“Why employ him, Bill? It is embarrassing, to say the least.”
“Very,” said the senator, sullenly.
“I don’t know why you should,” grunted Mr. Leslie.
William could deal with these three. He regarded them in a silence he purposely allowed to become almost untenable. He then said: “Why shouldn’t I employ him? You all know him to have a considerable amount of intelligence. Besides, he needs to make a living, and he has told me he prefers to make that living in a lumber business.” He dropped his hands from the table. He leaned far back in his chair. He began to enjoy himself a little. “Why should you all be so concerned? And you are concerned, you know,” he added, looking now at the doctor, the judge, and the banker. “You might pretend not to mind in the least, some of you. But you do mind. After all, Chauncey Arnold was your—friend, wasn’t he? You were associated with him, weren’t you? You couldn’t have forgotten him.”
Openly and ruthlessly attacked like this, Mr. Bassett came to the rescue of his friends. He pretended to deep hurt, and to shame for William’s coarseness.
“Let us be frank, dear William. Not for a moment would I suggest whom you should employ. That is not in my province. It is true we remember Chauncey. There were many—associations—between him and all of us. Perhaps we feel for his son more than we might wish to reveal. It is a delicate matter. Surely you must realize that it might cause young Arnold some distress to be here—”
“Nonsense,” said William. “The fellow came to me a short time ago and asked me for employment. He was frank. He wants to work here. I might add that he seemed curiously devoid of sentimentality. I never liked him as a boy,” continued William. “I don’t particularly like him now. But he needs the work, he tells me. He wants to learn the business. I saw no reason why I should not take him on.”
The judge sighed, and nodded his head. “Very exemplary. Very—kind. One understands, of course, that you were motivated by the kindest of sentiments. But think of young Arnold’s feelings, when he enters this room, for instance, where his father sat where you now sit, William.”
The tiger scratch did not touch William. It amused him. He allowed the judge to see his amusement. These men might have an inaccessibility he hated and secretly respected, but he had his own distorted inaccessibility. What could be touched by them they had not touched.
“It is kind of you, too, Oscar, to be so concerned with the ‘sentiments’ of young Arnold,” said William. “But then, we all know how charitable you are.”
He went on: “I don’t think young Arnold will shrink, inwardly, when he sees me in this chair.” He looked slowly from one man to another, as if taken by an interesting thought. “It has come to me that he always expected to see me here. From the very beginning I think he knew his father was a fool.”
No one spoke. William waited. Dr. Banks continued to puff thoughtfully at his cigar. Mr. Bassett turned a pen in his small pink fingers. The judge sat in stately silence. The other three stared grimly at the table.
William moved in his chair with so much vigor that it creaked loudly. The sound was derisive. “I thought I ought to tell you,” he said. “I didn’t want to surprise you too much.”
“But it has been years,” murmured Dr. Banks. “I don’t think we’d have recognized the boy. Would you have, Ezra, or you, Oscar?”
“No, indeed,” they answered with simple gravity. The others did not speak.
“Good,” said William. “Then young Arnold won’t be—embarrassed. We must never cause anyone embarrassment, must we?”
He touched a bell on the table. “And now to work,” he said.
The door opened. Ben Watson, surly and resentful, appeared, followed by Eugene Arnold. William did not glance at either of them. He watched his directors and officers. Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Leslie and the senator did not look up. The other three blandly nodded to Mr. Watson, let their eyes glide without recognition over the youth behind him. They relegated Eugene to anonymity.
Then William looked at Eugene. For an instant, the young man stood on the threshold. His face remained impenetrable. He sat down where Ben Watson abruptly indicated. His very lack of emphasis was the refinement of supreme emphasis.
Perhaps only a few moments passed, while Ben Watson prepared his pen and laid out his notebooks and drew up his chair to the table. It was during those few moments that William, through intuition and not through any thoughtful perceptiveness, suddenly became aware that three others in the room, for all their bland ignoring of the young man, were as suddenly and acutely conscious of Eugene Arnold as he himself was.
