* Copyright, 1899, by The Shortstory Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

Gaslight note: This page contains illustrations from a later syndication to newspapers.

THERE is a little taxidermist's shop on Fourth Avenue which is a curious place. It is very dusty and very full of strange fowl, tucked in, one behind the other, on shelves that cover all of one side of the room, and on the other a wizened little old man sits all day long beside a pile of most evil-smelling skins and dispenses words of wisdom to whoever cares to listen.

      One day when Marriott ran into the shop for a few minutes before dinner, we found the old man in ecstasies over a new bird-skin that had just been brought in. It was large and dirty and exceedingly ugly and it had a particularly evil smell; but it was rare, and Marriott looked it over respectfully. It had a long neck, long, horny legs and ungainly feet evidently it was some kind of water-fowl; indeed, the claws were still daubed with mud and black sand, and Marriott, being something of a geologist, peeled off a little of the sand and rubbed it through his fingers, while the little taxidermist got his basin and washed off the rest of it from the bird.

      Suddenly Marriott started. He had made a discovery.

Where did you say this bird came from? source: The Jacksonian [Arkansas] (1904-sep-08) p07

      "Where did you say this bird came from?" he asked.

      The old man stopped washing the bird's legs and began to recount its history. The skin had been brought to him by a sea-captain, he said — Captain Tourjee, of the Mary Ann Salters — from South America. Yes, he was sure he was still in town; would Mr. Marriott like his address? Mr. Marriott, it appeared, would like it very much indeed. He took it down carefully, wrapped the lump of dirt in his handkerchief and walked swiftly away down the street, leaving the little taxidermist staring after him with wondering eyes.

      Reginald Ernest Marriott, not long since graduated as a mining engineer from the College of Applied Science, had his own way to make in the world and nothing to make it with but brains. It is true that he came of an ancient family, whose name had survived its prosperity, and that this connection let him into as much New York society as was good for him; but nobody felt called upon to assist him in any more practical way than by inviting him to dinner, and this, as it happened, was a very serious matter, for there was a woman in the case. It was Edith Whyard, the only daughter of Mr. G. C. Whyard, who lived on Madison Avenue and had an office on Broadway and was reported to be a multi-millionaire. Though no one seemed to know exactly the source of his income, his style of living bore out the assertion, and on the strength of it Mrs. Whyard was making an attack upon the portals of society. Naturally, when it became apparent to her maternal eye that her daughter was allowing her affections to drift in that unprofitable direction, she looked with extreme disapprobation upon young Marriott, and her husband had for him the profound contempt of the practical man for the man of schools and theories. Accordingly, when Marriott asked the old gentleman for his daughter, he was promptly forbidden the house.

      Matters were in this state when the young man paid his visit to the taxidermist's shop and saw the bird with the muddy feet. That night he worked hard in the small laboratory he had fitted up in his room, wrote a letter to Edith, packed his possessions and paid his bills, and the next morning at daybreak he sailed out of New York Harbor in a south-bound steamer, with hope in his heart, a wisp of blonde hair in his watch-case and a lump of black mud in his inside coat pocket.

      It was a year after this and the grass was green again on Madison Square before news was heard of him. Then, one April morning, he presented himself at Mr. Whyard's office on Broadway. He was bronzed and roughened and he was wearing a new suit and a confident air; the old gentleman hardly knew him and he gave him a more cordial welcome than he would have got if his pretensions had been fresher. Edith had had half a dozen lovers since his day and both the father and mother fancied that the danger from that quarter was over.

      Marriott asked after Mrs. Whyard. "And Miss Edith?" he said eagerly. "You remember, Mr. Whyard, that I love her, that I hope to marry her some day. Last year I was poor, but now I can support her as you would desire. I have property worth eight hundred thousand dollars," he added modestly, "and I have a practical certainty of more than ten times as much."

Wheeled in his swivel chair and looked the young man in the face. source: The Jacksonian [Arkansas] (1904-sep-08) p07

      Whyard wheeled his swivel chair and looked the young man in the face with very evident amazement.

      "Ten times eight hundred thousand dollars!" he cried incredulously. "What is this property of yours?"

      "Platinum," said Marriott. "You see, sir," he went on quietly, "I ran across a sample of dust from South America last winter; nobody else knew about it, so I went down at once and discovered the place. I only brought up a few thousand dollars' worth, but I have half a ton in dust and nuggets all ready down there, and the rivers are full of it. But what's the matter, sir?"

      Whyard had turned pale, and sank: back in his chair. He roused himself, however, and questioned the young man quietly enough. "In what part of South America is that?" said he.

