him by his father,

and which now came to the surface, forcing him into the arena of barter and trade. One of his father's business maxims had been centralization of interests and lessening of overhead charges, which translated into the vocabulary of the street, meant that it was up to him to force his weaker competitors out of business. This he accomplished by either sending them to the wall or by buying them out. But eminently shrewd and far-seeing, he never bought them out for cash, preferring to pay them in stock of his own company, thus automatically, since their money was invested in his enterprise, forcing them to add their brains and energy to his, and also lessening the possibility of their becoming once more his competitors in the future. Whatever the psychic reasons,

heredity or a transmission of astral elementals from London to Spokane, at all events Graham proceeded on the same lines which had elevated his father to the ranks of the British Empire's hereditary legislators. He decided to buy out the interests of the other members of the Suicide Syndicate. He was doubly motivated to do this. There was, first of all, his absolute conviction that McDonald would stick to the letter of his contract, unless the others released him voluntarily, and this implied the gain of around sum of cash on the first of April of the following year. And there was, furthermore, the fear that the others might weaken at the last moment overrule him and make McDonald a present of his life. Of course, he harbored no such fear with regard to Hillier.

Not only was this cherub-faced descended of Hengist and Horsa, his partner and everything, but he also, repeatedly and specifically, repulsed all such allegations of weak-need, slobby-mouthed sentimentality. My word, old chap, he said, I have looked a bit of late into the philosophy of that foreign blighter Nietzsche, or however he pronounces his bloomin' name. Superman and all that sort of piffle. Jolly Ripin Sportin, very top hole, in fact. Of course, I do not hate Mack as you do, but, might is right, I'm afraid he'll have to kick the belly bucket. Remained Hayes, Trowb, Walsh, and the Count. Graham approached the first two immediately and both were willing and ready to do business. Hayes, seeing the phenomenal rise in McDonald's fortunes, did not believe for a

moment that he would keep his word and commit suicide. He had not much faith in the Western Crown, knowing the company's assets and peculiar business methods, and for a long time he held out for cash. But finding Graham adamant on that particular point, he said to himself, that even a famine-stricken sparrow in the hand is worth a non-existing broiler on a problematical roof. So he traded in his share in the suicide syndicate for $16,000 worth of Western Crown's stock at the market value. Troub's moral reasoning was different. Well, he said to Graham, the more their first of April comes near, the less I care for their moral responsibility of it. I do not want to meddle personally amid death. It gives me such a

pain in their stomach. I'm der good-hearted son of a gun. I would say to Mac, take your life away with you. I give you a present of it. Well, but there is my ambition, and so my principles overrule my sentiments yet. So I make business with you. You give me 16,000 stock in their western crown, and I give you mine share in their suicide, yes? Graham was shrewd enough to have both the gentlemen sign a paper which gave him authority, devote their shares as he wished at the coming stockholders' meeting. So he controlled now a majority of the shares in the suicide syndicate, which released him from having to approach the count and the cowpuncher whom he knew to be in the employ of McDonald and loyally devoted to him. Still, he feared their

opposition a little, and was very much pleased when the two men came to him of their own accord. He did not know that they had been carefully coached by McDonald himself, At first they both demanded cash. Then they asked for a full equivalent in Western Crown's stock of their suicide equities. But Graham, secure in the knowledge that he owned the majority of the equities anyway, swore by all the gods of Germine Street and Bishop's Gate Street, within that he would not give them a cent more than a thousand dollars worth of stock apiece. I only offer you that because I'm sorry for you, he said with a smile, take it or leave it. The count looked despondent, while Walsh grew profane. All right, he said, you caught us with our boots off, but we got to take it. Come across. So Graham gave them the stock, making them sign the same power of attorney for the coming shareholders' meeting which Hayes and Troub had signed, and he smiled a pleased smile when Walsh, as he left his office, cursed him fluently and picturesquely for a scaly-headed, heartless Gia monster. He would have been far less pleased.

