Ambition came, with Sterling Silver Breast-Plate and Flaming Sword,
and sat beside a Tad aged 5. The wee Hopeful lived in a Frame House
with Box Pillars in front and Hollyhocks leading down toward the Pike.
"Whither shall I guide you?" asked Ambition. "Are you far enough from
the Shell to have any definite Hankering?"
"I have spent many Hours brooding over the possibilities of the
Future," replied the Larva. "I want to grow up to be a Joey in a
Circus. I fairly ache to sit in a Red Wagon just behind the Band and
drive a Trick Mule with little pieces of Looking Glass in the Harness.
I want to pull Mugs at all the scared Country Girls peeking out of the
Wagon Beds. The Town Boys will leave the Elephant and trail behind my
comical Chariot. In my Hour of Triumph the Air will be impregnated
with Calliope Music and the Smell of Pop-Corn, modified by Wild
Animals."
Ambition went out to make the proper Bookings with Destiny. When he
came back the Boy was ten years old.
"We started wrong," whispered Ambition, curling up in the cool grass
near the Day-Dreamer. "The Trick Mule and the Red Cart are all very
well for little Fraidy-Cats and Softies, but a brave Youth of High
Spirit should tread the Deck of his own Ship with a Cutlass under his
Red Sash. Aye, that is Blood gauming up the Scuppers, but is the
Captain chicken-hearted? Up with the Black Flag! Let it be give and
take, with Pieces of Eight for the Victor!"
So it was settled that the Lad was to hurry through the Graded Schools
and then get at his Buccaneering.
But Ambition came back with a revised Program. "You are now Fifteen
Years of Age," said the Wonderful Guide with the glittering Suit. "It
is High Time that you planned a Noble Career, following a Straight
Course from which there shall be no Deviation. The Pirate is a mere
swaggering Bravo and almost Unscrupulous at times. Why not be a great
Military Commander? The Procedure is Simple. Your Father gives the
Finger to the Congressman and then you step off the Boat at West
Point. Next thing you know, you are wearing a Nobby Uniform right out
on the Parade Ground, while bevies of Débutantes from New York City
and other Points admire you for the stern Profile and Military Set-Up.
After that you will subdue many Savage Tribes, and then you will march
up Pennsylvania Avenue at the head of the whole Regular Army, and the
President of the United States will be waiting on the Front Porch of
the White House to present you with a jewelled Sword on behalf of a
Grateful Nation."
"You are right," said the Stripling. His eyes were like Saucers, and
his Nostrils quivered. "I will be Commander-in-Chief, and after I am
laid away, with the Cannon booming, the Folks in this very Town will
put up a Statue of Me at the corner of Sixth and Main, so the
Street-Cars will have to circle to get around it."
Consequently, when he was in his 21st Year, he was sitting at a high
Desk in an Office watching the Birds on a Telegraph Wire. The
Knowledge he had acquired at the two Prep Schools before being pushed
into the Fresh Air ahead of Time had not made him round-shouldered. He
was a likely Chap, but he wore no Plumes.
He became dimly conscious that Ambition was squatted on the Stool next
to him.
"Up to this time we have been Dead Wrong," said the Periodical
Visitor. "There is only one Prize worth winning and that is the Love
of the Niftiest Nectarine that ever came down a Crystal Stairway from
the Celestial Regions to grace this dreary World with her Holy
Presence. Yes, I mean the One you passed this morning--the One with
her hair in a Net and the Cameo Brooch. Why not annex her by Legal
Routine and settle down in a neat Cottage purchased from the Building
and Loan Association? You could raise your own Vegetables. Go to it."
Four years elapse. Our Hero now has everything. The jerry-built home
of the Early Bungalow Period stands up bravely under the Mortgage.
Little Dorothy is suspended in a Jump Chair on the Veranda facing
Myrtle Avenue, along which the Green Cars run direct to City Hall
Square. The Goddess is in the kitchen trying to make preserves out of
Watermelon Rinds, with the White House Cook Book propped open in front
of her. Friend Husband is weeding the Azaleas and grieving over the
failure of the Egg-Plant.
He finds himself gently prodded, and there is Ambition once more at
his Elbow.
"You are entitled to One Hundred Thousand Dollars," murmurs the
stealthy Promoter. "Why should some other Citizen have his Coal-Bin
right in the House while you carry it from a Shed? Your Wife should
sit at her own Dinner Table and make signs at the Maid. And as you
ride to your Work with the other dead-eyed Cattle and see all those
Strong-Arm Johnnies coming out of their Brick Mansions to hop into
their own Broughams and Coupés, have you not asked yourself why you
are in the Horse-Cars with the Plebes when you might be in a Private
Rig with the Patricians?"
For, wot ye, Gentle Reader, all this unwound from the Reel before the
first Trolley Car climbed a Hill or the first Horseless Carriage came
chugging sternly up the Boulevard.
So Ambition received special Instructions to make Our Hero worth
$100,000.
