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Amusing as this Shaker caricature of the Friends was, it oppressed Ruth beyond measure; and increased her feeling of being stifled.
It was a most unreasonable feeling. No home could be pleasanter than Ruth’s. The house, a little out of the city; was one of those elegant country residences which so much charm visitors to the suburbs of Philadelphia. A modern dwelling and luxurious in everything that wealth could suggest for comfort, it stood in the midst of exquisitely kept lawns, with groups of trees, parterres of flowers massed in colors, with greenhouse, grapery and garden; and on one side, the garden sloped away in undulations to a shallow brook that ran over a pebbly bottom and sang under forest trees. The country about was the perfection of cultivated landscape, dotted with cottages, and stately mansions of Revolutionary date, and sweet as an English country-side, whether seen in the soft bloom of May or in the mellow ripeness of late October.
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It needed only the peace of the mind within, to make it a paradise. One riding by on the Old Germantown road, and seeing a young girl swinging in the hammock on the piazza and, intent upon some volume of old poetry or the latest novel, would no doubt have envied a life so idyllic. He could not have imagined that the young girl was reading a volume of reports of clinics and longing to be elsewhere.
Ruth could not have been more discontented if all the wealth about her had been as unsubstantial as a dream. Perhaps she so thought it.
“I feel,” she once said to her father, “as if I were living in a house of cards.”
“And thee would like to turn it into a hospital?”
“No. But tell me father,” continued Ruth, not to be put off, “is thee still going on with that Bigler and those other men who come here and entice thee?”
Mr. Bolton smiled, as men do when they talk with women about “business”. “Such men have their uses, Ruth. They keep the world active, and I owe a great many of my best operations to such men. Who knows, Ruth, but this new land purchase, which I confess I yielded a little too much to Bigler in, may not turn out a fortune for thee and the rest of the children?”
“Ah, father, thee sees every thing in a rose-colored light. I do believe thee wouldn’t have so readily allowed me to begin the study of medicine, if it hadn’t had the novelty of an experiment to thee.”
“And is thee satisfied with it?”
“If thee means, if I have had enough of it, no. I just begin to see what I can do in it, and what a noble profession it is for a woman. Would thee have me sit here like a bird on a bough and wait for somebody to come and put me in a cage?”
Mr. Bolton was not sorry to divert the talk from his own affairs, and he did not think it worth while to tell his family of a performance that very day which was entirely characteristic of him.
Ruth might well say that she felt as if she were living in a house of cards, although the Bolton household had no idea of the number of perils that hovered over them, any more than thousands of families in America have of the business risks and contingences upon which their prosperity and luxury hang.
A sudden call upon Mr. Bolton for a large sum of money, which must be forthcoming at once, had found him in the midst of a dozen ventures, from no one of which a dollar could be realized. It was in vain that he applied to his business acquaintances and friends; it was a period of sudden panic and no money. “A hundred thousand! Mr. Bolton,” said Plumly. “Good God, if you should ask me for ten, I shouldn’t know where to get it.”
And yet that day Mr. Small (Pennybacker, Bigler and Small) came to Mr. Bolton with a piteous story of ruin in a coal operation, if he could not raise ten thousand dollars. Only ten, and he was sure of a fortune. Without it he was a beggar. Mr. Bolton had already Small’s notes for a large amount in his safe, labeled “doubtful;” he had helped him again and again, and always with the same result. But Mr. Small spoke with a faltering voice of his family, his daughter in school, his wife ignorant of his calamity, and drew such a picture of their agony, that Mr. Bolton put by his own more pressing necessity, and devoted the day to scraping together, here and there, ten thousand dollars for this brazen beggar, who had never kept a promise to him nor paid a debt.
Beautiful credit! The foundation of modern society. Who shall say that this is not the golden age of mutual trust, of unlimited reliance upon human promises? That is a peculiar condition of society which enables a whole nation to instantly recognize point and meaning in the familiar newspaper anecdote, which puts into the mouth of a distinguished speculator in lands and mines this remark:—“I wasn’t worth a cent two years ago, and now I owe two millions of dollars.”