if he could have followed the two to the street and overheard the cow-puncher's comment to his companion. Ain't he the poor Simp, though? Walsh asked the Frenchman. The Count laughed. Of a certainty, he replied, and Finn, you know? What does the poet say? He whom the gods wished to destroy. You know the quotation? Sure I do, Walsh lied stolidly and manfully. The shareholders' meeting of the Western Crown Life Insurance Company came off the following Saturday, Only three gentlemen were present, Houghton Sr., Graham, and Hillier, who was acting as Secretary-philosopher, friend, and general sidekick for his compatriot. It appeared that Houghton had voting proxies not only for the few outstanding loose shares,

but also for the substantial minority interest of Pat Kenny. True to his word, he voted the former proxies in favor of Graham, thus electing him to the Office of President and General Manager, and appointing Hillier as secretary and treasurer of the concern. When it came to the election of vice president, Graham nominated Hayes, and he was perturbed when Houghton refused to second the nomination and proposed McDonald's instead of Hays for the office. Look here, Houghton, Graham exclaimed angrily, you promised me you would vote your proxies

as I want you to vote them. Sure enough, Houghton replied, I'm voting all the loose shares your way, the floodgates of my loyalty are open to you, and they are going to remain open, believe me. My single-minded conscientiousness is so all-fired great that it's fictional. I'm for you, Cap. Put it there. He held out his aged claw-like hand. Graham shook it rather limply. Then why the deuce? He commenced, but the other silenced him with a gesture. Give a fellow a chance to explain, Houghton continued. May I never lap up another highball if I don't vote those loose shares your way. But old Pat is out of town, and I promise to vote for him too. And so I'll have to vote his shares as he asked me to, and he wants me to nominate McDonald for

vice-president. Graham considered rapidly. What did it matter after all, he thought? Let Houghton nominate and vote all he pleased. He himself held the majority of the shares even without the support of Kenny's shares, and so he could elect Hayes into office. He was about to ask Hillier to count the votes, with the inevitable result which he expected, when Houghton addressed him in a confidential whisper. Look here, Graham, he said, don't misunderstand me. There's no hiatus in the manly appreciation I feel for you. But take my tip and vote for Mack as vice president. Why not? That office ain't going to do him any good. You needn't give him any salary. You can hook all the Western Crown's war chest yourself. Graham's features cleared a little, but he was not yet convinced.

But what's the idea? he asked. Well, Howton replied, a good deal of the Western Crown's assets are in Red Canyon Copper shares, a most excellent investment, I am led to believe. But you see, Kenny holds the majority stock of that particular mining company. What's that got to do with it? A whole lot, Howton said. Old Pad is right smart on the the freeze-out. He hasn't got the same high moral standard which you and I have, my boy. You don't know what old Pat mightn't do if we irritate him. He might deliberately ruin the Red Canyon, or he might levy an assessment on the stock. You see, the stock happens to be accessible. No, no, take my tip. Don't cross that old Wart Hog. He set his mind on seeing Mack vice president

of the Western Crown. Graham groaned. He thought of the Red Canyon. stock as one of the chief investments of the Western Crown. He thought of Pat Kenny's revenge. Then, he thought of his father's last letter, of his warning that, in case he lost the money which he had lent him to acquire control of the Western Crown, Lord Graham of Penville's home for retired and impecunious retail fishmongers would get the decision over him and his father's last will and testament. Then he cheered up a little, for what did it matter after? all, he thought, McDonald's vice-presidency would be purely nominal. More than that, he said to himself, and laughed at the thought. It was rather droll to imagine McDonald as vice-president

of the very company in which his life was insured, the very company, which had been the main factor in the suicide compact. All right, Houghton, he agreed and voted McDonald into office. So, the meeting ended. At the door, Houghton turned. When are you going to look over the books of the company, he asked casually. Oh, in a day or two, Graham replied, why? Well, Houghton replied, as he opened the door, mine and the other fellow's term of office, Pats and Marshals and Ritters, you know, is only out on, on the first of the year, but we're going to resign at once and let you step into our shoes. You don't mind that, do you? Not a bit, Graham replied. I'm very grateful to you, in fact, but why did you ask me about? I'm coming to that, the other interrupted. You see,

