"THE GROUND FLOOR"
While Andy P. Symes on his honeymoon was combining business with
pleasure in that vague region known as "Back East," and his bride was
learning not to fold the hotel napkin or call the waiter "sir," the
population of Crowheart was increasing so rapidly that the town had
growing pains. Where, last month, the cactus bloomed, tar-paper shacks
surrounded by chicken-wire, kid-proof fences was home the next to
families of tow-heads.
Crowheart, the citizens of the newly incorporated town told each other,
was booming _right_.
They came in prairie schooners, travel-stained and weary, their horses
thin and jaded from the long, heavy pull across the sandy trail of the
sagebrush desert. With funds barely sufficient for horse feed and a few
weeks' provisions, they came without definite knowledge of conditions or
plans. A rumor had reached them back there in Minnesota or Iowa,
Nebraska or Missouri, of the opportunities in this new country and,
anyway, they wanted to move--_where_ was not a matter of great moment.
Others came by rail, all bearing the earmarks of straitened
circumstances, and few of them with any but the most vague ideas as to
what they had come for beyond the universal expectation of getting rich,
somehow, somewhere, some time. They were poor alike, and the first
efforts of the head of each household were spent in the construction of
a place of shelter for himself and family. The makeshifts of poverty
were seldom if ever the subject of ridicule or comment, for most had a
sympathetic understanding of the emergencies which made them necessary.
Kindness, helpfulness, good-fellowship were in the air.
When Ephriam Baskitt loomed up on the horizon with two freight wagons
filled with the dust-covered canned goods of a defunct grocery store and
twenty-four hours later was a fixture, nobody saw anything humorous in
the headline in the _Courier_ which heralded him as "The Merchant Prince
of Crowheart." Two new saloons opened while "Curly" resigned as chef for
the Lazy S Outfit to become the orchestra in a new dance hall which
arrived about midnight in a prairie schooner.
As Dr. Harpe made friends with the newcomers and continued to ingratiate
herself with the old, she sometimes felt that the death of Alice Freoff
was not after all the tragedy it had at first seemed. She missed the
woman--not the woman so much either, as the association--and there was
no one in Crowheart to fill her place, so she was frequently lonely,
often bored, with the intensely practical, unsophisticated women whom
she attracted strongly. Sometimes she thought of Augusta Kunkel and a
derisive smile always curved her lips as she attempted to picture her in
a worldly setting and the smile grew when she tried to imagine Symes's
sensations while presenting her to his friends. She indulged, too, in
speculation as to the outcome of the marriage, but could not venture a
prophecy since it was one of those affairs to which no ending would be
improbable.
But while Dr. Harpe speculated, observation and the suggestions of Andy
P. Symes were working wonders in the appearance of the gawky,
long-limbed woman. A session with a hair-dresser had not been wasted,
for she had learned to dress her hair in the prevailing mode. Symes had
lost no time in rushing her to an establishment where the brown cashmere
basque and many gored skirt had been exchanged for a gown of fashionable
cut. A pair of French stays developed indications of a figure and the
concho-like broach had been discarded, while Augusta herself had learned
that black silk mitts had not been greatly in vogue for nearly a quarter
of a century. The conspicuous marvel which had displayed the skill of
the clairvoyant milliner from South Dakota had been replaced by a hat of
good lines and simplicity, and, for the first time in her life, Augusta
Kunkel rustled when she walked.
When the transformation was complete, Andy P. Symes sighed in a little
more than relief, and mentally observed that in the course of human
events he _might_ be able to introduce her to his family.
Nor was Symes himself idle in a land where Capital hung like an
over-ripe peach waiting to be plucked by the proper hand. Mr. Symes was
convinced that his was the hand, so he lost no opportunity of widening
his circle of desirable acquaintances.
In his wide-brimmed Stetson, with his broad shoulders towering above the
average man, his genial smile and jovial manners, he was the typical
free, big-hearted westerner of the eastern imagination. And he liked the
role; also he played it well. Symes was essentially a poseur. He loved
the limelight like a showman. To be foremost, to lead, was essential to
his happiness. He demanded satellites and more satellites. His love of
prominence amounted to a passion. Sycophancy was as acceptable as real
regard, since each catered to his vanity.
