Wade Atsheler is dead—dead by his own hand. To say that this was
entirely unexpected by the small coterie which knew him, would be to say
an untruth; and yet never once had we, his intimates, ever canvassed
the idea. Rather had we been prepared for it in some incomprehensible
subconscious way. Before the perpetration of the deed, its possibility
is remotest from our thoughts; but when we did know that he was dead, it
seemed, somehow, that we had understood and looked forward to it all the
time. This, by retrospective analysis, we could easily explain by the
fact of his great trouble. I use “great trouble” advisedly. Young,
handsome, with an assured position as the right-hand man of Eben Hale,
the great street-railway magnate, there could be no reason for him to
complain of fortune’s favors. Yet we had watched his smooth brow furrow
and corrugate as under some carking care or devouring sorrow. We had
watched his thick, black hair thin and silver as green grain under
brazen skies and parching drought. Who can forget, in the midst of the
hilarious scenes he toward the last sought with greater and greater
avidity—who can forget, I say, the deep abstractions and black moods
into which he fell? At such times, when the fun rippled and soared from
height to height, suddenly, without rhyme or reason, his eyes would turn
lacklustre, his brows knit, as with clenched hands and face overshot
with spasms of mental pain he wrestled on the edge of the abyss with
some unknown danger.
He never spoke of his trouble, nor were we indiscreet enough to ask.
But it was just as well; for had we, and had he spoken, our help
and strength could have availed nothing. When Eben Hale died, whose
confidential secretary he was—nay, well-nigh adopted son and full
business partner—he no longer came among us. Not, as I now know, that
our company was distasteful to him, but because his trouble had so grown
that he could not respond to our happiness nor find surcease with us.
Why this should be so we could not at the time understand, for when Eben
Hale’s will was probated, the world learned that he was sole heir to
his employer’s many millions, and it was expressly stipulated that this
great inheritance was given to him without qualification, hitch, or
hindrance in the exercise thereof. Not a share of stock, not a penny
of cash, was bequeathed to the dead man’s relatives. As for his direct
family, one astounding clause expressly stated that Wade Atsheler was to
dispense to Eben Hale’s wife and sons and daughters whatever moneys his
judgement dictated, at whatever times he deemed advisable. Had there
been any scandal in the dead man’s family, or had his sons been wild
or undutiful, then there might have been a glimmering of reason in
this most unusual action; but Eben Hale’s domestic happiness had been
proverbial in the community, and one would have to travel far and wide
to discover a cleaner, saner, wholesomer progeny of sons and daughters.
While his wife—well, by those who knew her best she was endearingly
termed “The Mother of the Gracchi.” Needless to state, this inexplicable
will was a nine day’s wonder; but the expectant public was disappointed
in that no contest was made.
It was only the other day that Eben Hale was laid away in his stately
marble mausoleum. And now Wade Atsheler is dead. The news was printed
in this morning’s paper. I have just received through the mail a letter
from him, posted, evidently, but a short hour before he hurled himself
into eternity. This letter, which lies before me, is a narrative in
his own handwriting, linking together numerous newspaper clippings and
facsimiles of letters. The original correspondence, he has told me,
is in the hands of the police. He has begged me, also, as a warning to
society against a most frightful and diabolical danger which threatens
its very existence, to make public the terrible series of tragedies in
which he has been innocently concerned. I herewith append the text in
full:
It was in August, 1899, just after my return from my summer vacation,
that the blow fell. We did not know it at the time; we had not yet
learned to school our minds to such awful possibilities. Mr. Hale opened
the letter, read it, and tossed it upon my desk with a laugh. When I had
looked it over, I also laughed, saying, “Some ghastly joke, Mr. Hale,
and one in very poor taste.” Find here, my dear John, an exact duplicate
of the letter in question.
OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. August 17, 1899.
MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:
Dear Sir,—We desire you to realize upon whatever portion of your vast
holdings is necessary to obtain, IN CASH, twenty millions of dollars.
This sum we require you to pay over to us, or to our agents. You will
note we do not specify any given time, for it is not our wish to hurry
you in this matter. You may even, if it be easier for you, pay us
in ten, fifteen, or twenty instalments; but we will accept no single
instalment of less than a million.
Believe us, dear Mr. Hale, when we say that we embark upon this course
of action utterly devoid of animus. We are members of that intellectual
proletariat, the increasing numbers of which mark in red lettering the
last days of the nineteenth century. We have, from a thorough study
of economics, decided to enter upon this business. It has many merits,
chief among which may be noted that we can indulge in large and
lucrative operations without capital. So far, we have been fairly
successful, and we hope our dealings with you may be pleasant and
satisfactory.
Pray attend while we explain our views more fully. At the base of the
present system of society is to be found the property right. And this
right of the individual to hold property is demonstrated, in the last
analysis, to rest solely and wholly upon MIGHT. The mailed gentlemen of
William the Conqueror divided and apportioned England amongst themselves
with the naked sword. This, we are sure you will grant, is true of
all feudal possessions. With the invention of steam and the Industrial
Revolution there came into existence the Capitalist Class, in the modern
sense of the word. These capitalists quickly towered above the ancient
nobility. The captains of industry have virtually dispossessed the
descendants of the captains of war. Mind, and not muscle, wins in
to-day’s struggle for existence. But this state of affairs is none the
less based upon might. The change has been qualitative. The old-time
Feudal Baronage ravaged the world with fire and sword; the modern
Money Baronage exploits the world by mastering and applying the world’s
economic forces. Brain, and not brawn, endures; and those best fitted to
survive are the intellectually and commercially powerful.
We, the M. of M., are not content to become wage slaves. The great
trusts and business combinations (with which you have your rating)
prevent us from rising to the place among you which our intellects
qualify us to occupy. Why? Because we are without capital. We are of the
unwashed, but with this difference: our brains are of the best, and we
have no foolish ethical nor social scruples. As wage slaves, toiling
early and late, and living abstemiously, we could not save in threescore
years—nor in twenty times threescore years—a sum of money sufficient
successfully to cope with the great aggregations of massed capital which
now exist. Nevertheless, we have entered the arena. We now throw down
the gage to the capital of the world. Whether it wishes to fight or not,
it shall have to fight.
Mr. Hale, our interests dictate us to demand of you twenty millions of
dollars. While we are considerate enough to give you reasonable time in
which to carry out your share of the transaction, please do not delay
too long. When you have agreed to our terms, insert a suitable notice
in the agony column of the “Morning Blazer.” We shall then acquaint you
with our plan for transferring the sum mentioned. You had better do this
some time prior to October 1st. If you do not, in order to show that
we are in earnest we shall on that date kill a man on East Thirty-ninth
Street. He will be a workingman. This man you do not know; nor do we.
You represent a force in modern society; we also represent a force—a
new force. Without anger or malice, we have closed in battle. As you
will readily discern, we are simply a business proposition. You are the
upper, and we the nether, millstone; this man’s life shall be ground
out between. You may save him if you agree to our conditions and act in
time.
There was once a king cursed with a golden touch. His name we have taken
to do duty as our official seal. Some day, to protect ourselves against
competitors, we shall copyright it.
We beg to remain,