It was a hard blow to poor Sellers to see the work on his darling enterprise stop, and the noise and bustle and confusion that had been such refreshment to his soul, sicken and die out. It was hard to come down to humdrum ordinary life again after being a General Superintendent and the most conspicuous man in the community. It was sad to see his name disappear from the newspapers; sadder still to see it resurrected at intervals, shorn of its aforetime gaudy gear of compliments and clothed on with rhetorical tar and feathers.
But his friends suffered more on his account than he did. He was a cork that could not be kept under the water many moments at a time.
He had to bolster up his wife’s spirits every now and then. On one of these occasions he said:
“It’s all right, my dear, all right; it will all come right in a little while. There’s $200,000 coming, and that will set things booming again: Harry seems to be having some difficulty, but that’s to be expected—you can’t move these big operations to the tune of Fisher’s Hornpipe, you know. But Harry will get it started along presently, and then you’ll see! I expect the news every day now.”
“But Beriah, you’ve been expecting it every day, all along, haven’t you?”
“Well, yes; yes—I don’t know but I have. But anyway, the longer it’s delayed, the nearer it grows to the time when it will start—same as every day you live brings you nearer to—nearer—”
“The grave?”
“Well, no—not that exactly; but you can’t understand these things, Polly dear—women haven’t much head for business, you know. You make yourself perfectly comfortable, old lady, and you’ll see how we’ll trot this right along. Why bless you, let the appropriation lag, if it wants to—that’s no great matter—there’s a bigger thing than that.”
“Bigger than $200,000, Beriah?”
“Bigger, child?—why, what’s $200,000? Pocket money! Mere pocket money! Look at the railroad! Did you forget the railroad? It ain’t many months till spring; it will be coming right along, and the railroad swimming right along behind it. Where’ll it be by the middle of summer? Just stop and fancy a moment—just think a little—don’t anything suggest itself? Bless your heart, you dear women live right in the present all the time—but a man, why a man lives——
“In the future, Beriah? But don’t we live in the future most too much, Beriah? We do somehow seem to manage to live on next year’s crop of corn and potatoes as a general thing while this year is still dragging along, but sometimes it’s not a robust diet,—Beriah. But don’t look that way, dear—don’t mind what I say. I don’t mean to fret, I don’t mean to worry; and I don’t, once a month, do I, dear? But when I get a little low and feel bad, I get a bit troubled and worrisome, but it don’t mean anything in the world. It passes right away. I know you’re doing all you can, and I don’t want to seem repining and ungrateful—for I’m not, Beriah—you know I’m not, don’t you?”
“Lord bless you, child, I know you are the very best little woman that ever lived—that ever lived on the whole face of the Earth! And I know that I would be a dog not to work for you and think for you and scheme for you with all my might. And I’ll bring things all right yet, honey—cheer up and don’t you fear. The railroad——”
“Oh, I had forgotten the railroad, dear, but when a body gets blue, a body forgets everything. Yes, the railroad—tell me about the railroad.”
“Aha, my girl, don’t you see? Things ain’t so dark, are they? Now I didn’t forget the railroad. Now just think for a moment—just figure up a little on the future dead moral certainties. For instance, call this waiter St. Louis.
“And we’ll lay this fork (representing the railroad) from St. Louis to this potato, which is Slouchburg:
“Then with this carving knife we’ll continue the railroad from Slouchburg to Doodleville, shown by the black pepper:
“Then we run along the—yes—the comb—to the tumbler that’s Brimstone:
“Thence by the pipe to Belshazzar, which is the salt-cellar:
“Thence to, to—that quill—Catfish—hand me the pincushion, Marie Antoinette:
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“Thence right along these shears to this horse, Babylon:
“Then by the spoon to Bloody Run—thank you, the ink:
“Thence to Hail Columbia—snuffers, Polly, please move that cup and saucer close up, that’s Hail Columbia:
“Then—let me open my knife—to Hark-from-the-Tomb, where we’ll put the candle-stick—only a little distance from Hail Columbia to Hark-from-the-Tomb—down-grade all the way.
“And there we strike Columbus River—pass me two or three skeins of thread to stand for the river; the sugar bowl will do for Hawkeye, and the rat trap for Stone’s Landing—Napoleon, I mean—and you can see how much better Napoleon is located than Hawkeye. Now here you are with your railroad complete, and showing its continuation to Hallelujah and thence to Corruptionville.
