Chapter 19

“I don’t see why fair play isn’t the thing—the only thing—for a white man after he leaves college as much as before.”

“You’ve missed some points,” said Trefethen quietly. “If we didn’t have variety we wouldn’t have civilization. It’s the men who step out of theranks who make progress. We’d all be cave-dwellers yet if some old skin-dressed fellow hadn’t begun to accumulate stone knives and oyster-shells. I dare say they called him a menace to society. It’s better for the world that some houses should be filled with pictures and books than that all should be hovels alike.”

He stopped and considered, puffing at his cigar thoughtfully, and the bright-faced boys, sitting about the table, regarded him eagerly, respectfully.

“The race is tied together. The whole procession moves up when the leaders take a step. The hovels of to-day have luxuries the palaces didn’t have once. It’s competition; it’s survival of the fittest that raises the standard for all. To the man fittest to organize and lead goes the prize. It’s right it should go to him; he has earned it. He has created capital by efficiency. Before long his income inevitably exceeds his expenditures. A fortune is made, and it is a benefit to mankind that men of mental grasp should handle such fortunes, have the power to found libraries and hospitals and great public works; doing good to thousands, rather than that the moneyshould be dribbled out in small sums among those who can’t accumulate and who can’t spend wisely.”

Van Arden was on his feet; his tall, nervous figure quivered with intensity. “That’s the optimist view, Mr. Lord; that’s not the average. Here and there, one in a thousand, maybe, is a magnate who takes his luck responsibly, but mostly what you see is vulgar greed—use of privilege without genius—brutal indifference, power used tyrannically, cynical hardness to human feelings. Why, the papers are chuck-full of it. Look at our case; look at this Trefethen.” He stopped and smiled a frank deprecation. “You see, I’m back to the personal view. I own up. Well, it isn’t an abstract question in New Haven to-night. It’s concrete as the dickens—it’s Carl.”

“This Trefethen,” lighting a fresh cigar, did not care to smile back into the sincere eyes; he occupied himself closely with the cigar. The football captain thundered in.

“Carl!” he echoed dramatically. “Of course it’s Carl, and he’s an illustration of the whole mess. What sort of fairness has been shown in his case?Legal, all right; but that play wouldn’t go in football. Just because Trefethen & Co. think they might as well make all the money in sight. He’s rolling now, but they say he’s going to be the richest man in the world—a sweet ambition! Hope he’ll enjoy himself! I’ll bet a doughnut he isn’t happy this second. I wouldn’t be in his skin for a dollar a minute.”

And the silent Trefethen squirmed under that skin and agreed.

“He’s a Yale man,” put in Van Arden reflectively.

“More’s the pity,” growled Elliot. “We’re not proud of him. Do you suppose any of us will ever turn into case-hardened octopuses like that? Ginger! I’ll make a try at least not to be a disgrace to my Alma Mater.” With that, as his guest sat quiet, his eyes on his cigar, “We’re giving Mr. Lord a dickens of a gay time,” Elliot announced cheerfully. “Unloading all our kicks for his benefit. Now cut it out, fellows. Mr. Lord’s not crazy about our great thoughts on political economy. He’s no captain of industry—” All at once he seemed to realize that in fact they did not know what their guest might be. “You said you were a lawyer, didn’t you?” he demanded a bit anxiously.

Trefethen smiled. “I’ve been called as bad as that,” he answered truthfully—for he had been admitted and had practised twenty years ago. And the boy was quite satisfied.

“That’s all right,” he said, relieved. “Pearly Gates, you sing.”

And Pearly’s lovely voice floated out as promptly and as easily as if some one had started a music-box. First an old song adapted to the football captain of the year, and all the room—but one—joined in as he led it:

Here’s to Dick Elliot, Dick Elliot—Here’s to Dick Elliot, he’s with us to-night.He’s with us, God bless him; he’s with us, God bless him;Here’s to Dick Elliot, he’s with us to-night.

Here’s to Dick Elliot, Dick Elliot—

Here’s to Dick Elliot, he’s with us to-night.

He’s with us, God bless him; he’s with us, God bless him;

Here’s to Dick Elliot, he’s with us to-night.

With its never-ending chorus of

Chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug—

Then, slipping effortless from one air to another, he was singing a favorite of Trefethen’s own time.

Winds of night around us sighing,

sang Pearly,

’Neath the elm-trees murmur low.

And the other voices joined in, and the deep sound flooded the room as the boys sang words about

The merry life we lead ’neath the elms,’Neath the elms of dear old Yale.

The merry life we lead ’neath the elms,

’Neath the elms of dear old Yale.

They were out in the street now, marching together, arm linked in arm. Dick Elliot’s big hand was on the older man’s shoulder, and the touch was pleasant to him—so pleasant that his voice stopped in the middle of a line once, and the phalanx burst into a roar of young laughter.

