CHAPTER I
THE PACE
Young Carmody awoke to the realization of another day.
The sun of mid-forenoon cast a golden rhombus on the thick carpet, andthrough the open windows the autumnal air, stirred by just thesuspicion of a breeze, was wafted deliciously cool against his burningcheeks and throbbing temples.
He gazed about the familiar confines of the room in puffy-eyedstupidity.
There was a burning thirst at his throat, and he moistened his dry lipswith a bitter-coated tongue. His mouth was lined with a brown slime ofdead liquor, which nauseated him and sent the dull ache to his head ingreat throbbing waves.
Upon a beautifully done mahogany table near the door stood a silverpitcher filled to the brim with clear, cold ice-water. It seemed milesaway, and, despite the horrible thirst that gnawed at his throat, helay for many minutes in dull contemplation of its burnished coolness.
The sodden condition of his imagination distorted his sense ofproportion. The journey across the room loomed large in the scheme ofthings. It was a move of moment, to be undertaken not lightly, butafter due and proper deliberation.
He threw off the covers and placed a tentative foot upon the floor.
A groan escaped him as his right hand brushed the counterpane. Gingerlyhe brought the member within range of his vision--it was swollen to thewrist and smeared with dried blood, which had oozed from an ugly splitin the tight-drawn skin. Slowly he worked the fingers and frowned--morein perplexity than distress--at the sharp pain of the stiffenedknuckles.
He crossed to the table and, springing the silver catch of a tiny door,cunningly empaneled in the wall, selected from the cellaret along-necked, cut-glass decanter, from which he poured a liberal drink.The sight of it sickened him, and for an instant he stood contemplatingthe little beads that rushed upward and ranged themselves in asparkling semicircle along the curve of the liquor-line.
"The hair of the dog is good for the bite," he muttered, and with aneffort closed his eyes and conveyed the stuff jerkily to his lips. Partof the contents spilled over his fingers and splashed upon the polishedtable-top. As the diffused odor reached his nostrils a wave of nauseaswept over him. With a shudder he drained the glass at a gulp andgroped blindly for the water-pitcher, from which he greedily swallowedgreat quantities of ice-water.
He paused before a tall pier-glass and surveyed himself throughbloodshot eyes. The telephone upon the opposite wall emitted aperemptory ring. Young Carmody turned with a frown of annoyance. Heignored the summons and carefully scrutinized his damaged hand.
His brain was rapidly clearing and, from out the tangled maze ofdancing girls, popping corks, and hilarious, dress-suited men, loomedlarge the picture of a policeman. Just how it all happened he could notrecollect. He must see the boys and get the straight of it.
His mirrored image grinned at the recollection of the officer, thequick, hard-struck blow, and the hysterical screams and laughter of thegirls as they were seized in the strong arms of their companions,rushed across the sidewalk, and swung bodily into the waiting taxis.
_B-r-r-r-r-r. B-r-r-r-r-r-r. B-r-r-r-r-r!_ Again the telephone bell cutshort his musing. There was a compelling insistency in the sound and,with a muttered imprecation, he jerked the receiver from the hook.
"Well?" he growled. "Yes, this is William Carmody. Oh, hello, governor!I will be right down. I overslept this morning. Stay where I am! Why?All right, I'll wait."
"Now what?" he murmured. "The old gentleman seems peeved."
After a cold bath and a vigorous rub he began leisurely to dress. Hiseyes cleared and he noted with satisfaction that aside from a slightpouchiness, and the faint mottling of red that blotched his cheeks, alltraces of the previous night's orgy had disappeared. True his handpained him, but he had neatly mended the split with plaster and theswelling had, in a great measure, yielded to the cold water.
"Getting fat," he grunted, as he noticed the increasing heaviness athis girth. "Fat and soft," he added, as a huge muscle yielded under thegrip of his strong fingers.
