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Updated: May 18, 2025
There were some features of Bivens's business he must understand more clearly before he could give up his freedom and devote himself body and soul to the task of money-making as his associate. He resolved to make his decision with deliberation. But if he should go in for money, he wouldn't forget his old friends, nor would he leave Washington Square.
Stuart drew his hand across his forehead and found to his horror the water was freezing before he could wipe it off. He grasped Bivens's hands and found a cake of ice on his wrist. He shoved the boat's nose again into the wind and pulled on his oars with a steady, desperate stroke, and she shot ahead. For five minutes he held her head into the sea and gained a few yards.
Paying no further attention to his groans and curses, he threw his little, helpless form across his shoulders, plunged into the water and began his struggle to reach the yacht. It was a difficult and dangerous task. The weight of Bivens's inert form drove his boots deep into the mud, and the wind's gusts of increasing fury threatened at almost every step to hurl them down.
"Then for heaven's sake give me a chance at you five minutes before the other fellows. Remember now, I saw you first!" He was still pleading when Stuart smilingly drew away and followed one of Bivens's secretaries. He passed rapidly through a labyrinth of outer offices, each entrance guarded by a detective who eyed him with keen scrutiny as he passed.
The judge wheeled in his armchair, cleared his throat and looked out of the window to hide from the crowd a tear that had stolen down his furrowed cheek. He turned at length to Bivens's lawyers and quietly asked: "The State insists on the enforcement of sentence without mercy?" "Absolutely," was the sharp answer. "This is your desire, Mr. Bivens?" the judge asked with some severity.
He read her letter over again and looked thoughtfully at the pile of legal documents in the case of Woodman against the American Chemical Company lying on his desk. "It's her work beyond a doubt!" he said at last, "and the doctor will never believe it." He was waiting the arrival of his old friend for a conference over Bivens's offer of compromise and he dreaded the ordeal.
The older man's eyes flashed with sudden excitement, which he suppressed with an effort. "Adams, you're crazy," was the gruff reply. "I've got it straight, I tell you!" he went on breathlessly. "I got it from Bivens's private secretary. The little weasel has made millions on this break and he has been selling the market short for two weeks.
Stuart lifted his eyes from the record he was casually scanning and smiled into Bivens's dark, serious face. The look silenced the speaker. The little man knew instinctively that Stuart was at that moment weighing his own life and character by the merciless standard he had set up for others. Judged by conventional laws he had nothing to fear. He was a faithful member of his church.
"But I happen to be going to the other place," Bivens broke in, good-naturedly. Stuart looked at the pile of gold a moment and then at Bivens and said slowly: "Well, if you do get there, Cal, there's one thing certain, the angels will all have to sleep with their pocket-books under their pillows." Bivens's eyes sparkled and a smile played about the hard lines of his mouth.
Every sight, sound and smell wrote its story on their imagination the odour of the flowers on Bivens's desk in the little sitting room, the picture of his wife beside them, the smell of the leather on the walls, the touch of their hands on the silent symbols of power lying in yellow heaps all found souls that throbbed and lived and spoke in their vivid sensational reports.
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