“Now then—there you are! It’s a beautiful road, beautiful. Jeff Thompson can out-engineer any civil engineer that ever sighted through an aneroid, or a theodolite, or whatever they call it—he calls it sometimes one and sometimes the other just whichever levels off his sentence neatest, I reckon. But ain’t it a ripping road, though? I tell you, it’ll make a stir when it gets along. Just see what a country it goes through. There’s your onions at Slouchburg—noblest onion country that graces God’s footstool; and there’s your turnip country all around Doodleville—bless my life, what fortunes are going to be made there when they get that contrivance perfected for extracting olive oil out of turnips—if there’s any in them; and I reckon there is, because Congress has made an appropriation of money to test the thing, and they wouldn’t have done that just on conjecture, of course. And now we come to the Brimstone region—cattle raised there till you can’t rest—and corn, and all that sort of thing. Then you’ve got a little stretch along through Belshazzar that don’t produce anything now—at least nothing but rocks—but irrigation will fetch it. Then from Catfish to Babylon it’s a little swampy, but there’s dead loads of peat down under there somewhere. Next is the Bloody Run and Hail Columbia country—tobacco enough can be raised there to support two such railroads. Next is the sassparilla region. I reckon there’s enough of that truck along in there on the line of the pocket-knife, from Hail Columbia to Hark-from-the Tomb to fat up all the consumptives in all the hospitals from Halifax to the Holy Land. It just grows like weeds! I’ve got a little belt of sassparilla land in there just tucked away unobstrusively waiting for my little Universal Expectorant to get into shape in my head. And I’ll fix that, you know. One of these days I’ll have all the nations of the earth expecto—”
“But Beriah, dear—”
“Don’t interrupt me; Polly—I don’t want you to lose the run of the map—well, take your toy-horse, James Fitz-James, if you must have it—and run along with you. Here, now—the soap will do for Babylon. Let me see—where was I? Oh yes—now we run down to Stone’s Lan—Napoleon—now we run down to Napoleon. Beautiful road. Look at that, now. Perfectly straight line-straight as the way to the grave.
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And see where it leaves Hawkeye-clear out in the cold, my dear, clear out in the cold. That town’s as bound to die as—well if I owned it I’d get its obituary ready, now, and notify the mourners. Polly, mark my words—in three years from this, Hawkeye’ll be a howling wilderness. You’ll see. And just look at that river—noblest stream that meanders over the thirsty earth!—calmest, gentlest artery that refreshes her weary bosom! Railroad goes all over it and all through it—wades right along on stilts. Seventeen bridges in three miles and a half—forty-nine bridges from Hark-from-the-Tomb to Stone’s Landing altogether—forty nine bridges, and culverts enough to culvert creation itself! Hadn’t skeins of thread enough to represent them all—but you get an idea—perfect trestle-work of bridges for seventy two miles: Jeff Thompson and I fixed all that, you know; he’s to get the contracts and I’m to put them through on the divide. Just oceans of money in those bridges. It’s the only part of the railroad I’m interested in,—down along the line—and it’s all I want, too. It’s enough, I should judge. Now here we are at Napoleon. Good enough country plenty good enough—all it wants is population. That’s all right—that will come. And it’s no bad country now for calmness and solitude, I can tell you—though there’s no money in that, of course. No money, but a man wants rest, a man wants peace—a man don’t want to rip and tear around all the time. And here we go, now, just as straight as a string for Hallelujah—it’s a beautiful angle—handsome up grade all the way—and then away you go to Corruptionville, the gaudiest country for early carrots and cauliflowers that ever—good missionary field, too. There ain’t such another missionary field outside the jungles of Central Africa. And patriotic?—why they named it after Congress itself. Oh, I warn you, my dear, there’s a good time coming, and it’ll be right along before you know what you’re about, too. That railroad’s fetching it. You see what it is as far as I’ve got, and if I had enough bottles and soap and boot-jacks and such things to carry it along to where it joins onto the Union Pacific, fourteen hundred miles from here, I should exhibit to you in that little internal improvement a spectacle of inconceivable sublimity. So, don’t you see? We’ve got the rail road to fall back on; and in the meantime, what are we worrying about that $200,000 appropriation for? That’s all right. I’d be willing to bet anything that the very next letter that comes from Harry will—”
The eldest boy entered just in the nick of time and brought a letter, warm from the post-office.
