My enemies caused it to be widely believed that “Wild Week” was my
deliberate contrivance for the sole purpose of enriching myself. Thus they
got me a reputation for almost superhuman daring, for satanic astuteness at
cold-blooded calculation. I do not deserve the admiration and respect that
my success-worshiping fellow countrymen lay at my feet. True, I did greatly
enrich myself; but _not until the Monday after Wild Week_.
Not until I had pondered on men and events with the assistance of the
newspapers my detective protectors and jailers permitted to be brought
aboard--not until the last hope of turning Wild Week to the immediate
public advantage had sputtered out like a lost man's last match, did I
think of benefiting myself, of seizing the opportunity to strengthen myself
for the future. On Monday morning, I said to Sergeant Mulholland: “I want
to go ashore at once and send some telegrams.”
The sergeant is one of the detective bureau's “dress-suit men.” He is by
nature phlegmatic and cynical. His experience has put over that a veneer
of weary politeness. We had become great friends during our enforced
inseparable companionship. For Joe, who looked on me somewhat as a mother
looks on a brilliant but erratic son, had, as I soon discovered, elaborated
a wonderful program for me. It included a watch on me day and night, lest,
through rage or despondency, I should try to do violence to myself. A fine
character, that Joe! But, to return, Mulholland answered my request for
shore-leave with a soothing smile. “Can't do it, Mr. Blacklock,” he said.
“Our orders are positive. But when we put in at New London and send ashore
for further instructions, and for the papers, you can send in your
messages.”
“As you please,” said I. And I gave him a cipher telegram to Joe--an order
to invest my store of cash, which meant practically my whole fortune, in
the gilt-edged securities that were to be had for cash at a small fraction
of their value.
This on the Monday after Wild Week, please note. I would have helped the
people to deliver themselves from the bondage of the bandits. They would
not have it. I would even have sacrificed my all in trying to save them in
spite of themselves. But what is one sane man against a stampeded multitude
of maniacs? For confirmation of my disinterestedness, I point to all those
weeks and months during which I waged costly warfare on “The Seven,” who
would gladly have given me more than I now have, could I have been bribed
to desist. But, when I was compelled to admit that I had overestimated my
fellow men, that the people wear the yoke because they have not yet become
intelligent and competent enough to be free, then and not until then did I
abandon the hopeless struggle.
And I did not go over to the bandits; I simply resumed my own neglected
personal affairs and made Wild Week at least a personal triumph.
There is nothing of the spectacular in my make-up. I have no belief in
the value of martyrs and martyrdom. Causes are not won--and in my humble
opinion never have been won--in the graveyards. Alive and afoot and armed,
and true to my cause, I am the dreaded menace to systematic and respectable
robbery. What possible good could have come of mobs killing me and the
bandits dividing my estate?
But why should I seek to justify myself? I care not a rap for the opinion
of my fellow men. They sought my life when they should have been hailing me
as a deliverer; now, they look up to me because they falsely believe me
guilty of an infamy.
My guards expected to be recalled on Tuesday. But Melville heard what
Crawford had done about me, and straightway used his influence to have me
detained until the new grip of the old gang was secure. Saturday afternoon
we put in at Newport for the daily communication with the shore. When the
launch returned, Mulholland brought the papers to me, lounging aft in a
mass of cushions under the awning. “We are going ashore,” said he. “The
order has come.”
I had a sudden sense of loneliness. “I'll take you down to New York,” said
I. “I prefer to land my guests where I shipped them.”
As we steamed slowly westward I read the papers. The country was rapidly
readjusting itself, was returning to the conditions before the upheaval.
The “financiers”--the same old gang, except for a few of the weaker
brethren ruined and a few strong outsiders, who had slipped in during the
confusion--were employing all the old, familiar devices for deceiving and
robbing the people. The upset milking-stool was righted, and the milker was
seated again and busy, the good old cow standing without so much as shake
of horn or switch of tail. “Mulholland,” said I, “what do you think of this
business of living?”
“I'll tell you, Mr. Blacklock,” said he. “I used to fuss and fret a good
deal about it. But I don't any more. I've got a house up in the Bronx,
and a bit of land round it. And there's Mrs. Mulholland and four little
Mulhollands and me--that's my country and my party and my religion. The
rest is off my beat, and I don't give a damn for it. I don't care which
fakir gets to be president, or which swindler gets to be rich. Everything
works out somehow, and the best any man can do is to mind his own
business.”
“Mulholland--Mrs. Mulholland--four little Mulhollands,” said I
reflectively. “That's about as much as one man could attend to properly.
And--you are 'on the level,' aren't you?”
“Some say honesty's the best policy,” replied he. “Some say it isn't. I
don't know, and I don't care, whether it is or it isn't. It's _my_
policy. And we six seem to have got along on it so far.”