He regarded them with brutal affability, mocking them.
“So, I did this: Timber is a crop, like any other crop. Most of us lumbermen, however, have been too content, and too greedy, to do anything else but harvest the great crops we found, doing nothing to replace them. We were careful of our investments, you see. Too careful to safeguard them for the future. Cut-out-get-out. That was our idea. Liquidation of the treasures of America. Permanent liquidation. Good for immediate profits. But not good for America.
“I thought it all out. I began to suspect the whole policy of the lumberman. Robbers, operating openly, taking away the treasures of the country, inducing bankruptcy. The first thing that occurred to me was that there was no real profit in making lumber out of weak little trees. Why not, then, I thought, take away only the big trees, and let the little ones grow up into fine lumber for the future? Good profitable idea. I began to put it into operation everywhere we cut timber. In the meantime, I went ahead giving out contracts on timber in the deep South. For, I had discovered, you see, that there is more than 300 billion board feet of saw timber down there, in pine. All this, in addition to the Northwest.”
The others could not speak.
“As you know, I made a long visit to the deep South. Farmers down there, on the timber acreage I had bought, were willing to sell us all the timber on their land for very little an acre. I arranged with the farmers in the South, and in other regions where we cut timber, to leave the little trees alone, and to sell us the big trees. You will appreciate the simile, gentlemen, when I say I regard this as a kind of banking. You see that, eh, Bassett?”
For the first time, the banker nodded. His roseate smile widened.
“We take out the interest. We leave the principal,” said William.
“Waste of money!” cried Mr. Jenkins, enraged. “When it could all be exploited—”
William let the remark lie before them all, in its nakedness.
William then said, breaking into the uncomfortable hush which had followed Mr. Jenkins’ revealing remark: “I am afraid, Albert, that you would never be a good banker. No appreciation of the sound plan of living on interest only. Never touch principal, Albert. It is a bad policy. Bassett, here, could tell you so. Bassett could tell you that living on principal invariably leads to poverty and bankruptcy. Eh, Bassett?”
Mr. Bassett was struggling with some sort of hidden mirth. He cleared his throat. “A very bad policy: living on principal,” he murmured. “I always discourage it among my depositors.”
He winked at Dr. Banks and Judge Muehller. They were a solid bloc, now, against the vulgarians, Albert Jenkins, Leslie and the Senator.
William gently slapped his hand on the table. “I love sound advice. I always take it. Bassett’s advice is invariably sound.”
He paused, and appeared to be studying them seriously.
“And now back to my request for an increase in salary, and to the discussion of my—shall we say—precipitate action in buying those contracts in the Northwest and in the deep South? Perhaps I have been a little hasty.
“Shall we consider it this way: Instead of your granting me an increase in salary, suppose I borrow enough money from Mr. Regan to pay back into the company the money I have expended on these contracts? Mr. Regan has more than indicated that he will be glad to lend me this money. I shall transfer the contracts to my own name, leaving the company unencumbered. Frankly, gentlemen, I gave this matter considerable thought before proceeding as I did. After all, I am a loyal man,” and he smiled at them amiably. “I thought all of you ought to participate in the profits. I see you do not want to do so.”
All of them, even the urbane gentlemen, were horribly disturbed at this. Greed, caution, avarice, confusion and doubt struggled in their faces. Eugene watched them with impassive enjoyment.
Then Dr. Banks, actually stammering, said: “But William, you must give us time to consider—the salary increase—everything else. We can’t decide things in an instant.”
“Why not? I do,” answered William. He seemed overcome with boredom. He took his watch from his pocket. “Mr. Regan is waiting for my reply. I am to telegraph him almost immediately.”
“He is waiting?” asked the judge.
“Yes, I said so, didn’t I?” William folded his arms on the table, and gazed at them somberly. “Frankly, and though I am betraying a confidence when I tell you this, Mr. Regan advised me not to buy the contracts through the company. But I have a sentimental concern for the company—my company.”
He sat back. “Well, gentlemen?”