“Things do look bright, after all, Beriah. I’m sorry I was blue, but it did seem as if everything had been going against us for whole ages. Open the letter—open it quick, and let’s know all about it before we stir out of our places. I am all in a fidget to know what it says.”
The letter was opened, without any unnecessary delay.
Whatever may have been the language of Harry’s letter to the Colonel, the information it conveyed was condensed or expanded, one or the other, from the following episode of his visit to New York:
He called, with official importance in his mien, at No.— Wall street, where a great gilt sign betokened the presence of the head-quarters of the “Columbus River Slack-Water Navigation Company.” He entered and gave a dressy porter his card, and was requested to wait a moment in a sort of ante-room. The porter returned in a minute; and asked whom he would like to see?
“The president of the company, of course.”
“He is busy with some gentlemen, sir; says he will be done with them directly.”
That a copper-plate card with “Engineer-in-Chief” on it should be received with such tranquility as this, annoyed Mr. Brierly not a little. But he had to submit. Indeed his annoyance had time to augment a good deal; for he was allowed to cool his heels a full half hour in the ante-room before those gentlemen emerged and he was ushered into the presence. He found a stately dignitary occupying a very official chair behind a long green morocco-covered table, in a room sumptuously carpeted and furnished, and well garnished with pictures.
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“Good morning, sir; take a seat—take a seat.”
“Thank you sir,” said Harry, throwing as much chill into his manner as his ruffled dignity prompted.
“We perceive by your reports and the reports of the Chief Superintendent, that you have been making gratifying progress with the work.—We are all very much pleased.”
“Indeed? We did not discover it from your letters—which we have not received; nor by the treatment our drafts have met with—which were not honored; nor by the reception of any part of the appropriation, no part of it having come to hand.”
“Why, my dear Mr. Brierly, there must be some mistake, I am sure we wrote you and also Mr. Sellers, recently—when my clerk comes he will show copies—letters informing you of the ten per cent. assessment.”
“Oh, certainly, we got those letters. But what we wanted was money to carry on the work—money to pay the men.”
“Certainly, certainly—true enough—but we credited you both for a large part of your assessments—I am sure that was in our letters.”
“Of course that was in—I remember that.”
“Ah, very well then. Now we begin to understand each other.”
“Well, I don’t see that we do. There’s two months’ wages due the men, and——”
“How? Haven’t you paid the men?”
“Paid them! How are we going to pay them when you don’t honor our drafts?”
“Why, my dear sir, I cannot see how you can find any fault with us. I am sure we have acted in a perfectly straight forward business way.—Now let us look at the thing a moment. You subscribed for 100 shares of the capital stock, at $1,000 a share, I believe?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“And Mr. Sellers took a like amount?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. No concern can get along without money. We levied a ten per cent. assessment. It was the original understanding that you and Mr. Sellers were to have the positions you now hold, with salaries of $600 a month each, while in active service. You were duly elected to these places, and you accepted them. Am I right?”
“Certainly.”
“Very well. You were given your instructions and put to work. By your reports it appears that you have expended the sum of $9,610 upon the said work. Two months salary to you two officers amounts altogether to $2,400—about one-eighth of your ten per cent. assessment, you see; which leaves you in debt to the company for the other seven-eighths of the assessment—viz, something over $8,000 apiece. Now instead of requiring you to forward this aggregate of $16,000 or $17,000 to New York, the company voted unanimously to let you pay it over to the contractors, laborers from time to time, and give you credit on the books for it. And they did it without a murmur, too, for they were pleased with the progress you had made, and were glad to pay you that little compliment—and a very neat one it was, too, I am sure. The work you did fell short of $10,000, a trifle. Let me see—$9,640 from $20,000—salary $2,400 added—ah yes, the balance due the company from yourself and Mr. Sellers is $7,960, which I will take the responsibility of allowing to stand for the present, unless you prefer to draw a check now, and thus——”
“Confound it, do you mean to say that instead of the company owing us $2,400, we owe the company $7,960?”
“Well, yes.”
“And that we owe the men and the contractors nearly ten thousand dollars besides?”
“Owe them! Oh bless my soul, you can’t mean that you have not paid these people?”
“But I do mean it!”
The president rose and walked the floor like a man in bodily pain. His brows contracted, he put his hand up and clasped his forehead, and kept saying, “Oh, it is, too bad, too bad, too bad! Oh, it is bound to be found out—nothing can prevent it—nothing!”