      "Southern Patagonia, not far from Magellan Straits and near the coast. But will it be all right about Edith, sir?"

      Whyard leaned forward in his chair and drummed thoughtfully on the desk. At last he turned back to the young man; there was a pleasant, if somewhat forced, smile on his face.

      "Well, I guess I might as well give in, Mr. Marriott," he said. "As you say, things have changed. Call on Edith if you like. As soon as you show your mine is as rich as you say it is, she can do as she likes about marrying you, but not before."

      He held out his hand and Marriott grasped it gratefully.

      "That's fair enough," said he. "But there won't be any trouble about the platinum business, sir, Here's the map of the place. Here's my cache," he explained eagerly. "This is where I did most of the washing. The streams are full of it."

      Whyard took the map and scrutinized it carefully for a long time. Then he returned it.

      "That looks good," said he. "But mind, no engagement till you realize on your stock. Now won't you come up to dinner? Mrs. Whyard will be glad to see you."

      Marriott went home to dress. He had secret doubts about the accuracy of the last statement, but he found his prospective mother-in-law courteous, and Edith was lovelier than ever. The three weeks he was obliged to spend turning his pounds of platinum into ready money and negotiating for a coasting steamer for the return to his treasure, passed like a pleasant dream. He spent part of every day with the Whyards, and although he saw no more of the father, who, he was told, had been suddenly called away from town, he always saw Edith, and he was more than content. When, after the three weeks were over, he sailed away again in the tramp steamer Montevideo, which he had chartered and manned especially for the voyage, he was already counting the days before he could return for her. He carried a picked crew of twenty men, and in view of the wild region to which they were bound and the valuable return cargo, shipped a few Winchester rifles and plenty of ammunition.

      Thirty-three days were consumed in the voyage to the Rio de la Plata — days of impatience for Marriott — and at Buenos Ayres he was detained for two weeks in negotiations with the Argentine government for mining privileges. Judicious financial arguments, however, pushed this business through, and ten days later he sighted the black headland behind which his treasure lay.

      As the inner bay came in sight there was a cry of surprise, for there, anchored close inshore, lay a small, gray-painted steamer. Marriott examined her carefully through a powerful binocular. Her decks seemed deserted, but natives could be seen swarming around the vessel, canvas tents pitched on the beach and men moving about among the rocky hillocks where the platinum was concealed. If not already discovered it was in great danger.

      It was doubtful what reception they were to expect, but as Marriott grimly surveyed his twenty able-bodied seamen with their Yankee officers, he felt he could rely upon them to obey his orders, whatever they might be.

      Marriott stood on the bridge, anxious but determined. There was evidently a good deal of hurry and bustle on shore, but the stranger's deck remained empty and the Montevideo's salute remained unanswered. Apparently she had been left at anchor and her crew disembarked for work on shore. Marriott thought he had best enquire first on board for some one in authority, and he had a boat lowered and manned. As it approached the strange steamer a face appeared at a forward port-hole.

      "Throw us a line!" cried Marriott, and a rope was presently thrown from the deck, by means of which the young man scrambled aboard, leaving the sailors in the boat with ready rifles. There was no one visible but the man who had thrown the line, and to an enquiry for the captain he replied by jerking his thumb toward the after deck-house. Marriott knocked on the closed door, and then pushed it open. Two men were seated at the cabin table. One was evidently the captain; the other was — Mr. G. C. Whyard, of New York!

      "What does this mean, young man, boarding a peaceable ship in an armed boat? It's an act of piracy!" roared the captain.

      Then Whyard stopped him. "This gentleman's all right, captain. If you don't mind I'd like to talk with him a few minutes." And the shipmaster sulkily retired.

      "Well, my boy," he resumed at length, in as parental a manner as he could command, "I didn't look for you quite so soon. Perhaps I ought to have told you at once in New York that I am the American representative of a combination that practically controls the world's supply of platinum. The tons of it you talked of putting on the market would ruin the price, you see."

      "Thanks for the hint," replied Marriott, drily. "It really hadn't occurred to me. I think you need not fear that your own stock will depreciate — that is, not very much. But I shall have to trouble you to see that your men do not load my property into the wrong vessel."

·       ·       ·       ·       ·       ·       ·       ·       ·       ·      ·

      When Marriott was married to Edith, some three months later, he was president of the Magellan Platinum Mining Company, and the bride, as her father beamed upon them, wondered that his dislike for the groom had been so quickly overcome, but she will never know anything of the little drama, so intimately concerning her, played in that lonely Patagonian bay.