Slowly, they began to look at one another. Mr. Bassett was more pale than anyone had ever seen him before. Mr. Jenkins muttered: “We ought to have time—” No one listened to him.
Then Mr. Bassett stood up. It was as if at a signal from the others. He gathered all eyes together, and spoke to his associates quietly:
“Let us admit, gentlemen, from the very beginning, that we are not accustomed to do business, make decisions, so abruptly. Nor, from what I know, are other companies so accustomed. Everything is considered, weighed, discussed. That is the safe way, and, in many situations, the only sound and prudent way. Everything else is—extraordinary.”
They listened to him with profound attention.
“But over the years, since our association with this company, we have been—er—persuaded that the somewhat arbitrary methods of William have had their basis in good sound reasoning and amazing ability. Almost prophetic ability, I may say. Occasions have arisen when we have—protested—against William’s methods and decisions. Revolutionary, we have thought. Dangerous. Not done. But, fortunately for all of us, he has been right. That he will always be right, I am not prepared to say. That is another matter, and it seems we have no time to consider that aspect.” He looked inquiringly at William.
“No time,” agreed William, nodding his head.
Mr. Bassett sighed.
“Let us go back a little. It is true that we haven’t received the dividends we had expected. They all went back into the expansion of the company. We agreed to that. To speak honestly, we have all been glad of it. The stock has appreciated enormously in value. Doubled or more, in equity. No one, and I think I speak for all of us, is prepared to sell his stock. Or, am I wrong?”
There was no answer. Mr. Bassett nodded, and smiled. “There it is. None of us needs money at this time. We all have our other—affairs. So, I am in favor of not selling any stock. I, at least, shall not sell mine,” and he laughed tenderly.
“We all know what our president has accomplished for the company. I might remark that he has built it up from a modest firm to one engaged in national and international trade. It is one of the largest companies in America, and enjoys the highest esteem of competitors and customers. Its methods might seem, at times, slightly—unorthodox,” and Mr. Bassett coughed deprecatingly, “but then, conservatism is not to be too highly valued in the opinion of those who are progressive, and have no objection to profits. The conservative,” continued Mr. Bassett with pious unction, “are frequently an impediment in business. Though, of course,” he added, a trifle hastily, “banking is quite another matter, quite. In banking, one has to consider one’s depositors. It is a sacred trust.”
He paused impressively. William said, gravely: “Money is always a sacred trust.”
“Quite true, quite true, my dear William,” said Mr. Bassett, with a slight bow in the direction of the president. Dr. Banks and Judge Muehller exchanged gentle glances.
“The matter of an increase of fifteen thousand dollars a year in the salary of our president ought to be a matter for long and serious discussion. Under ordinary circumstances,” said Mr. Bassett, “we might be justified in demanding time for that discussion. However, I think, all things considered, and in view of our president’s past remarkable record and the promise for the future, that we ought to show him our gratitude by not demanding time for consideration, but grant him the increase immediately as a gesture of our
confidence. And, I think we should grant it unanimously, and spontaneously, without further discussion.”
He sat down. He looked with pink expectancy about the table.
Dr. Banks stroked his beard. Judge Muehller played delicately with his watch-chain. Mr. Jenkins sullenly stared at his signet ring; Senator Whiscomb pursed up his lips, like a grocer watching the scales; Mr. Leslie’s face, creased from his customary large and rollicking smile, was surly.
Dr. Banks sighed: “I second the motion, of course,” he said.
One by one, then, the ayes came in. William watched each individual struggle before consent was given. He watched, and it was with open and massive derision.
Immediately the fact was recorded, the constraint, hostility and suspicion appeared to lighten. Each man insisted upon shaking hands with William. He stood up to receive these gestures of approval and goodwill. He smiled, but his face had become dull and blunt.
They all seated themselves in a bright atmosphere of good-will, somewhat forced, however, on the part of Mr. Jenkins and his friends. Judge Muehller said graciously: “There’s just a little matter we’d like to mention, William, and it’s off the record,” he added to Ben Watson with a condescending wave of his fine hand. “That is the matter of the increase in wages you contemplate giving the workers in our mills in Andersburg. Frankly, I can’t see the necessity. They are paid more than other workers in this city.”