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Then he threw himself into his chair and said:
“My dear Mr. Brierson, this is dreadful—perfectly dreadful. It will be found out. It is bound to tarnish the good name of the company; our credit will be seriously, most seriously impaired. How could you be so thoughtless—the men ought to have been paid though it beggared us all!”
“They ought, ought they? Then why the devil—my name is not Bryerson, by the way—why the mischief didn’t the compa—why what in the nation ever became of the appropriation? Where is that appropriation?—if a stockholder may make so bold as to ask.”
“The appropriation?—that paltry $200,000, do you mean?”
“Of course—but I didn’t know that $200,000 was so very paltry. Though I grant, of course, that it is not a large sum, strictly speaking. But where is it?”
“My dear sir, you surprise me. You surely cannot have had a large acquaintance with this sort of thing. Otherwise you would not have expected much of a result from a mere INITIAL appropriation like that. It was never intended for anything but a mere nest egg for the future and real appropriations to cluster around.”
“Indeed? Well, was it a myth, or was it a reality? Whatever become of it?”
“Why the—matter is simple enough. A Congressional appropriation costs money. Just reflect, for instance—a majority of the House Committee, say $10,000 apiece—$40,000; a majority of the Senate Committee, the same each—say $40,000; a little extra to one or two chairman of one or two such committees, say $10,000 each—$20,000; and there’s $100,000 of the money gone, to begin with. Then, seven male lobbyists, at $3,000 each—$21,000; one female lobbyist, $10,000; a high moral Congressman or Senator here and there—the high moral ones cost more, because they. give tone to a measure—say ten of these at $3,000 each, is $30,000; then a lot of small-fry country members who won’t vote for anything whatever without pay—say twenty at $500 apiece, is $10,000; a lot of dinners to members—say $10,000 altogether; lot of jimcracks for Congressmen’s wives and children—those go a long way—you can’t spend too much money in that line—well, those things cost in a lump, say $10,000—along there somewhere; and then comes your printed documents—your maps, your tinted engravings, your pamphlets, your illuminated show cards, your advertisements in a hundred and fifty papers at ever so much a line—because you’ve got to keep the papers all right or you are gone up, you know. Oh, my dear sir, printing bills are destruction itself. Ours so far amount to—let me see—10; 52; 22; 13;—and then there’s 11; 14; 33—well, never mind the details, the total in clean numbers foots up $118,254.42 thus far!”
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“What!”
“Oh, yes indeed. Printing’s no bagatelle, I can tell you. And then there’s your contributions, as a company, to Chicago fires and Boston fires, and orphan asylums and all that sort of thing—head the list, you see, with the company’s full name and a thousand dollars set opposite—great card, sir—one of the finest advertisements in the world—the preachers mention it in the pulpit when it’s a religious charity—one of the happiest advertisements in the world is your benevolent donation. Ours have amounted to sixteen thousand dollars and some cents up to this time.”
“Good heavens!”
“Oh, yes. Perhaps the biggest thing we’ve done in the advertising line was to get an officer of the U. S. government, of perfectly Himmalayan official altitude, to write up our little internal improvement for a religious paper of enormous circulation—I tell you that makes our bonds go handsomely among the pious poor. Your religious paper is by far the best vehicle for a thing of this kind, because they’ll ‘lead’ your article and put it right in the midst of the reading matter; and if it’s got a few Scripture quotations in it, and some temperance platitudes and a bit of gush here and there about Sunday Schools, and a sentimental snuffle now and then about ‘God’s precious ones, the honest hard-handed poor,’ it works the nation like a charm, my dear sir, and never a man suspects that it is an advertisement; but your secular paper sticks you right into the advertising columns and of course you don’t take a trick. Give me a religious paper to advertise in, every time; and if you’ll just look at their advertising pages, you’ll observe that other people think a good deal as I do—especially people who have got little financial schemes to make everybody rich with. Of course I mean your great big metropolitan religious papers that know how to serve God and make money at the same time—that’s your sort, sir, that’s your sort—a religious paper that isn’t run to make money is no use to us, sir, as an advertising medium—no use to anybody—in our line of business. I guess our next best dodge was sending a pleasure trip of newspaper reporters out to Napoleon. Never paid them a cent; just filled them up with champagne and the fat of the land, put pen, ink and paper before them while they were red-hot, and bless your soul when you come to read their letters you’d have supposed they’d been to heaven. And if a sentimental squeamishness held one or two of them back from taking a less rosy view of Napoleon, our hospitalities tied his tongue, at least, and he said nothing at all and so did us no harm. Let me see—have I stated all the expenses I’ve been at? No, I was near forgetting one or two items. There’s your official salaries—you can’t get good men for nothing. Salaries cost pretty lively. And then there’s your big high-sounding millionaire names stuck into your advertisements as stockholders—another card, that—and they are stockholders, too, but you have to give them the stock and non-assessable at that—so they’re an expensive lot. Very, very expensive thing, take it all around, is a big internal improvement concern—but you see that yourself, Mr. Bryerman—you see that, yourself, sir.”