Those were the days of tall Hustling: If he saw an Opening six inches
wide, he held it with his Foot until he could insert his Elbow, and
then he braced his Shoulder, and the first thing you knew he was on
the Inside demanding a fair cut of the Swag.
The Golden Rule received many a Jolt, but he adhered strictly to the
old and favorite Admonition: If you want Yours, take a short piece of
Lead Pipe and go out and Collect.
On a certain January First he made a careful Invoice. All the
Hard-Earned Kale dropped into the Mining Companies or loaned to
Relatives of Wife he marked off and put under the Head of Gone but not
Forgotten. He was a True Business Guy. Even after subtracting all Cats
and Dogs he could still total the magnificent Sum of One Hundred
Thousand Dollars.
When he looked at this Mound of Currency, he felt like a Vag and a
Pauper. For he had climbed to the table-lands of High Finance and
taken a peek at the Steam-Roller methods of the Real Tabascos.
"Make it a Million," said Ambition, leaning across the Table and
tapping nervously. "Are you going to be satisfied with a Station Wagon
and a Colored Boy when you might have a long-waisted Vehicle with two
pale Simpsons in Livery on the Box? When you go into your Club and see
the Menials kow-towing to a cold-looking Party with rippling Chins who
seems to favor his Feet, you know that he gets the Waving Palms and
the Frankincense because he is a Millionaire. You and the other
financial Gnats are admitted simply to make a Stage Setting for the
Big Squash."
"I always said that when I got a Hundred Thousand I'd take a long
Vacation in Europe and learn how to order a Meal," suggested Our Hero,
holding out weakly.
"When you came back you would find your hated Rival on the Hill with
the Batteries turned against you. Camp on the Job and work straight
toward the High Mark. And remember that anybody with less than a
Million is a Two-Spot in a soiled Deck."
From that day the Piking ceased. No more of the dinky trafficking of
the Retailer. He went out and bought Public Service Utilities on
Nerve, treated them with Aqua Pura by the Hogshead, and created Wealth
by purely lithographic Methods. And, if he wanted to reason out a Deal
with a contrary-minded Gazook, he began the Negotiations by soaking
the Adversary behind the Ear and frisking him before he came to.
A Fairy Wand had been waved above the snide Bungalow, and it was now a
Queen Anne Château dripping with Dew-dads of Scroll Work and congested
with Black Walnut. The Goddess took her Mocha in the Feathers, and a
Music Teacher came twice each week to bridge the awful chasm between
Dorothy and Chopin. Dinner had been moved up to Milking Time.
Sweetbreads and Artichokes came into the Lives of the Trio thus
favored by Fortune.
One day the busy Thimble-Rigger took his Helpmate into the lonesome
Library and broke the glad Tidings to her.
"I have unloaded all of my Cripples," he said. "They have been wished
on to a Group of Philanthropists in New England. Sound the glad
Tocsin. I have a Million in my Kick."
So she began packing the huge Saratogas and reading the Folders on
Egypt and the Riviera. He sat in his Den pulling at a long black
Excepcionale. Through the bluish clouds of Smoke came that old
familiar Voice.
"Let the Missus and the Heiress do the European Thing," said Ambition.
"You stick around. Wait for Black Friday. Then get busy at the Bargain
Counter. By and by the new Crop will begin to move, and Money will
creep out of the Yarn Stockings and a few Wise Gazabes will cop all
the Plush. In every Palm Room there are more Millionaires than Palms.
But the Big Round Table over by the Fountain is always reserved by
Oscar for the Lad who can show Ten Millions."
The Ocean Greyhound moved out past Sandy Hook with the Family and all
the Maids on board, but Papa remained behind to sharpen his Tools and
get ready for another Killing.
Every time he was given a Crimp in the Rue de la Paix he caught even
by leading a new Angora up the Chute and into the Shambles.
When the fully matured Goddess and the radiant Heroine of the latest
International Alliance came home with the French Language and two tons
of Glad Raiment, they found themselves reuning with the Magnate at the
big Table over by the Fountain.
Our Hero was now sleeping in a Bed almost twelve feet wide, with a
silk Tent over it. One Morning he found the Companion of many Years
sitting on the edge of the Mattress.
"Again?" asked the Multi-Millionaire. "What next?"
"The Exercises up to this Time have been Preliminary," said Ambition.
"What is the good of a Bank Roll if you cannot garnish it with the
delectable Parsley of Social Eminence? Get a Wiggle on you. Send for
the Boys with the Frock Coats and the Soft Hats and let them dig in to
their Elbows. Tell the Press Agent to organize a typewriting Phalanx.
Assume a few Mortgages on fluttering Newspapers. Lay a Corner-Stone
ever and anon. Be Interviewed."
"What are you leading up to?" asked the Financial Giant, a sickly Fear
creeping into the Region formerly occupied by his Heart.