Eugene sat beside Ben Watson at the foot of the table and gave all his attention to the small business of preparing the waiting notebook. With every precise movement and careful adjustment of the pages, Ben Watson rejected him.
The officers and directors, well inured to William during the past year, suspected that he called this meeting to order to reveal another one of his disturbing plans. The fact that his plans invariably were enormously successful did not detract from the uneasiness of the gentlemen. It was not possible, according to the inexorable law of averages, that all future plans should be successful, also. A time would come when disaster might strike. Hence their constant watchfulness, their perturbation at any hint of another of William’s unorthodox ideas.
Each had a neat little sheaf of personal notes before him. Ben Watson lifted his pen, and looked at William. The others awaited an opening.
William gave it to them, for he knew what they were about and, as usual, he preferred to attack directly.
“Let us get to small matters first,” he said, glancing quickly about the table. He smiled ironically. “I request an increase in the annual salary of your president from twenty thousand dollars a year to thirty-five thousand.” He waited a moment; they stared at him, stupefied. He waved his hand with his familiar awkward but potent gesture. “A small thing, yes, I agree. The truth of the matter, gentlemen, is that I need the money.”
Dr. Banks was the first to recover. He said, in a voice of calm and reasonable restraint: “Not a ‘small thing’ at all, William. I appreciate your desire for an increase of fifteen thousand dollars a year. I should like to have that increase, myself.” He spoke pleasantly now, and with humor. “But, regrettably, we must face facts. Can the company stand any increase at all in salaries?”
The opening had been accepted. Dr. Banks turned with agreeable ceremony to his colleagues. “Any comments, gentlemen?”
It was Mr. Albert Jenkins who made the first real gesture of revolt. He glowered at William. He leaned forward in his chair, his color higher than ever, his prominent blue eyes glittering. “I want to go into a little history, Bill,” he said. “Just a little history. I hope it won’t bore you.”
“Not at all,” said William, readily. His hands were again on the table, tensed. His eyes measured Mr. Jenkins with open contempt. “Go on. I like history.”
Mr. Jenkins felt the solidarity behind him, and he did not look away from William. He spoke slowly and deliberately:
“When we first consented to the merger of the American Lumber Company with the Prescott Lumber Company, and elected you president, we had two reasons. First, we believed our capital would not only be safe, but that our stock would appreciate in value. Second, we expected that the company would make profits, and that from these profits we should receive adequate dividends on our investment.” He paused, leaned even closer to William. A kind of furious excitement, born of hatred, took possession of him. “We have been in this business together for some years now, and so far we have not received any part of the alleged earnings. We get reports that the profits we have turned back into the business have been used to buy larger tracts of lumber in different States.”
“The reports are correct,” said William.
Large knotted veins appeared at Mr. Jenkins’ temples. “I am not disputing the validity of the reports,” he said, “and you know that, Bill.” He was the only one who had ever us
ed this nickname, and even he used it seldom, and only when he felt he had the support of his colleagues. He had guessed that William, for some obscure reason, detested it. It was his one small weapon against the other man, to be used like a wasp’s sting to goad him.
“Under your direction—Bill—we have expanded into various related fields of the lumber industry, which I, personally, have felt was dangerous. Over-expansion, and entering into irrelevant, if related, fields, is always precarious. Now, I’m a comfortable sort of a fella, and I’m content with modest profits based on sound business,” he smiled indulgently at himself. William did not return the smile. Dr. Banks, Judge Muehller and Mr. Bassett exchanged mild glances.
Mr. Jenkins’ smile disappeared, and sharp constrictions of avarice dug small white pits about his nostrils.
William said, gently: “Yes, we have expanded. Once the company merely cut the lumber, sawed it, and delivered it to related industries. But, as you say, under my direction and with your approval, we went into the manufacturing of various wood products, doors, windows, platforms, housings, railroad ties and frames for railroad cars. We have built factories in conjunction with saw-mills, in Pennsylvania, Michigan, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Ohio. You see, I know my history, too.”