“But look here. I think you are a little mistaken about it’s ever having cost anything for Congressional votes. I happen to know something about that. I’ve let you say your say—now let me say mine. I don’t wish to seem to throw any suspicion on anybody’s statements, because we are all liable to be mistaken. But how would it strike you if I were to say that I was in Washington all the time this bill was pending? and what if I added that I put the measure through myself? Yes, sir, I did that little thing. And moreover, I never paid a dollar for any man’s vote and never promised one. There are some ways of doing a thing that are as good as others which other people don’t happen to think about, or don’t have the knack of succeeding in, if they do happen to think of them. My dear sir, I am obliged to knock some of your expenses in the head—for never a cent was paid a Congressman or Senator on the part of this Navigation Company.”
The president smiled blandly, even sweetly, all through this harangue, and then said:
“Is that so?”
“Every word of it.”
“Well it does seem to alter the complexion of things a little. You are acquainted with the members down there, of course, else you could not have worked to such advantage?”
“I know them all, sir. I know their wives, their children, their babies—I even made it a point to be on good terms with their lackeys. I know every Congressman well—even familiarly.”
“Very good. Do you know any of their signatures? Do you know their handwriting?”
“Why I know their handwriting as well as I know my own—have had correspondence enough with them, I should think. And their signatures—why I can tell their initials, even.”
The president went to a private safe, unlocked it and got out some letters and certain slips of paper. Then he said:
“Now here, for instance; do you believe that that is a genuine letter? Do you know this signature here?—and this one? Do you know who those initials represent—and are they forgeries?”
Harry was stupefied. There were things there that made his brain swim. Presently, at the bottom of one of the letters he saw a signature that restored his equilibrium; it even brought the sunshine of a smile to his face.
The president said:
“That one amuses you. You never suspected him?”
“Of course I ought to have suspected him, but I don’t believe it ever really occurred to me. Well, well, well—how did you ever have the nerve to approach him, of all others?”
“Why my friend, we never think of accomplishing anything without his help. He is our mainstay. But how do those letters strike you?”
“They strike me dumb! What a stone-blind idiot I have been!”
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“Well, take it all around, I suppose you had a pleasant time in Washington,” said the president, gathering up the letters; “of course you must have had. Very few men could go there and get a money bill through without buying a single—”
“Come, now, Mr. President, that’s plenty of that! I take back everything I said on that head. I’m a wiser man to-day than I was yesterday, I can tell you.”
“I think you are. In fact I am satisfied you are. But now I showed you these things in confidence, you understand. Mention facts as much as you want to, but don’t mention names to anybody. I can depend on you for that, can’t I?”
“Oh, of course. I understand the necessity of that. I will not betray the names. But to go back a bit, it begins to look as if you never saw any of that appropriation at all?”
“We saw nearly ten thousand dollars of it—and that was all. Several of us took turns at log-rolling in Washington, and if we had charged anything for that service, none of that $10,000 would ever have reached New York.”
“If you hadn’t levied the assessment you would have been in a close place I judge?”
“Close? Have you figured up the total of the disbursements I told you of?”
“No, I didn’t think of that.”
“Well, lets see:
“Which leaves us in debt some $25,000 at this moment. Salaries of home officers are still going on; also printing and advertising. Next month will show a state of things!”
“And then—burst up, I suppose?”
“By no means. Levy another assessment”
“Oh, I see. That’s dismal.”
“By no means.”