It required money, much money, to live up to the popular conception of
the type he chose to represent. To successfully carry out his role of
the breezy, liberal, unconventional westerner required money enough to
include the cabman on the pavement in his invitations to drink, money
enough to donate bank notes to bellboys, to wave change to waiters, to
occupy boxes where he could lay his conspicuous Stetson upon the rail.
Having indulged himself in these delightful extravagances, Symes was
suddenly recalled one morning to a realization of the fact that earthly
paradises end by a curt notification from his bank that he had overdrawn
his account.
This was awkward. It was particularly awkward to Symes because he had no
assets. With the singular improvidence which distinguished him he had
not provided for this exigency before leaving Crowheart. True, he had
made a vague calculation which would seem to indicate that he had
sufficient funds to last the trip, but it was more extended than he had
anticipated and he had forgotten to deduct the amount of the checks
which he had given in payment for the champagne provided in such
unstinted quantities by "Hank" Terriberry.
Not only was Symes without reserve funds but he had a large hotel bill
owing. Yes, it was high time he was "doing something." "Doing something"
to Mr. Symes, meant devising some means of securing an income without
physical and no great mental effort, something which should be
compatible with the notable House of Symes.
Had he borne any other than that sacred name he would have turned to
insurance or a mail order business with the same unerring instinct with
which the sunflower turns to the sun, but this avenue was closed to him
by the necessity of preserving the dignity of his name. It was necessary
for him as a Symes to promote some enterprise which would give him the
power and prestige in the community which belonged to him.
Mr. Symes had been East before with this end in view. As he himself
observed, "he never went East except to eat oysters and raise money." He
had been much more successful as an oyster eater than a promoter. There
was that vein of coking coal over beyond the "Limestone Rim"; he nearly
landed that, but the investors discovered too soon that it was 150 miles
from a railroad. There was an embryo coal mine back in the hills--a fine
proposition but open to the same objection. Also an asbestos deposit,
valueless for the same reason. He had tried copper prospects with
startling assays and had found himself shunned nor had mountains of
marble aroused the enthusiasm of Capital. They had listened with marked
coldness to his story of a wonderful oil seepage and had turned a deaf
ear on natural gas. He had baited a hook with a stratum of gypsum which
would furnish the world with cement. Capital had barely sniffed at the
bait. Nor had banks of shale adapted to the making of a perfect brick
appealed to its jaded palate. But Symes was never at a loss for
something to promote, for there was always a nebula of schemes vaguely
present in his prolific brain. Irrigation was the opportunity of the
moment and he meant to grab it with a strangle hold. He had been
dilatory but now he intended to get down to business.
If only he could hang on until he accomplished his end! Symes stopped
manicuring his nails with a pin, which he kept in the lapel of his coat
for that commendable purpose, and counted his money. He was thankful
that since he _had_ overdrawn his account he had done it so liberally
as, by strict economy, it would enable him to remain a short while and
depart with his credit still unimpaired.
Augusta Symes regarded the pile of crisp banknotes with pleased eyes.
She could not recollect ever having seen so much money together before;
the proceeds of horse-shoeing and wagon repairs came mostly in silver.
Placing the banknotes in his wallet with considerably more than his
usual care, Mr. Symes paced the floor of their corner suite with the
slow, measured strides of meditation, his noble head sunk upon his
breast and his broad brow corrugated in thought. Mrs. Symes's eyes
followed him in silent and respectful admiration.
When he stopped, finally, in the middle of the room, the fire of
enthusiasm was newly kindled in his eyes and an unconscious squaring of
his shoulders announced that he was now prepared to "do something."
Symes really had initial energy and the trait was most apparent when
driven by necessity. The first step toward getting his enterprise under
way was the bringing together of the people he hoped to interest. He
reached for his hat and straightened his scarf before the mirror.
Augusta watched the preparations in some dismay; she dreaded being alone
in the great hotel.
"Will you be gone long, Mr. Symes?"
"Good God! Don't call me Mister Symes," he burst out in unexpected
exasperation.
Augusta's eyes filled with tears.
"But--but everybody calls you 'Andy' and--and just 'Symes' sounds so
familiar. Why can't I call you 'Phidias?'"
"Phidias! Do, by all means, call me Phidias. I dote on Phidias! I love
the combination--Phidias Symes. Father was drunk when he named me."
