The Whiteoak Brothers. Mazo de la Roche

Nicholas. It was only then that he noticed Nip, luxuriating on his master’s relaxed middle — the grey of his long silky hair so blended with the grey tweed. Nip gave Eden a defensive look and wriggled a little closer to the massive comfort of Nicholas, who answered:

      “He hates this weather too.”

      “Lucky dog, to be able to forget it.”

      “Well, he was put out this morning as usual but stayed not a minute longer than was necessary. What’s that you’ve got?”

      “A prospectus, Uncle Nick, of a gold mine called Indigo Lake Mine. Wonderful new veins have been discovered there.”

      Nicholas laid down the law with his meerschaum. “Keep away from speculation. Nothing in it but worry — and loss. God — what your Uncle Ernest has lost!”

      “I know. But this is different.”

      “They’re all different until you get involved. Then they’re all the same. Loss and anxiety and — more loss.”

      Eden said — “I have nothing to invest and don’t expect I ever shall have. But — if I had — this is what I’d go into. Look here.” He put the prospectus almost caressingly into Nicholas’s hands. It crackled across the little dog’s body and he twitched in annoyance. Eden, in his freshness and strength, pressed close to Nicholas’s leg. With the professional air of a mining promoter he poured out the benefits of this investment.

      “But what is there in it for you?” asked Nicholas. “If I let you persuade me? Which I shan’t.”

      “I’d get a commission from Mr. Kronk.”

      “Depending on how foolish I am. Better let me give you something and have done with it.”

      Eden drew back stung. He folded up the prospectus. “It isn’t in the least like that, Uncle Nick. This is a purely business deal. One chance in a lifetime. I wish you could meet this man Kronk. Will you let me bring him out?”

      “God, no. It would never do at all.”

      “Well, I shan’t try to persuade you. Though it is wonderful opportunity. The gold’s just lying there waiting to be dug out. What will happen is that American speculators will jump in, the way they do, and buy up all the shares.” Eden put the prospectus in his pocket, leant forward and laid his cheek against Nip, who, opening his eyes, gave Eden a swift lick with his pointed tongue, then resolutely went to sleep again.

      Nicholas looked down at Eden with a sudden pity — inexplicable, for the boy was young and — what was he, besides being young? How little one knew of those who were nearest one. And Eden was near, very near, though more comfortably so when he brought in a new poem to read it to him.

      “Look at this day,” Eden was exclaiming. “Look at it — and you might be in Rapallo or Venice or Taormina — if …” He smiled into his uncle’s eyes.

      Nicholas looked out at the day, then down at his gouty knee. “I’m not fit for travel now,” he said.

      “But you could get rid of that knee. Look how much better it is in the summer. Why, Uncle Nick, you’re not going to spend the rest of your days stuck here at Jalna, are you?”

      Nicholas took the prospectus from Eden’s pocket. He put on his glasses and studied it.

      “It’s nicely got up,” he said. “If I had any spare cash to play with I shouldn’t mind.”

      “This is what they call getting in on the ground floor, Uncle Nick.

      You’d be there before the big speculators send the stock soaring.”

      “How you talk!” laughed Nicholas. “How much are the shares?’

      “Only fifty cents each. Tempting, eh?”

      The window was blinded by rain. But now Nicholas saw a sapphire sea, a wall overhung by wisteria and mimosa. He saw too the face of his wife from whom he had been divorced for many years. But her face faded. In truth he could not clearly remember what she looked like. The sea and the garden remained. He shifted in his chair…. He repeated — “Fifty cents each … two thousand shares for a thousand dollars.”

      Eden’s face came closer. “Uncle Nick,” he breathed, “you ought to come into this.”

      “Now I won’t be stampeded,” growled Nicholas.

      “Of course not. Not for the world. But these shares are going like hot cakes. By the end of the next week they’ll be over-subscribed, Mr. Kronk says.”

      Nicholas blew through his moustache. “I’ll take two thousand shares. Not going to let a chance like this get away. I’ll take four thousand.

      They laughed in triumph, as though over an enemy defeated. “Not a word of this investment to the family,” cautioned Nicholas. “If your Uncle Ernest knew he’d want to be into it himself and he has already lost too much in stocks.”

      “I’ll not tell him you’ve invested in this, but believe me you won’t lose. This is safe, Uncle Nick. It’s gold — right there in the rocks. You’ll be spending next winter in Italy.”

      Nicholas heaved himself out of his chair, deposited Nip carefully on the bed, and limped to the piano, on which stood a siphon of soda-water and a tantalus with a bottle of Scotch, one of brandy, and one of gin.

      “Must have a drink to celebrate,” he said, and poured a fair amount of whisky into a tumbler, adding a splash of soda-water. “Have one?” he asked.

      “No, thanks.” And he thought — better not smell of spirits when I interview Uncle Ernest.

      Outside in the passage he hesitated. What if this stock were not as sound as it seemed? What if — but then he remembered Mr. Kronk and that air of security exuded by him and his well-furnished flat. The broker had taken him there instead of to his office, because, as he said, he had such a special feeling for him.

      In the passage, dim because of early falling darkness, Eden overtook Finch. He caught the boy’s wrist in his hand. He said:

      “You couldn’t look sadder. You are a funny kid. I believe you were so upset by the joke we played on you that you haven’t recovered. You know it was one of Meg’s subtle ideas. Fun on a rainy day sort of thing.”

      “It was fun,” Finch said heavily.

      Eden was so happy in his success with Nicholas that a feeling of affection for the awkward boy warmed his heart. He threw an arm about his shoulders and gave him a hug. Finch’s eager response startled him. It was almost as though Finch would embrace him in return. Why — he was like a lonely young dog you had patted.

      Now he gave Finch a little push and said — “I must go in to see Uncle Ernest,” and he could not resist adding — “on business.”

      “Business?” Finch echoed vaguely.

      “Yes. But don’t mention it to Piers or to anyone.”

      “I never talk to Piers — about anything.” Finch was pleased that Eden should have confided even so little to him.

      Left to himself, Nicholas refilled his pipe, refilled his glass. He seldom allowed himself to take so much whisky at a time because he knew it was bad for his gout. What was that newfangled word they had for it? Arthritis. Yes — that was it. A miserable-sounding word. He’d rather call it gout. But now he was exhilarated by the speculation in which he had indulged. There was no doubt about it, these gold mines did exist and there was no reason why he should not make a little money when the chance came his way. That prospectus had been very attractive indeed. It showed photographs of the actual operations. Indigo Lake. That was a name you couldn’t forget. He felt restless and yet happy. The winter had been very long. Lately, he thought, he’d had a touch of claustrophobia — another newfangled word. There was nothing like a little fling with one’s money and, if the Indigo Lake business prospered, he’d invest more. He might even advise