“Did it swallow a fly?” Jimmy Selden inquired impudently. They were all boys together now for sure.

So, singing and laughing, the five went down the dark street to the station, Trefethen in the midst, the guest, the hero, quite dazed, and happy as he thought he had forgotten how to be happy.

“You wouldn’t let us give you a real red celebration,” Selden explained, as they stood on the platform, waiting. “It was fittinger that a crew captain should be officially blowed to a party, and that dinner wasn’t much—just a snack. But wedone what we could—I done my durndest,” he finished modestly. And Dick Elliot’s scornful “Huh!” came out of darkness.

“Did we give you the time of your life? Do you like us?” Jimmy investigated further, and Trefethen laid a hand on his arm.

“You’ve given me the best time I’ve had in twenty-five years,” he said. “And I like you a lot.”

“Well, we like you; you’re the right sort,” Van Arden’s quick tones threw back frankly, and with that Pearly broke easily, sweetly, into

He’s a jolly good fellowAs nobody can deny.

He’s a jolly good fellow

As nobody can deny.

And the others chorused it with ringing notes. And as the train moved slowly out—Trefethen standing on the platform, watching his friends with intent eyes, with a new sense of loneliness—Pearly Gates’s thrilling, clear music rose again in “Bright College Years,” the other voices instantly lifting to his.

The seasons come, the seasons go;The earth is green or white with snow;But time and change shall naught availTo break the friendships formed at Yale

The seasons come, the seasons go;

The earth is green or white with snow;

But time and change shall naught avail

To break the friendships formed at Yale

they sang. And the train moved faster, and the boys stood in the half-light of the station, arms around each other’s shoulders, leaning on each other, singing. And the train drew away.

On the 27th of August theCelticsailed from Liverpool for New York. As the land of Wales melted into clouds a young fellow with conspicuous, broad shoulders walked aft and fell into conversation with a man who stood watching the fading earth-line.

“I never can take any stock in the ship till the land’s clean gone,” the man said. “It will be gone in a few minutes now.” He glanced about the deck as if the next interest were awakening. “A crowd on board,” he said. “Quite a lot of celebrities. Have you noticed the passenger list?”

“No,” answered the boy politely, but a bit absent-mindedly.

“There’s Lord and Lady de Gray, and a French marquis—I forget his name; and a Russian prince—I can’t pronounce his. And there are several big Americans. That’s Trefethen over there—MarcusTrefethen, the capitalist.” He nodded across the deck where a tall man stood alone, smoking and staring out at sea.

The boy turned. “Marcus Trefethen? I’d like to see him.” His eyes searched. “Where?”

“The tall fellow with a cigar—right where you’re looking.” The gaze changed to bewilderment, and with that there flashed to his face an astonished delight. “Marcus Trefethen your grandmother!” he threw at the man, and with a leap he was gone.

“Mr. Lord—why this is great! You haven’t forgotten me—Dick Elliot—the races on Lake Whitney last May. Yes—I didn’t think you would.” Trefethen’s hand hurt with the grip it got.

“So you and young Ruthven had your trip, after all?” he said five minutes later.

“Golly! Did we!” responded Elliot with enthusiasm. “Never had such a bully time in all my life, and Carl’s as happy as a king—his father all right, his two years in Germany arranged, everything going his way. The finest chap. I wish you knew him! Wasn’t it queer, though, about thatold Trefethen, the octopus? Nobody understands, but he suddenly just took the clamps off, and buzz! the wheels went ’round. The Southwestern Railroad came to, and is going like a queen, and Mr. Ruthven was well the minute he heard it—pretty near dead he was, too. Carl came back to college with howls of joy, and he rowed the race, and we smeared the Harvards, and the whole thing went like a book. What do you suppose happened to old Trefethen?” he shot at the other. “Lost his mind, didn’t he?”

“Old Trefethen” puffed at his cigar. “Hadn’t heard of it,” he said tersely.

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Lord. I feel differently toward that old galoot. Since the Southwestern business I respect him. I don’t understand, but I swear I respect him. I’ve read every scrap about him in the papers, and I’ve formed an opinion. It’s my idea that he’s decided there are better games than being the richest man in the world. He’s certainly thrown away his chance for that, by what they say.”

“He certainly has,” the other responded, as onehaving authority, but the boy did not notice. A flash of amusement lit his face and his words flashed after it.

“Do you know, Mr. Lord—that’s queer—I’d forgotten.” The hurrying words fell over each other. “You were pointed out to me as Trefethen this minute. That’s how I came to see you.”

The man knocked his cigar ash into the sea. “Curious,” he said quietly. “It’s not the first time, however—I look like him.” He went on: “Tell me about yourself. What are you going to do when you get home?”