it's customary to have the vice president there when a new administration takes over the affairs of a company. All right, all right, Graham said. I'll drop you a line. Houghton left and Graham sank back luxuriously into his chair. He was giving himself over to a series of pleasant dreams. He would assume the reins of office and responsibility at once. He would make the company a success, a big success. He would accumulate a large fortune. On his father's death for, of course the old chap would have to die someday, he would return to England. The combination of his own fortune and of the one he would inherit from his father would be so overpoweringly large that he would be able to resume his rightful place in society. A raid against such wall of golden guineas,

the wretched old scandal would have to be silent. Perhaps he would make a large contribution to the fund of the party which was in office. Perhaps he would go in strongly for politics himself, a KCG to begin with. Later on, he would become a marquis, possibly a duke. But he would have to make good here in Spokane. That was the main consideration. For there was his father's warning. He would stick to business. His glance fell on Hillier, who was sitting on the edge of the table idly swinging his legs and smoking a cigarette. Look here, Hillier, he said, said, and there was such a hard note in his voice that the other nearly lost his balance and fell from the table. My word, old chap, he remonstrated, you gave me no end of a bloomin start. Graham continued

in the same voice. Hillier, he said, I must beg you, first of all, to stop using such words as bloomin around these premises. The other broke into a hearty gaffa. What the devil! You will also expurgate the rest of your free and easy diction. You will carefully assue all profanities. Graham continued inexorably. You will cut out cigarette smoking during business hours. This is a business office and not a bar room. Hillier broke into another loud laugh. He thought that his friend was joking heavily. I say, he said, you aren't going to have me qualify as mistress of the robes or lading waiting or groom of the bedchamber to the king. God bless him. What? Not at all, Graham replied stonily. I had you appointed as secretary and treasurer

of this company, and I am going to have you qualify as such. You're going to earn your pay. You are going to work, my boy, and you are going to work jolly hard. You will be in the office punctually at eight o'clock every morning, half an hour for lunch, no smoking, as I said before, and of course no drinks. Hillier suddenly understood that his compatriot was perfectly serious. But when he heard that he would not even be allowed to partake of alcoholic refreshments, A look of such deep, honest grief crossed his mild cherubic countenance that Graham weakened a little. All right, Hillier, he said, I'm British and I believe in compromise. You may take one drink with your lunch, but beer mark you, I say.

He continued very seriously. We've got to make good, you and I. There's my father's letter. He'll be here sometime next year with a chartered accountant. Remember that. We've got to work. Hillier did not reply. There was such a look of brooding melancholia in his eyes that Graham relaxed still more. Remember the 1st of August of next year, he said. There's a hundred thousand dollars coming our way on that date.

We'll take a little jaunt down to California and, holy Whitechapel, Hillier interrupted with a roar. A fat lot of good that'll do me if you kill me with work in the meantime. Again, Graham hardened. You do as you're told. Eight sharp in the morning. no swearing, no cigarettes, no, oh yes, Hillier cut in with a sharp laugh, I quite forgot. He knew how touchy Graham was on the point of his self-made father, so he continued slowly. You've all those fried fish antecedents to contend with, haven't you? Graham blushed furiously, but his voice was even. Possibly so, he replied, but I understand they were jolly good, fried fish. They chucked my governor into the House of Lords, don't you know? And I tell you that this

insurance company is going to be every bit as good as my father's fried fish. You're going to help me. If you refuse, well, I fancy it shan't be hard to find another secretary and treasurer. And so, the next morning, punctually at 8 o'clock, William Hillier was opening the mail address to the Western Crown Life Insurance Company, thinking longingly of his lunch half hour, when he would be able to smoke a cigarette and buy himself one, just one, glass of beer. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Bucking the Tiger. This is a Libravox recording.

