_ At seven o'clock on the last morning of that month, Sheridan, passing
through the upper hall on his way to descend the stairs for breakfast,
found a couple of scribbled sheets of note-paper lying on the floor.
A window had been open in Bibbs's room the evening before; he had left
his note-book on the sill--and the sheets were loose. The door was
open, and when Bibbs came in and closed it, he did not notice that
the two sheets had blown out into the hall. Sheridan recognized the
handwriting and put the sheets in his coat pocket, intending to give
them to George or Jackson for return to the owner, but he forgot and
carried them down-town with him. At noon he found himself alone in
his office, and, having a little leisure, remembered the bits of
manuscript, took them out, and glanced at them. A grance was enough
to reveal that they were not epistolary. Sheridan would not have
read a "private letter" that came into his possession in that way,
though in a "matter of business" he might have felt it his duty
to take advantage of an opportunity afforded in any manner whatsoever.
Having satisfied himself that Bibbs's scribblings were only a sample
of the kind of writing his son preferred to the machine-shop, he
decided, innocently enough, that he would be justified in reading
them.
It appears that a lady will nod pleasantly upon some windy
generalization of a companion, and will wear the most agreeable
expression of accepting it as the law, and then--days afterward,
when the thing is a mummy to its promulgator--she will inquire out
of a clear sky: "WHY did you say that the people down-town have
nothing in life that a chicken hasn't? What did you mean?" And she
may say it in a manner that makes a sensible reply very difficult
--you will be so full of wonder that she remembered so seriously.
Yet, what does the rooster lack? He has food and shelter; he is
warm in winter; his wives raise not one fine family for him, but
dozens. He has a clear sky over him; he breathes sweet air; he
walks in his April orchard under a roof of flowers. He must die,
violently perhaps, but quickly. Is Midas's cancer a better way?
The rooster's wives and children must die. Are those of Midas
immortal? His life is shorter than the life of Midas, but Midas's
life is only a sixth as long as that of the Galapagos tortoise.
The worthy money-worker takes his vacation so that he may refresh
himself anew for the hard work of getting nothing that the rooster
doesn't get. The office-building has an elevator, the rooster
flies up to the bough. Midas has a machine to take him to his work;
the rooster finds his worm underfoot. The "business man" feels
a pressure sometimes, without knowing why, and sits late at wine
after the day's labor; next morning he curses his head because it
interferes with the work--he swears never to relieve that pressure
again. The rooster has no pressure and no wine; this difference is
in his favor.
The rooster is a dependent; he depends upon the farmer and the
weather. Midas is a dependent; he depends upon the farmer and the
weather. The rooster thinks only of the moment; Midas provides for
to-morrow. What does he provide for to-morrow? Nothing that the
rooster will not have without providing.
The rooster and the prosperous worker: they are born, they grub,
they love; they grub and love grubbing; they grub and they die.
Neither knows beauty; neither knows knowledge. And after all, when
Midas dies and the rooster dies, there is one thing Midas has had
and rooster has not. Midas has had the excitement of accumulating
what he has grubbed, and that has been his life and his love and
his god. He cannot take that god with him when he dies. I wonder
if the worthy gods are those we can take with us.
Midas must teach all to be as Midas; the young must be raised in
his religion--
The manuscript ended there, and Sheridan was not anxious for more.
He crumpled the sheets into a ball, depositing it (with vigor) in
a waste-basket beside him; then, rising, he consulted a Cyclopedia
of Names, which a book-agent had somehow sold to him years before;
a volume now first put to use for the location of "Midas." Having
read the legend, Sheridan walked up and down the spacious office,
exhaling the breath of contempt. "Dam' fool!" he mumbled. But
this was no new thought, nor was the contrariness of Bibbs's notes
a surpise to him; and presently he dismissed the matter from his
mind.
He felt very lonely, and this was, daily, his hardest hour. For
a long time he and Jim had lunched together habitually. Roscoe
preferred a club luncheon, but Jim and his father almost always went
to a small restaurant near the Sheridan Building, where they spent
twenty minutes in the consumption of food, and twenty in talk, with
cigars. Jim came for his father every day, at five minutes after
twelve, and Sheridan was again in his office at five minutes before
one. But now that Jim no longer came, Sheridan remained alone in
his office; he had not gone out to lunch since Jim's death, nor did
he have anything sent to him--he fasted until evening.