“Yes,” said William. He regarded the judge broodingly. “That is so. They are paid more. Accordingly, they can afford meat eight times a month instead of once a month.”
“Well,” prompted the judge good-temperedly.
“That isn’t enough,” said William. “Moreover, they are getting restless. Do we want a strike?” To himself, he said: Have you ever been hungry, you bastards? Have you ever been cold and homeless and desperate? Do you know what it is to be afraid?
Dr. Banks waved his hand indulgently. “A strike,” he said. “I hardly think we need strikes.” He laughed richly. “The Governor can always send us troops, if necessary, as he did in 1872. That was when Chauncey was president. Perhaps you remember.”
“I remember,” replied William. There was something pent in his voice. “Violence. Bloodshed.”
“The strikers did threaten to burn the mills,” suggested Dr. Banks. “Protection was needed.”
“If they had burnt the mills, it would have been Arnold’s fault,” said William. He glanced at Eugene. The young man was staring expressionlessly at his crossed knees.
“Good heavens!” murmured Mr. Bassett. “That is very nihilistic, coming from you, William. I was under the impression you had no particular love for the workers.”
William slapped the table with a hard flat sound. “I don’t. That has nothing to do with it.”
“Perhaps not,” said the judge. “But you will remember that the ministers of our churches declared that strikes were acts against God. The people haven’t forgotten.”
“No, they haven’t forgotten,” said William. “Perhaps that is why the churches are so empty these days, empty of people who would ordinarily depend upon religion for a little excitement in their lives.”
“Very nihilistic,” repeated Mr. Bassett. “William, you aren’t afraid of the Knights of Labor, are you? Troublemakers, I admit. But, as Banks says, we can always call upon the troops in time of trouble. I think that fact alone would deter the hot-heads.”
“You miss my point, deliberately,” said William with contempt. “I am going to raise wages voluntarily, because I prefer to know that the men can eat meat twice a week.”
“Very Christian, very charitable,” said the judge. “I am the last to urge you to be reckless of the comfort of others. But I assure you that the men would be the last to appreciate it. They would only demand more. They would consider it a mark of weakness on the part of the company.”
“Nevertheless, they are going to get the raise,” said William.
Without a backward look, without a word of polite leave-taking, he walked out of the room. Ben Watson rose uncertainly, then followed his employer. Eugene walked behind him, abstractedly.
The large room was silent for a long time after he had gone. Dr. Banks and the others smoked reflectively. They looked at each other. Mr. Bassett spoke to Dr. Banks and the judge.
“It seems,” he said with a smile, “that we have been led by a ring in the nose—as usual.”
“But a golden ring,” said Dr. Banks, with his comfortable physician’s smile.
Again, they smoked reflectively. “Do you know,” mused Dr. Banks, “I think he has a conscience, and I think it hurts him.”
“A conscience!” exploded Mr. Leslie, moving his bulk in his chair.
Dr. Banks, the judge and Mr. Bassett looked at one another and smiled gently. “Young Arnold,” murmured the doctor. Now they laughed ever so softly.
“A conscience,” offered the judge, “can be very—dangerous—sometimes. For the man who has it.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
It was not always that Eugene Arnold believed his mother to be a fool. She had, in spite of her ridiculous tendency to compassion, a disconcerting way of impressing him with a quiet remark which betrayed a deep insight.
So, when he arrived home from his first day of émployment at the Prescott Lumber Company, he was quite ready to accept her as an audience for his remarks. She had objected to his applying for a position with William Prescott; she had told him, with chill disdain, that he was displaying “bad taste.” “In a parvenu,” she had said, “bad taste can be forgiven. He knows no better. But you have been reared to regard bad taste as unpardonable and common. Why do you insist upon it?” She added, after a moment’s concerned scrutiny of her son, in which aversion was mingled: “Eugene, what is it you want?”