Mr. Jenkins nodded. “Very good. But very—expanded. I don’t think, and I never have thought, that it was necessary to go into the manufacturing field, too. But we’ll let that pass for a moment, though I have always felt that the manufacturing field ought to have been left to old established manufacturers. And now, before we go any further, I’d like to suggest that we first ask for an accounting, and see if there is any cash to vote a dividend to stockholders of record for the past three months.” He glanced humorously at his colleagues. “Then we’ll consider the validity of our president’s application for a raise in his salary.”
Judge Muehller coughed softly. “And while we are considering all this, we’ll also discuss the fact that this company seems very interested in railroading, perhaps too much so.”
William was silent. Eugene, apparently engaged in a fascinating study of Ben Watson’s notes, watched William out of the corner of his eye. He saw the large predatory profile against a shaft of brilliant winter sunshine; he saw William’s huge scorn of the fat and careful men about the table.
Eugene thought: He’s a buccaneer, and these cosy little creatures are afraid of him, and afraid for their miserable investments. But he has to work with them; he has to struggle against them. Very unfortunate. They don’t realize that, without the adventurer, America would be forever doomed to a small and narrowing provincialism, which would, in the end, decay.
William was speaking now, as if musing aloud to himself: “America will never be built on the cautious desire of small men for a safe bank account.”
“Nevertheless,” said Dr. Banks, with indulgent affection, “there is much to be said in favor of sound bank accounts. I have a weakness for them. Moreover, none of us is particularly young, and so, and I apologize when I say this, dear William, we are not particularly interested in the ‘building’ of America. We could leave that phase to our children.”
“There’ll be no America for our children, unless we make it for them,” commented William.
Dr. Banks made a genteel and deprecating gesture. “I have faith in the younger generation. They’ll always find a way. The courage of youth, you know.”
William smiled, and the smile was unpleasant. He did not answer. He sat there, waiting for further remarks, but he was not on the defensive. Eugene could feel his waiting, and his potential power. Whatever these fearful little men, these unctuous and careful little men, might say, do, want, insist upon, William would have his way.
Mr. Hazlitt Leslie, the carriage-maker, spoke in his deep voice, which was now without its hearty good-humor. “As Judge Muehller has just said, we are invested heavily in railroads. I don’t know why, but we are.”
William’s hand increased the tempo of its tapping. “Yes, and fortunately so. Soon, the whole West will be available for lumber exploitation. Maine is practically finished as a source of lumber, more particularly of white pine. White pine is what our customers want, in large proportion. The Middle Atlantic States will soon no longer be an adequate source of it. Saginaw is our largest source now. At the rate white pine is being cut there, not to speak of other lumber, Saginaw will soon be through. At present, as you probably know, our saw-mills at Saginaw and Bay City are cutting a large share of the more than one thousand million feet of lumber being cut this year. Again, though Saginaw today stands as chief lumber-maker to the world, she’ll soon be interred under mountains of white-pine sawdust. And don’t tell me about the wonderful possibilities of bringing logs from Canada, after that, for cutting in Saginaw. The forests up there are too far from the mills.
“The West will be necessary, beyond Wisconsin, where we are doing splendidly—at the present time. But we eat up lumber, gentlemen, we eat up lumber. To reach other sources, we need a big network of railroads, all over the West. We are invested in the future of railroads, not only as a source of income, but as a necessity. Ox-carts and sleighs won’t be adequate.
“Our own State of Pennsylvania once led the whole country in lumber production. I don’t have to tell you that Michigan is now cutting more lumber than ever did Maine and Pennsylvania combined, at their peak of production. But Michigan will soon be practically exhausted, for some time to come. Until the second growth is ready. No, gentlemen, we must not neglect the future. And so, the railroads. There is an almost boundless supply of yellow and white pine waiting for us in Idaho, Oregon and Washington.”