All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Melissa Marie. Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah. Andy's Coup About noon of the same day Houghton Sr. entered McDonald's office in the Peyton Building. Miss Steves and Walsh were alone in the office and they greeted him pleasantly, for they liked the old finance pirate in spite of his many iniquities. Mac coming in, he asked, and there was so much

suppressed woe in his voice that Emily Steves, who was about to go out to lunch, stopped in her tracks and looked at him anxiously. Mr. McDonald will be back in half an hour, she said. Is there anything wrong? Houghton pulled himself together. He walked up to her, and pretending to help her on with her coat, he whispered into her ear. There's nothing wrong with Mac. You go ahead and order your trousseau.

Go as far as you like. I'll back the bill. The girl blushed furiously. She looked round at Walsh, but But the cow puncher was looking out of the window and was not paying any attention to her and to Houghton. You know, she stammered. Houghton smiled. I'm wise, he said.

I know the whole little romantic tale. You're a brick and you'll be the making of that young Mac. I'll be best man or give you away or something equally important when the wedding comes off. But—but nothing, my child. Don't you worry, I know all about it. I know all about your conditions, about the little nut you asked Matt to crack, and he's going to crack it, believe me. I'm so glad, so very, very glad, she smiled and left the room. As the door closed and Houghton was alone with Walsh, the cheerful expression faded from his face and once more gave way to one

of unutterable woe and despair. Walsh, he said to the other, do me a favor and call me names, bad ones. Call me an unexpurgated rustic with hay behind his ears. Call me a locked-jawed cross-eyed coyote with the mumps. He pointed at his bald head. Come over here and smite me two or three times on my bump of inequity and initiative. Walsh laughed. Sure, I'd like to oblige you, but why all the big row? Because I have as much foresight as a soda-cracker. Because I know as much about business as a village smarty who knows where the little cute pea is and who is willing to back his opinion both with real money and with a mortgage on grandfather's farm, because I am an idiot. The cow puncher looked genuinely worried. Let a rip, pard, he said, give us a line on the whole story, perhaps I can help you.

It isn't me who needs help, Houghton's side. It's Mac. I'll tell you everything. You see, Mac told me all about that famous suicide syndicate of yours. Walsh blushed. Say, Mr. Houghton, that weren't my fault, he stammered. I never did. I know, Andy, I know. Don't worry, it's Graham, first, last, and all the time. The thing could be easily arranged with a little judicious welshing, but then there's Max's muleish sense of honor, and there's also the girl. Go slow, pard, go slow. What girl are you talking about? I'm coming to that. Houghton unfolded. Unfold. the tale which McDonald had told him a few days before, and with most of which Walsh was, of course, already familiar. I had a hunch that away, commented the cow puncher when the other came to the love affair between McDonald and Emily Steves. I sure had a hunch them two kids were stuck on each other, and you mean to tell me them two young fools is going about whistling, no wedding bells for us, just because that here silk-socked cradle-snatching sap-sucker of a gram,

No, no, not exactly that, Houghton interrupted, but it seems the young lady is cursed with very high-minded principles, and so she has simply asked Mack to break away from the suicide compact without letting himself be blackmailed and without welshing. Walsh was packing his ancient briar with cut plug. He sniffed contemptuously. Skirts are the limit, he remarked sagaciously. They expect a fellow to make noises with his ears. Believe me, I'm going to ride single for the rest of my life. Well, Houghton resumed his tale. It didn't seem so very impossible at first. Mac and I stuck our heads together, and finally we hit on an excellent scheme. We figured out that there was enough cash in the bank and enough money coming in so that the Western Crown would be able to

settle that $100,000 insurance of Max without going to the wall. We also figure, that the company would be able to take care of all her other life insurances given a fair to medium death rate between now and the 1st of April of next year. But we knew that the company has a good deal of Red Canyon copper shares, of which old Pat Kenny owns control. Well, we thought we'd buy the shares from Pat for a song. We knew he'd be glad to sell them at any price. Then we'd spread a few rumors that the engineers of the mine had struck a tremendous body of paying ore. And then, we'd promptly levy a whopping assessment on all the outstanding stock. We'd arrange for a few fake sales on the Spokane Mining Stock Exchange, boosting the Red Canyon shares sky high. Well, what good would that do?

