"THE ETHICS OF THE PROFESSION"
Andy P. Symes sat in his comfortable porch chair in the cool of the
evening, at peace with all the world. His frame of mind was enviable;
indeed, that person would be hard to please who could look down the
vista of pleasant probabilities which stretched before his mental vision
and not feel tolerably serene.
His enterprise had been singularly free from the obstacles, delays, and
annoyances which so often attend the getting under way of a new
undertaking. Mudge, the Chicago promoter, had been particularly
successful in disposing of the Company's bonds, at least a sufficient
number to keep the work going and meet the local obligations. Save in a
few instances, the contractors had made money on their contracts and
were eager for more. The commissary was a source of revenue and there
were certain commissions and rebates in the purchase of equipment which
he did not mention but which added materially to his income. His salary,
thus far, had been ample and sure. Symes told himself, and sometimes
others, that he had nothing in life to trouble him, that he was, in
fact, that rare anomaly--a perfectly happy man.
This evening in the agreeable picture which he could see quite plainly
by merely closing his eyes, there was an imposing residence that bore
the same relation to Crowheart which the manor house does to the
retainers upon a great English estate. He could see a touring car which
sent the coyotes loping to their dens and made the natives gape; not so
close, but equally distinct, a friendly hand was pointing the way to
political honors whose only limit was his own desires. And Augusta--his
smile of complacency did not fade--she was equal to any emergency now,
he believed. She had not only changed amazingly but she was still
changing and Symes watched the various stages of her development with
quiet interest and approval. It is true he missed her former
demonstrativeness and open admiration of himself, but he considered her
self-repression a mark of advancement, an evidence of the repose of
manner which she was cultivating. There were times, he thought, when she
carried it a bit too far, when she seemed indifferent, unresponsive to
his moods, but at such moments he would assure himself that not for the
world would he have had her as she was in the beginning.
She was happy, too; he could hear her occasional laughter and the murmur
of her voice as she swung in the hammock at the corner of the house with
Dr. Harpe. On his right, he heard the unceasing click of Grandmother
Kunkel's needles as they flew in and out upon the top row of the woollen
stocking that was never done. It was a pleasing domestic scene and he
opened his eyes lazily to enjoy it. They sought the hammock and their
listlessness was gradually replaced by an intentness of gaze which
became a stare.
"Grandmother," he said after a time, and he noticed that her mouth was a
tight pucker of displeasure, though she seemed to have eyes only for her
work. "You remember our conversation some time ago--have you changed
your opinion in regard to the person we discussed?"
In the look she flashed at him he read not only the answer to his
question but something of the fierce emotion which was finding vent in
her flying needles.
"I haven't!" she snapped.
"You truly believe that her influence over Augusta is not good?"