The bright face grew serious. “Well, Mr. Lord,” he said, “I’m in bad luck. Not the worst, for my people are all right, thank Heaven—but it’s bad. My father’s business—he’s a steel man—is in poor shape, and it’s about inevitable that he’s got to fail. If he could raise a hundred thousand he could tide through, but he can’t do it. It’s too much for the small people, and the big people won’t risk it—and he can’t ask them. So. They wanted me to stay over with Carl and finish out my six months, and I could, for the trip is off money that was left me.They said they’d rather have me, and I’d only be in the way at home, and all that. But it seemed to me that if the governor was in a scrape I’d better go and stand by him. Even if I’m not good for much at first, I might help brace him up. Don’t you think I was right?” he asked wistfully.

“I do, indeed,” the other answered with emphasis. And then slowly, staring at the earnest face: “I wish I owned something like a boy to stand by me in time of trouble.” A quick color rushed to Elliot’s cheeks.

“If you mean that—you don’t know me much—but if you’d let me—I’m not a lot of good yet, but I’m trustworthy. I’ll stand by you, Mr. Lord.”

It was very boyish, but it went straight. So straight that Trefethen did not speak, and the lad went on eagerly: “Looks like you were in a scrape this minute, from the cock of your eye. Is it money? All right. Here I be. Just use me for a battering-ram or any old thing, and I’ll take charge of you and the governor together.”

At that Trefethen found his voice and his hand fell on the huge shoulder. “You’re adopted,” hesaid. “Just remember that. But I don’t need you just at present—not that way. I’m doing rather well financially.”

Suddenly he drew back a step, and put his hands in his pockets and stared at the boy quizzically, a slow smile coming in his eyes. “You’re a dear lad,” he said, and his voice sounded strange to him. “But you’re an expensive luxury. That afternoon at New Haven cost me five million dollars down, and Heaven knows how many more by this time.” The boy stared, amazed. “I don’t grudge it, you know. What I got for it has paid, and will. I got a new point of view and a sense of proportion. I got a suspicion that what men want millions for is happiness, and that millions don’t bring it; I got a startling and original impression that the only way to get anything out of life is to live it for other people; I got the thought that service and not selfishness is the measure of a man’s value, and I got—oh, I got this thing rubbed in with salt and lemon juice till it smarted like the devil—I got the idea that to play the game fairly is the first thing required if you mean to be a man at all.”

The boy gasped. “Who are you?” he stammered.

“Wait a minute. I was just going over the edge of a precipice. I’d have slid down pleasantly—a long way down—and I’d have wallowed in gold at the bottom, and it would have been a mighty cold, hard bed, too. I’d have been miserable and lonely, with half the world envying me, after I’d got there. But there were two or three strings tied to me yet—and they were lying up on God’s earth above the precipice, and you boys got hold of them and yanked me back. Great Scott, but you yanked manfully!” he said, and laughed and shook his head at the memory. “It wasn’t your political economy—I’d read things something like what you said. But I saw myself through your eyes—honest eyes. You had nothing to gain or lose, and you gave me your sincere thoughts—and you gave ’em from the shoulder, you’ll allow me to say. Jove, how you roasted me! A spirit that I’d forgotten about was in every word, and I caught it, and I’m trying to keep the disease, for I believe that, from a practical point of view, it’s the spirit that will bring a man peace at the last—and all along.”

“Who are you?” Dick Elliot demanded again in a frightened voice.

“I think you half know,” the other said. “I’m Marcus Lord Trefethen, and I’ll never be the richest man in the world, and I thank Heaven for it. Don’t hate me, boy—don’t be afraid of me, for your friendship’s important to me,” he went on. “You remember what you said—you’d stand by me. I need you now.” And the young face brightened and smiled frankly at him.

“Ginger, I’ll do it, too!” he said. “You’re worth saving. You can’t phase me just by being a bloated bondholder, Mr. Lor—Mr. Trefethen.”

“That’s the sort,” said Trefethen gladly. “And as you belong to me a bit—adopted, you remember—you’re to take that hundred thousand to your father from me. We’ll send him a Marconi that will stagger him.”

Elliot gasped again. “Oh, no—I can’t do that—I wouldn’t have told you,” he stammered.

“Come, Dick, don’t be a jackass,” advised Trefethen. “It’s business—I’m lending it to him—I’ll skin you both yet.” And then, as he still hesitated,with wide troubled eyes on the great man’s face, Trefethen put out his hand and found the football captain’s fingers, and twisted them into the fraternity grip—and the old college boy smiled at the young one. “Brothers, aren’t we?” he demanded. “You’ve done a lot more for me than I can do for you,” and with that, a flash of misty mischief coming into his eyes. “‘By ginger,’” quoted Marcus Trefethen, “let me ‘make a try at least not to be a disgrace to my Alma Mater.’”

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