Chapter 1

* A Distributed Proofreaders US eBook *

This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the eBook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the eBook. If either of these conditions applies, please
contact a https://www.fadedpage.com administrator before proceeding.
Thousands more FREE eBooks are available at https://www.fadedpage.com.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada,
check your country’s copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER
COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD
OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: The Substitute Millionaire
Author: Footner, Hulbert
Date of first publication: 1919
Date first posted: May 25, 2018
Date last updated: Mar. 16, 2020
Faded Page eBook #20180774

Produced by Al Haines

THE SUBSTITUTE
MILLIONAIRE

BY
HULBERT FOOTNER

AUTHOR OF “THIEVES’ WIT,” “THE SEALED VALLEY,”
“JACK CHANTY,” ETC

NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

THE
SUBSTITUTE MILLIONAIRE

On a certain morning, just as on six mornings in the week (barring
holidays) and fifty weeks in the year, Jack Norman wormed his way into
a crowded subway local at Fiftieth street, and, propping himself
against the end of a cross seat, opened his paper. But this morning,
like everybody else in the train, he approached the headlines with an
unusual thrill of interest, for an immense sensation was in process of
being unrolled in the press.

Two days before, Silas Gyde, the millionaire miser and usurer, had been
blown to pieces in the street by a bomb. The assassin, arrested,
proved to be not one of those who had a grievance against the old money
lender (there were supposed to be many such) but a maniac of
anarchistic proclivities. His name was Emil Jansen. He was already on
the way to an asylum for the criminal insane.

The main facts of the case having been given in previous issues, space
in the paper to-day was largely devoted to anecdotes illustrating the
extraordinary eccentricities of the dead man. It was said that with an
income of perhaps six millions a year, he spent no more than six
hundred. He bought his clothes at an immigrant outfitters’ on
Washington street, and even so had not had a new suit in two years. To
keep himself from spending money it was his habit to go about with
empty pockets, and borrow what few cents he needed from bootblacks,
newsboys and applewomen to whom he was well known. But he was
scrupulous in repaying these debts. Every day, even when he had become
old and feeble, he turned up at the office of a certain corporation for
the sake of a free lunch provided to the directors, though he had to
walk a mile from the Wall street district where all his business was
transacted. It was at the door of this office that he had met his end.
And so on. And so on.

Silas Gyde died a bachelor, and had left no kin so far as was known.
His wealth was said to be well in excess of a hundred million dollars.
The paper gave a tempting list of the gilt-edge securities he was
supposed to own; but nothing was known for sure, for though continually
engaged in litigation, he had left no personal attorney; he had not
sufficiently trusted any man. No one could say, now, where he had kept
his wealth or how he had intended to dispose of it.

Young Jack Norman read of the millions with the kind of aching gusto
that a hungry man pictures a good dinner. Jack’s earnings were twelve
dollars a week. He knew little about sociology or economics, but he
could not but feel a dim dissatisfaction with the scheme of things that
restricted him, with all a youth’s capacity for living largely, to
twelve dollars weekly, while it provided the old man with the tastes of
a hermit crab, with a hundred thousand.

Twelve dollars a week meant that Jack’s still boyish appetite daily had
to be less than satisfied by the fare of a second rate boarding house;
it meant that he had to wear cheap clothes when the instinct of his
years was to array himself like Solomon; it meant that his lip must
curl with envy as the pleasures of the town passed him by; hardest of
all to bear, it meant that the joys of honorable courtship were denied
him. A fellow must have money to take a girl out in town.

Jack’s case was not peculiar. The same expression of sullen
wistfulness might have been read in many a young face on the same
train. What distinguished this face from the others was a latent fire
in the eyes which suggested that, given the opportunity, the possessor
had the capacity to play a larger part in life than twelve dollars a
week permitted.

He got off at Worth street and made his way East to Centre where he
worked as book-keeper in Fisher’s sash and blind factory. Walking the
street, like many another young head that morning, his was light with
dreams.

“If I had Silas Gyde’s money I wouldn’t be pounding the concrete like
this. I’d be fluffing down to Wall street in my Rolls-Royce. Or my
yacht would be putting me ashore at the Battery. Or a special train up
from Lakewood. First thing I’d do would be to tell Fisher to go to
Hell. Oh, that would be worth a million!

“I’d say to Fisher: ‘Who do you think you are, you little two-spot
bankrupt carpenter with your business in your wife’s name! One would
think you were William K. Astorbilt, the airs you give yourself. Why I
could buy you out for the price of what I spend for a meal!'”

As he turned in at the door of Fisher’s place Jack’s eyes involuntarily
sought a window in the establishment of the hardware jobber opposite.
As present the window was tenantless; later it would be sanctified by a
chestnut head bending over a typewriter. Jack’s dreams were diverted
into another channel.

“If I had Silas Gyde’s money she wouldn’t have to pay for her own lunch
when she eats with me. And I could take her out nights. Oh!
Automobile, dress-suit, box seats at the Opera, supper at the Bienvenu
and a dance! Lord! And they say old Gyde lived on my salary!”

The offices of the Fisher factory were on the second floor. As Jack
turned in from the hall, Fisher himself was standing at the door of his
private office; hands in pockets, cigar rolling between thick lips, hat
on the back of his head, on his face the customary brutal sneer.

“You’re late!” he rasped. “Can’t you get out of bed in the mornings?”

This was a regular performance at Fisher’s. The boss took his pleasure
that way, and the office employees were hardened to it. But at the
moment Jack was exalted. In his imagination he was still the master of
millions.

“The clock’s fast,” he said curtly, meeting Fisher square in the eye.

“You lie!” said that gentleman.