“We shan’t be alive to profit by that,” said Senator Whiscomb, glumly. “And, frankly, I’m not interested in what might happen after I’m dead.”
“I deny that you, and we, won’t profit,” said William. “And, again, that is why we are invested in railroads. The sooner the railroads expand, the sooner we profit. Railroads are the circulatory system of a nation.”
Mr. Jenkins said stubbornly: “Railroads! You can’t tell me, Bill, that we are anywhere near exhausting the Lake states as a source of lumber.”
William shrugged. “We’ll soon be. Lumber doesn’t miraculously replace itself, immediately it is cut. It takes time. And, once more, our customers are mainly interested in white pine, in yellow too. It is getting scarce. Owners of the land now want a dollar and seventy-five cents an acre, whereas only two years ago we paid a dollar twenty-five. In the meantime, we’ve got to move very fast. Yesler has already built his first mill at Seattle, Washington. Unless we hurry, he’ll have all the lumber. And there’re Pope and Talbot’s lumber men, moving in from Maine to the Pacific Coast.” He paused, said idly: “I’ve taken large options on lumber in Idaho, Oregon and Washington. That’s why I called this meeting: to tell you.”
They stared at him, aghast. He went on: “And I have the plans for building saw-mills at Cosmopolis and Port Ludlow, Washington. The Northwest, gentlemen, the Northwest!”
“My God!” exclaimed the Senator, horrified. The others added their exclamations. Oddly, Mr. Bassett remained silent. The pencil twirled a little faster in his rosy fingers.
“Yes, ‘My God’,” repeated William, as if reflectively. His inner rage against these tidy and fearful little men showed in his eloquent face. “Others are moving in. We are moving in, also. I have all the papers here. One dollar and twenty-five cents an acre.”
“Really, William!” exclaimed Judge Muehller, in his melodious voice. “Ought we not to have been consulted, first?”
“There was no time,” said William. “No time for endless directors’ meetings, palavering, discussing, doubting, speculating. This was a time for immediate action. I took that action. Another reason for this meeting. I thought you ought to know.”
“After the fact,” remarked Leslie, with bitterness.
“Yes,” said William.
The others looked at one another. Dr. Banks said smoothly: “I often wond
er, William, whether you ever stop to consider that you really do have officers and a Board of Directors. We exist, you know.”
William allowed his glance to travel slowly about the table. “Yes,” he admitted at last, and in a drawling and insulting tone. “You do exist.”
Eugene, studiously watching the movements of Ben Watson’s rapid pen, smiled to himself.
Only Dr. Banks, the judge and Mr. Bassett heard the note in William’s voice.
“Well, I’m glad you admit that we have a part in all this,” said Mr. Jenkins, sardonically. “It was kind of you to remember—Bill. And we’ll be kind enough to remark, in passing only, of course, that we think your conduct high-handed.” He paused. “Perhaps even illegal.”
“That is something we shall discuss, privately,” said Mr. Leslie, with an ominous frown.
“I haven’t forgotten my law,” suggested the senator, sourly. “And I’m treasurer of this damned company.”
Dr. Banks, the judge and Mr. Bassett smiled faintly.
William rested his chin on a clenched hand. “I might as well go on and tell you about another of my—illegal—acts. I have invested money in forest conservation in Pennsylvania, and in the Lake states.”
“Conservation!” exclaimed several voices together, in stupefaction.
“Yes.” William was deceptively at ease. “You see, I do think of America, and of our children. After all, the forests won’t last forever. In a generation or two, perhaps, the forests might all be gone. What then? I’ve been doing some interesting reading, lately. It is the belief of certain scientists that the great desert regions of the world were once forested and fertile lands. You know they are barren, eroded, lost forever to cultivation. Because there were no roots to hold the land to the subsoil. No trees to conserve moisture, to help bring it down again in the form of rain. Do we want that to happen to America? Do we want America to have no future lumber resources? So—lumber conservation, reforestation. I invested in that. I invested in the future of America. Good sound business sense, in a way, though only our descendants will profit from it.”