He slammed the door behind him, forgetting to explain that he was not
returning for luncheon or dinner so, that evening, while Augusta
wandered aimlessly through the rooms, both hungry and anxious yet afraid
to venture into the big dining-room, Andy P. Symes was saying with
impressive emphasis as he fumbled in a box of cabanas:
"Big opportunities, I am convinced, seldom come more than once to a
man."
His guests listened to the trite axiom with the respect due one who has
met and grappled successfully with his one great chance. His well-fed
appearance, his genial, contented smile, gave an impression of
prosperity even when his linen was frayed and his elbows glossy; now in
the latest achievement of a good tailor it was difficult to conceive him
as being anything less than a millionaire.
"And this," Symes looked squarely in each eager eye in turn, "this,
gentlemen, is such an opportunity."
The timid voice of a man who had made a hundred thousand from a patent
fly-trap broke the awed silence.
"It sounds good."
"_Sounds_ good! It _is_ good." Mr. Symes clenched his huge fist and
emphasized the declaration with a blow upon the table which made the
dishes rattle.
"Think of it," he went on, "two hundred thousand acres that can be made
to bloom like the rose. An earthly paradise of our own making." The
flowery figures were borrowed from a railroad folder but Mr. Symes had
grasped them with the avidity of true genius and made them his own. "And
how?"
The waiter starting away with a tray load of dishes stopped to learn.
"By the mere introduction of water upon the most fertile soil in the
world! Is there anything like it--a miracle worker!" Mr. Symes shut one
eye and peered into an empty bottle. "And how can this be done?" He
answered himself. "By the expenditure of a ridiculously small amount of
money; the absurd sum of $250,000. And look at the returns!"
By the intentness of their gaze it was evident that all were willing
enough to look. Symes lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper and swept
the air with his outspread fingers.
"A clean million!"
The man who made only six thousand a year selling plumbers' supplies,
gulped.
"But who's goin' to buy it?" It was the timid voice of the Fly-trap
King.
"_Buy it!_" The questioner withered before Symes's scorn. "Buy it? Why,
the world is land-hungry--crying for land!--and water. But I've
considered all that; I've arranged for it," Mr. Symes went on with a
touch of impatience. "We'll colonize it. We'll import Russian Jews to
raise sugar-beets for the sugar-beet factory which we will establish.
They will buy it for $50 an acre cash or $60 an acre with 10 per cent.
interest upon the deferred payments. It's very simple."
"But--but--I thought Russian Jews went in mostly for collar buttons,
shoe-strings and lace--mercantile enterprises--commercial natures, you
know? Besides, where they going to get their money for the first
payment?"
Symes curbed his irritation at the piffling objections of the Fly-trap
King and responded tolerantly.
"We'll organize a bank and loan 'em the money. If they fail to come
through at the specified time the land will return to the company and
we'll have their improvements, making them a small allowance for same,
at our discretion. We'll lay out a town and build an Opera House, get
electric light and street railway franchises--a million? Why, there's
millions in sight when you consider the possibilities."
The painting of the roseate picture had flushed Mr. Symes's cheeks;
already "Symesville" or "Symeston" rose clear before his mental vision,
while his listeners endeavored to calculate their share of the millions
when proportioned in accordance with the investment of all their
available cash. Certainly the returns were temptingly large and the
least optimistic among them believed he could convince his wife of the
perfect safety of the investment, the success of which was practically
assured by the fact that Andy P. Symes for an infinitesimal salary, as
compared to his ability, was willing to assume the management.
A slender, blond gentleman, who derived a satisfactory income from the
importation of Scotch woollens and Irish linens, confessed that for
years he had cherished a secret desire to do something for mankind,
providing he was assured of a reasonable return upon his investment,
and, with the King of Brobdingnag, believed that the man who made, say,
two sugar-beets grow where only one grew before, rendered an
incalculable service to the human race.
The other guests expressed their admiration of the woollen importer's
high sentiments, and while they admitted that no such noble impulse
governed them they subscribed generously for stock in the company which
was formed then and there to apply for the segregation of 200,000 acres
of irrigable land.
Mr. Symes talked familiarly of State Land Boards, water rights, flood
water, ditches, laterals, subsoil and seepage, the rotation of crops and
general productiveness until even the cynical politician who controlled
the negro vote in his ward began to realize that it was a liberal
education merely to know Andy P. Symes, not to mention the distinction
of being associated with him in business.