Walsh, inquired. Houghton looked disgusted. Walsh, she said, you've got dyspepsia in your upper story. You've got less financial clairvoyance than a cywash buck. Don't you see? There would be just enough money and the Treasury of the Western Crown, after taking care of an average number of insurances falling due between now and the 1st of April, to pay for the assessment on the Red Canyon shares. So Graham would find himself in a nice hefty pickle. He would either have to nurse the resources of the company so as to pay the $100,000 if McDonald committed, or he would have to fall down on the Red Canyon assessment. In the former case, He wouldn't be able to pay the assessment, and the shares would be advertised and sold out on him. The Western Crown would lose what seemed to be a valuable asset. Her shares would come tumbling down.

Nobody would have any faith in her, and there would consequently be no new insurances coming in. In the latter case, with nearly all the company's ready cash paid out for the Red Canyon assessment, Graham wouldn't be able to take care of the $100,000 life insurance of Max. He would simply have to beg Matt to keep on living. Otherwise, the Western Crown would go to the wall. Walsh looked up admiringly. Say, Pard, he said, I see now why you're one of the leading financiers of this here Commonwealth.

I also see a bright and wealthy future for friend Matt. You're all to the gravy, believe me. But why all your excitement? Didn't you go ahead and do it? Sure I did, Houghton replied with a groan. Old Pat Kenny went down to the Red Canyon mine to see if he couldn't save a few pieces. I sent him a wire. I offered to take the shares off his hands, and I'll be darned if the old pirate doesn't wire me back, just half an hour ago, that the shares aren't for sale. Why not? Because they actually did strike a big body of paying ore in the mine,

Houghton exclaimed, because old Pat not only refuses to sell, but sent a wire to Graham as president of the Western Crown and bought the Red Canyon shares back from him for $50,000 spot cash. Just then the door opened and McDonald's came into the room. What appears to be wrong? He asked as he saw the lugubrious expression on the faces of his two friends. Houghton told him, it's a shame, he added, I did everything so carefully, I attended the stockholders' meeting of the Western Crown. I even succeeded to have you elected as Vice President. What was that for, McDonald inquired? The financier broke into a high-pitched senile cackle. My boy, he said, I imagined there would be a whole lot of anguish on that Graham Party's face when he looked over the books of the Western Crown, and I wanted you to be there

so that you could enjoy the sight. And now? Now it's all off. Graham's got you coming and going. You simply have got to Welsh. Never mind the girl. I'll talk to her myself. I'll talk to her like a Dutch uncle. I'll make her see the error of her ways. Leave it to me. McDonald shook his head. Can't be done, Mr. Houghton, he replied, the girl's right. I've got to get out of this pickle without paying blackmail and without welshing. It's a question of principle. Houghton, Sr. burst into a wild howl of rage. Principles be damned, he shouted. I mistrust them and hate them. If I ever have a grandson, I'm going to have him inoculated against them. Principles. Bosch, rot. They're nothing but a

preordained system of dangerous and asinine bunk. Forget it. Come back to Earth. There's the girl, McDonald remonstrated. There's her faith in me. lie to her, you big boob, Houghton cried. Women thrive on lies. They expect you to lie. I've lied to my wife all my life and see how happy and contented she is. You make me sick, you. He sputtered with rage. Andy Walsh had been thinking quietly. Say, Mr. Houghton, he said suddenly, it was that 50,000 bones which Graham got for the Red Canyon stuff, which saved the day for him, eh? Yes, Howton. Howton. He said suddenly, it was that 50,000 bones which Graham got for the Red Canyon stuff, which saved the day for him, eh? Yes, yes, howton. Howton replied, why dwell on it? Well, the cow puncher continued, suppose a big life insurance falls due between now and the 1st of April, about $75,000 worth, enough to make it impossible for the Western Crown to pay Max insurance in spite of that money Graham got for the Red Canyon shares. Houghton sighed. We figured on that, Andy, he replied. I told you before there's enough money in the Treasury of the Western Crown to take care of all the policy.