“Why isn’t it? What’s the road out?”
“Another appropriation, don’t you see?”
“Bother the appropriations. They cost more than they come to.”
“Not the next one. We’ll call for half a million—get it and go for a million the very next month.”
“Yes, but the cost of it!”
The president smiled, and patted his secret letters affectionately. He said:
“All these people are in the next Congress. We shan’t have to pay them a cent. And what is more, they will work like beavers for us—perhaps it might be to their advantage.”
Harry reflected profoundly a while. Then he said:
“We send many missionaries to lift up the benighted races of other lands. How much cheaper and better it would be if those people could only come here and drink of our civilization at its fountain head.”
“I perfectly agree with you, Mr. Beverly. Must you go? Well, good morning. Look in, when you are passing; and whenever I can give you any information about our affairs and prospects, I shall be glad to do it.”
Harry’s letter was not a long one, but it contained at least the calamitous figures that came out in the above conversation. The Colonel found himself in a rather uncomfortable place—no $1,200 salary forthcoming; and himself held responsible for half of the $9,640 due the workmen, to say nothing of being in debt to the company to the extent of nearly $4,000. Polly’s heart was nearly broken; the “blues” returned in fearful force, and she had to go out of the room to hide the tears that nothing could keep back now.
There was mourning in another quarter, too, for Louise had a letter. Washington had refused, at the last moment, to take $40,000 for the Tennessee Land, and had demanded $150,000! So the trade fell through, and now Washington was wailing because he had been so foolish. But he wrote that his man might probably return to the city soon, and then he meant to sell to him, sure, even if he had to take $10,000. Louise had a good cry—several of them, indeed—and the family charitably forebore to make any comments that would increase her grief.
Spring blossomed, summer came, dragged its hot weeks by, and the Colonel’s spirits rose, day by day, for the railroad was making good progress. But by and by something happened. Hawkeye had always declined to subscribe anything toward the railway, imagining that her large business would be a sufficient compulsory influence; but now Hawkeye was frightened; and before Col. Sellers knew what he was about, Hawkeye, in a panic, had rushed to the front and subscribed such a sum that Napoleon’s attractions suddenly sank into insignificance and the railroad concluded to follow a comparatively straight coarse instead of going miles out of its way to build up a metropolis in the muddy desert of Stone’s Landing.
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The thunderbolt fell. After all the Colonel’s deep planning; after all his brain work and tongue work in drawing public attention to his pet project and enlisting interest in it; after all his faithful hard toil with his hands, and running hither and thither on his busy feet; after all his high hopes and splendid prophecies, the fates had turned their backs on him at last, and all in a moment his air-castles crumbled to ruins about him. Hawkeye rose from her fright triumphant and rejoicing, and down went Stone’s Landing! One by one its meagre parcel of inhabitants packed up and moved away, as the summer waned and fall approached. Town lots were no longer salable, traffic ceased, a deadly lethargy fell upon the place once more, the “Weekly Telegraph” faded into an early grave, the wary tadpole returned from exile, the bullfrog resumed his ancient song, the tranquil turtle sunned his back upon bank and log and drowsed his grateful life away as in the old sweet days of yore.
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Philip Sterling was on his way to Ilium, in the state of Pennsylvania. Ilium was the railway station nearest to the tract of wild land which Mr. Bolton had commissioned him to examine.
On the last day of the journey as the railway train Philip was on was leaving a large city, a lady timidly entered the drawing-room car, and hesitatingly took a chair that was at the moment unoccupied. Philip saw from the window that a gentleman had put her upon the car just as it was starting. In a few moments the conductor entered, and without waiting an explanation, said roughly to the lady,
“Now you can’t sit there. That seat’s taken. Go into the other car.”
“I did not intend to take the seat,” said the lady rising, “I only sat down a moment till the conductor should come and give me a seat.”
“There aint any. Car’s full. You’ll have to leave.”
“But, sir,” said the lady, appealingly, “I thought—”
“Can’t help what you thought—you must go into the other car.”
“The train is going very fast, let me stand here till we stop.”
“The lady can have my seat,” cried Philip, springing up.
The conductor turned towards Philip, and coolly and deliberately surveyed him from head to foot, with contempt in every line of his face, turned his back upon him without a word, and said to the lady,
“Come, I’ve got no time to talk. You must go now.”