In college this man had pulled the stroke oar of his crew, and on thegridiron had become a half-back of national renown. By the end of hissecond year no amateur could be found who would willingly face him withthe gloves, and upon several occasions, under a carefully guardedsobriquet, he had given a good account of himself against some of theforemost professionals of the squared circle. He was a man of mightymuscles, of red blood, and of iron, to whom the strain and sweat ofphysical encounter were the breath of life.
He wondered as he carefully selected a tie, at the strange request hehad received at the telephone. He glanced at the French clock on themantel. His father, he knew, had been at his desk these two hours.
They had little in common--these two. After the death of his youngwife, years before, Hiram Carmody had surrounded himself with a barrierof imperturbability beyond which even his son never ventured. Cold andunyielding, men called him--a twentieth century automaton of bigbusiness. Rarely, outside of banking hours, did the two meet. Never butonce did they hold extended conversation. It was upon the occasion ofthe younger man's return from a year's Continental travel that hisfather summoned him and, with an air of impersonal finality, laid outhis life work. The time had come for him to settle down to business. Inregard to the nature of this business, or any choice he might have inthe matter, William was not consulted. As a matter of course, being aCarmody, he was to enter the bank. His official position was that ofmessenger. His salary, six dollars a week, his private allowance, onehundred. And thus he was dismissed.
It cannot be chronicled that young Carmody was either surprised ordisappointed at thus being assigned to a career. In truth, up to thattime he had thought very little of the future and made no plans. Herealized in a vague sort of way that some time he would engage inbusiness; therefore, upon receipt of the paternal edict he merelylooked bored, shrugged, and with a perfunctory, "Yes, sir," quit theroom without comment.
He entered upon his duties stoically and without enthusiasm. At the endof a year his salary had increased to twelve dollars a week, and hissphere of usefulness enlarged to embrace the opening and sorting ofmail. The monotony of the life palled upon him. He attended to hisduties with dogged persistence and in the evenings haunted thegymnasiums. His athletic superiority was soon demonstrated and after atime, neither in the ring nor on the mat could he find an opponentworthy the name.
More and more he turned for diversion toward the white lights ofBroadway. Here was amusement, excitement--life! He became immenselypopular among certain of the faster set and all unconsciously foundhimself pitted against the most relentless foeman of them all--JohnBarleycorn.
Gradually the personnel of his friends changed. Less and lessfrequently did he appear at the various social functions of the Avenue,and more and more did he enter into the spirit of the Great White Way.On every hand he was hailed as "Bill Carmody," and by the great forceof his personality maintained his universal popularity. Many smiled atthe rumors of his wild escapades--some even envied--a few frowned. Ifhis father knew he kept his own council--it was his way.
Only one warned him. Ethel Manton, beautiful, imperious, and altogetherdesirable, with just the suspicion of a challenge in her daringlyflashing eyes, was the one person in all the world that Bill Carmodyloved. And loving her, he set her high upon a pedestal and entered thelists with all the ardor of his being. His was the love of desire--thelove of a strong man for his mate, bringing out by turns all that wasbest and worst in him.
Yet she remained cold--this girl of his golden dreams. Only at rareintervals did she unbend and allow him a fleeting glimpse of her verysoul. At such times her eyes grew tender and she seemed very near tohim--and very dear. And then he would tell her of his great love, andalways her answer was the same: She would marry no man who was contentto live upon an allowance. He must make good--must win to the fore inthe business world as he had won in the athletic. And above all he mustforswear the pace!
In vain he exp
lained that business held no interest for him; that itwas no man's game, but a sordid struggle of wits for the amassing ofunneeded gold. In vain he argued that his father, already rich, would,in the event of their marriage, settle a large amount upon them intheir own right. In answer to her reference to his habits he wouldlaugh. He was not afraid; _there_ was a man's game!
Of course, once married, all that would be changed. But, pshaw; it isall in a lifetime! And then he would lightly promise to mend hisways--a promise that was forgotten within the hour. What do women knowof a strong man's play?
But one woman did know, and, knowing, cared.