that may fall due, given a fair to medium death rate up to the 1st of April. Sure, you told me, Walsh insisted, and I haven't forgotten either. But just suppose an additional 75,000 bones policy falls due. What then? Well, Houghton replied, Mack would be saved for his friends, his girl, and the Commonwealth. That's a cinch, but we can't figure on it. Nobody's going to commit suicide just to save Mack. Also, most of the insurances which have been taken out with the Western Crown are in small amounts. I guess a whole lot of additional people would have to die to save Mack, considering his noble principles. He added with a sniff. Walsh grinned. Look a here, you fellows, he said. Did I ever tell you that I carry quite a hefty little life insurance with the Western Crown,

taken out a few days before Mack took out his? "'What?' McDonald inquired incredulously. "'You're insured with the Western Crown?' "'Sure. Don't you remember that day when I paid my share of the suicide syndicate "'and when I flashed all that big roll of yellowbacks? "'Well, I was going to buy a hunk of coal shares with them, "'but Hayes persuaded me to buy a life insurance instead. "'I did that, just a few days before you took out yours.

"'You see, if I should die just a few days before you're due to make your final kickoff. There would be, I got you, my boy. Houghton interrupted with a shout of triumph, jumping from his chair. You've got an elegant line of brains and loyalty. By heck, we'll built that grand party yet. McDonald flushed angrily. What the devil, he roared. Are you suggesting that Andy sacrifice himself? Sacrifice nothing, Houton chuckled. Keep your shirt on you, wild-eyed Paiute. It's a case of bluff, that's all. But Graham won't know that, and if he suspects it, he's in no position to take the risk that it ain't. Got it now? You bet, laughed McDonald, will do him yet. And honestly, quite honestly, Houghton continued, that's the beauty of it. The girl's

yours, Mac. Come on, Walsh. He turned to the cow puncher, and we'll pick out a wedding present or two. And so it happened that late that same afternoon, MacDonald and Walsh paid an impromptu call on Graham in the office of the Western Crown Life Insurance Company. McDonald came quickly to the point. Graham listened, furious, nonplussed. But there was no way out of it. He thought of his father's letter and his father's warning.

Lord Graham of Penville would come to Spokane together with a chartered accountant. There was the specter of the home for retired and impecunious retail fishmongers hanging over his head. All right, he said finally, I give in. I knew you would, McDonald said with a laugh, and you'll also sign a little paper stating that you release me voluntarily from my suicide compact, won't you? Graham obeyed. McDonald returned to the office. Emily Steves was there, together with the count.

McDonald put his hand on his shoulder. Count, he said, would you mind very much, er, he pointed at the door, taking the rest of the day off. The count looked puzzled. Then suddenly he understood. He rushed up to McDonald, shook him warmly by the hand, and though McDonald struggled frantically, succeeded to imprint a smacking kiss on his right cheek. Congratulations, he shouted. Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! He turned to the blushing girl. Also to you, Miss Emily, and he was off. MacDonald walked over to the girl. He told her exactly what had happened. He showed her the paper which Graham had signed. Then he kissed her. Will you marry me? Tomorrow? Yes, dearest. For a long time they sat there thinking and talking of the future.

They talked of each other. They talked of themselves, their hopes and ambitions. And And then they talked of the big northwest, which would be their home. They talked for hours and hours, arm in arm they walked over to the window and stood looking into the moonlit streets. The town was bathed in a mist of silver and blue, the silver of promise and the blue of hope. There was a breeze that brought to them the warm, sweet odor of that great northwestern world, and the blurred noises of the night were to them as the happy voices of little children. End of Bucking the Tiger by Ahmed Abdullah