Inspired by the prospect of once again handling real money, Andy P.
Symes talked with an earnestness and fluency which cast a hypnotic spell
upon his listeners. Swiftly, graphically, he outlined the future of the
country which would be opened up to settlement by this great irrigation
project. His florid face turned a deeper red, his eyes sparkled as the
winged imagination of the natural promoter began to play. It was of the
dirigible kind, Symes's imagination, he could steer it in any direction.
It could rise to any heights. It now shot upward and he saw himself at
the head of a project which would make his name a household word
throughout the State. He saw crowds of Russian Jews crying hosannas as
he walked along the street of Symesville; he heard the clang of
trolleys; he saw the smoke of factories; he heard the name of Symes upon
the lips of little children; he saw, but the dazzling vision made him
blink and he leaned back in his chair with the beneficent smile of a
man who had just endowed a hospital for crippled children, while he
permitted himself to accept a subscription for $15,000 from a guest who
had cleared that modest sum in the manufacture of white lead and paint.
A slow and laborious process compared to the sale of irrigated land to
Russian Jews.
Symes's guests wrung his hand at parting, in silent gratitude at being
permitted to get in on the ground floor of what was undoubtedly the
greatest money making enterprise still open to investors. And they left
him with the assurance of their hearty co-operation and willingness to
endeavor to raise the balance among their friends.
While the subscribers for the stock of the Symes Irrigation Project were
rousing their wives from their first sleep to gloat with them over the
unprecedented good fortune which had thrown the big-hearted and shrewd
but honest westerner in their paths, that person was returning from a
night lunch cart with two hot frankfurter sandwiches for Augusta
concealed in his pocket. The dinner, although so fruitful of results,
had seriously reduced the roll of crisp bank notes.
Strict economy was imperative during the days which followed and it
became no uncommon occurrence for Andy P. Symes to whisk Augusta into a
caravansera where the gentlemen patrons ate large, filling plates of
griddle cakes with their hats on. But such are the sordid straits to
which the proudest spirits are sometimes reduced and depressing as it
was to Andy P. Symes, who winced each time that he seated himself at the
varnished pine table upon which the pewter castor was chained to the
wall and selected a paper napkin from a glass tumbler, he consoled
himself with the thought that it would not be for long. Also it was some
little compensation to see traces of animation in Augusta's stolid face,
for the atmosphere was vastly more congenial to his wife than that of
the fashionable hotel restaurant where her appetite fled before the
waiter's observant eye and the bewildering nightmare of a menu.
Invariably upon these humiliating occasions when Symes dined cheek by
jowl with _hoi polloi_ who left their spoons in their cups and departed
using a toothpick like a peavy, his thoughts turned to his coming
triumph in Crowheart. And although his gorge rose at the sight of a
large, buck cockroach which scurried across the table and turned to wave
a fraternal leg at him before it disappeared, the knowledge that he
would soon take his rightful position as that city's leading citizen
helped to restore his equanimity.
With an assured income, Company money to spend among the local
merchants, work for many applicants, Symes felt that he could do little
else than step into the niche which clearly belonged to him. The one
smudge upon the picture was Augusta. Her eyes were ever upon him in
adoring, dog-like fidelity and it irritated him. Her appearance had
altered amazingly, she no longer called him "Mister Symes," and by
repeated corrections he had succeeded in inducing her to refrain from
folding her hands upon her abdomen, but the plebeian strain, the
deficiency of gentle birth betrayed itself in a dozen little ways, by
indelicacies none the less irritating because they were trifling.
Symes knew what a gentlewoman should be, for he had mingled with them in
the past and he never had thought of his wife as being anything else
than well born. Augusta's large knuckled hands, conspicuous in white kid
gloves, her long, flat feet, the shiny, bald spots behind her ears, were
sources of real mortification to him, and invariably he found himself
growing red upon the occasions when it was necessary to present her to
his friends.
In the presence of other women she sat bolt upright, a red spot burning
on either cheek-bone, her eyes bright with nervous excitement while she
answered the careless small talk with preternatural seriousness. At such
times Symes himself talked rapidly to hide the gaucheries of her speech,
and they were ordeals which he took care should be as few as possible.
If the yoke were chafing already, he asked himself frequently, what
would its weight be in a year, five, ten years later?
V