It was the time he missed Jim personally the most--the voice and eyes
and handshake, all brisk and alert, all business-like. But these
things were not the keenest in Sheridan's grief; his sense of loss
went far deeper. Roscoe was dependable, a steady old wheel-horse, and
that was a great comfort; but it was in Jim that Sheridan had most
happily perceived his own likeness. Jim was the one who would have
been surest to keep the great property growing greater, year by year.
Sheridan had fallen asleep, night after night, picturing what the
growth would be under Jim. He had believed that Jim was absolutely
certain to be one of the biggest men in the country. Well, it was all
up to Roscoe now!
That reminded him of a question he had in mind to ask Roscoe. It was
a question Sheridan considered of no present importance, but his wife
had suggested it--though vaguely--and he had meant to speak to Roscoe
about it. However, Roscoe had not come into his father's office for
several days, and when Sheridan had seen his son at home there had
been no opportunity.
He waited until the greater part of his day's work was over, toward
four o'clock, and then went down to Roscoe's office, which was on a
lower floor. He found several men waiting for business interviews in
an outer room of the series Roscoe occupied; and he supposed that he
would find his son busy with others, and that his question would have
to be postponed, but when he entered the door marked "R. C. Sheridan.
Private," Roscoe was there alone.
He was sitting with his back to the door, his feet on a window-sill,
and he did not turn as his father opened the door.
"Some pretty good men out there waitin' to see you, my boy," said
Sheridan. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," Roscoe answered indistinctly, not moving.
"Well, I guess that's all right, too. I let 'em wait sometimes
myself! I just wanted to ask you a question, but I expect it'll
keep, if you're workin' something out in your mind!"
Roscoe made no reply; and his father, who had turned to the door,
paused with his hand on the knob, staring curiously at the motionless
figure in the chair. Usually the son seemed pleased and eager when
he came to the office. "You're all right, ain't you?" said Sheridan.
"Not sick, are you?"
"No."
Sheridan was puzzled; then, abruptly, he decided to ask his question.
"I wanted to talk to you about that young Lamhorn," he said. "I guess
your mother thinks he's comin' to see Edith pretty often, and you
known him longer'n any of us, so--"
"I won't," said Roscoe, thickly--"I won't say a dam' thing about him!"
Sheridan uttered an exclamation and walked quickly to a position near
the window where he could see his son's face. Roscoe's eyes were
bloodshot and vacuous; his hair was disordered, his mouth was
distorted, and he was deathly pale. The father stood aghast.
"By George!" he muttered. "ROSCOE!"
"My name," said Roscoe. "Can' help that."
"ROSCOE!" Blank astonishment was Sheridan's first sensation.
Probably nothing in the world could have more amazed his than to find
Roscoe--the steady old wheel-horse--in this condition. "How'd you
GET this way?" he demanded. "You caught cold and took too much for
it?"
For reply Roscoe laughed hoarsely. "Yeuh! Cold! I been drinkun all
time, lately. Firs' you notice it?"
"By George!" cried Sheridan. "I THOUGHT I'd smelt it on you a good
deal lately, but I wouldn't 'a' believed you'd take more'n was good
for you. Boh! To see you like a common hog!"
Roscoe chuckled and threw out his right arm in a meaningless gesture.
"Hog!" he repeated, chuckling.
"Yes, a hog!" said Sheridan, angrily. "In business hours! I don't
object to anybody's takin' a drink if you wants to, out o' business
hours; nor, if a man keeps his work right up to the scratch, I
wouldn't be the one to baste him if he got good an' drunk once in two,
three years, maybe. It ain't MY way. I let it alone, but I never
believed in forcin' my way on a grown-up son in moral matters. I
guess I was wrong! You think them men out there are waitin' to talk
business with a drunkard? You think you can come to your office and
do business drunk? By George! I wonder how often this has been
happening and me not on to it! I'll have a look over your books
to-morrow, and I'll--"
Roscoe stumbled to his feet, laughing wildly, and stood swaying,
contriving to hold himself in position by clutching the back of
the heavy chair in which he had been sitting.
"Hoo--hoorah!" he cried. "'S my principles, too. Be drunkard all
you want to--outside business hours. Don' for Gossake le'n'thing
innerfere business hours! Business! Thassit! You're right, father.
Drink! Die! L'everything go to hell, but DON' let innerfere
business!" _