He had merely smiled and said: “Want? We all have a number of ‘wants’. I have mine. I have a certain idea. I may be wrong. I want to find out if that is so. If I am right, then I know what it is I must do—to get what I want.”
She had hoped, but without reason to hope, that William would not employ her son. She knew William, even though they had hardly met. There was something strange about William, she mused. He was a paradox. She remembered the money he had sent her, and which she had returned. It was more than possible that he would employ Eugene. What if she wrote him and begged him not to do so? She suspected her request would have little weight. Besides, she was very tired. She was tired of living.
She had vaguely expected that Eugene would return within an hour or two. When he did not, she knew he had got what he wanted. Hour after hour passed; with their passing, a kind of lethargic indifference overcame her. It was settled; the inevitable had happened.
Eugene came in, this night, in his usual fashion, which was practically noiseless.
He never entered the kitchen. Alice, at the stove, removed her apron, went into the bright little parlor, where the last rays of the sun, scarlet and long, mingled with the firelight. Eugene stood on the hearth, waiting for her. He drew out the chair by the fire, and Alice sat down, folding her worn hands on her knees. “Well, Eugene?” she asked.
Eugene gave her one of his faint smiles. “I am now,” he announced, “assistant to one Ben Watson, chief clerk to Mr. William Prescott.”
“Oh, Eugene,” sighed Alice. Her dim tired face turned to the fire.
“I find it very interesting,” said Eugene. He pushed a fallen coal with his foot. “I find Mr. Prescott extremely interesting. I must have been a very bright little boy. I understood him then. I wasn’t imagining, after all. He is even more than I expected.”
In spite of herself, Alice was intrigued. “Indeed,” she murmured.
Eugene seemed absorbed. He sat very still. He might have forgotten her. He said: “Of course, he is unprincipled. But his power is tremendous. Rascals are even more necessary than good men—and by ‘good’ I mean what is accepted as ‘virtuous’—because they can carry out huge plans and ideas without compuncti
on. They have a singleness of purpose; that is why they are powerful. But, and perhaps this is a law of nature, by carrying out for themselves their own enormous plans they populate wildernesses and create civilizations.”
“I can see that Mr. Prescott has impressed you,” said Alice.
“Why not? He is a great man.”
“I suppose, then, Eugene, that you are quite content to be his clerk?” Eugene laughed lightly. “More than content, Mother. I’m grateful. Of course, I never doubted for a moment that he would employ me.”
“I had my own private doubts, I am sure,” said Alice, with weariness. She waited. Eugene did not answer. She said, “Why didn’t you, yourself, doubt, under the circumstances, Gene?”
“Because,” he replied, “I remembered that there was a flaw in him, somewhere. I didn’t know what it was. I am only now beginning to understand what that flaw is. Mr. Prescott feels; he does not think.” “Yet, you have just said that he is a great man. I don’t understand you.”
Eugene regarded her with cold impatience. “Mother, you aren’t as dull as you sometimes pretend to be. Men of feeling are usually very potent, if occasionally disastrous. Let me put it this way: William Prescott is incapable of abstract thinking and reasoning. Everything he does is colored or dominated by what he feels at the moment of doing. He is completely capricious. He is the real refutation of the stupid idea that man is a reasonable animal.”
Alice was silent. She was thinking of the money William had sent her. A “reasonable” man would not have done this. Only a man of feeling was capable of so impulsive and spontaneous a gesture. Alice felt a deep, sad stir of pity for William.
Eugene inclined his head slightly. “You see, you do understand. And you are sorry for Mr. Prescott.”
Alice flushed. “Eugene, you are so cold-blooded. And you are so young. You speak as if you despised Mr. Prescott—”
Eugene lifted his hand. “Mother, I did not say that,” he interrupted, annoyed. “I’ll even say that men of feeling ought not to be despised, but admired. The more intense their capacity to feel, the more intelligent they are. But intelligence should not be confused with reason, which is a different thing entirely.”