"The Logical Finish," replied Ambition, with a reassuring Pat on the
Shoulder. "You must go to the Senate. The White Palace, suitable for
entertaining purposes, now awaits you in Washington. The Bulb Lights
glow dimly above the Porte Cochère. A red Carpet invites you to climb
the Marble Stairway and spread yourself all over the Throne. On a
Receiving Night, when the perfumed Aliens in their Masquerade Suits
rally around the Punch Bowl, your Place will resemble the Last Act of
something by Klaw & Erlanger. You will play Stud with the Makers of
History and be seen leaving the Executive Mansion."
This Line of Talk landed him. He Fell for it. That year the Christmas
Tree drooped with valuable Gifts for the Boys who stood after they
were hitched.
He went up to Washington with an eviscerated Check-Book in his Pocket
and a faint Odor of Scandal in his Wake, but he was a certified
Servant of the People. His Cut Flowers were the Talk in Official
Circles. The most Exclusive consented to flirt with his Wine Cellar.
To a mere Outsider it looked as if Ambition had certainly boosted his
Nobs to the final Himalayan Peak of Human Happiness. He had a House as
big as a Hospital. The Hallways were cluttered with whispering
Servants of the most immaculate and grovelling Description. His Wife
and the Daughter and the Cigarette-Holder she had picked up in Europe
figured in the Gay Life of the Nation's Capital every Night and went
to see a Nerve Specialist every Day. The whole Bunch rode gaily on the
Top Wave of the Social Swim, with a Terrapin as an Escort and a squad
of Canvas-Back Ducks as Body-Guard.
Notwithstanding all which, Father was the sorest Hard-Shell that
motored along Pennsylvania Avenue.
The Dime Denouncers printed his Picture, saying that he was owned by
the Interests and hated the sight of a Poor Working Girl. When the
High Class continuous Show in the Senate Chamber showed signs of
flopping and the Press Gallery became impatient, some Alkali Statesman
of the New School would arise in his Place and give our Hero a
Turning-Over, concluding with a faithful Pen-Picture of the Dishonored
Grave marked by a single Headstone, chiseled as follows: "Here lies a
Burglar."
When he went traveling, he had his Food smuggled into the
Drawing-Room. He knew if he went drilling through the Pullmans, some
of the Passengers who had seen the Cartoons might recognize him as the
notorious Malefactor.
One day, while he was cowering in a dark corner of his Club to get
away from the pesky Reporters, he was joined by the Trouble-Maker.
"I gave you the wrong Steer," said Ambition, now much subdued. "You
are in Dutch. Beat it! All the Rough-Necks down by the Round-House
and the fretful Simps along every R.F.D. Route are getting ready to
interfere in the Affairs of Government. The Storm Clouds of Anarchy
are lowering. In other words, the new Primary Law has begun to do
business. Every downtrodden Mokus owing $800 on a $500 House is honing
for a Chance to Hand it to somebody wearing a Seal-Skin Overcoat. From
now on, seek Contentment, Rural Quietude, and a cinch Rate of 5 Per
Cent. on all your Holdings."
So Ambition, after leading him hither and yon, finally conducted him
to the swell Country House surrounded by Oaks and winding Drives and
Sunken Gardens.
Far from the Hurly-Burly he settled down among his Boston Terriers and
Orchids and Talking-Machines and allowed Old Age to ripen and mellow
him into a Patriarch of the benevolent Pattern.
At the suggestion of an expensive Specialist, he went in for Golf.
After he had learned to Follow Through and keep within 100 yards of
the Fair Green, he happened to get mixed up in a Twosome one day with
a walking Rameses who had graduated from the Stock Exchange soon after
the Crime of '73. This doddering Shell of Humanity looked as if a High
Wind would blow him into the Crick. When he swung at the Pill, you
expected to hear something Snap.
Our Hero had about 10 Years on the Ancient, and it looked like a
Compote. But the Antique managed to totter around the Course, playing
short but safe, always getting Direction and keeping away from the
Profanity Pits.
He never caught up with Colonel Bogey, but he had enough Class to trim
our Hero and collect 6 Balls.
Ambition rode home with the unhappy Loser in the $12,000 Limousine.
"Buck up, Old Top," said the faithful Prompter. "Fasten your Eye on
the Ball and don't try to Force. He is sure to blow up sooner or
later. Take another Lesson to-morrow morning and then publish your
Defi in the afternoon."
He never had been strong enough to stand off Ambition. So next Day he
took on Old Sure-Thing again and got it in the same Place.
No wonder. The Octogenarian was of Scotch Descent. He was the Color of
an Army Saddle. He never smiled except when the Kilties came on tour.
His Nippie consisted of a tall Glass about half full and then a little
Well Water.
A plain American Business Man with a York State Ancestry had a fat
Chance against this Caledonian frame-up.
But that same persistent Ambition kept sending him back to the Ring to
take another Trouncing.
One day he failed to show up at the Club House. The Trained Nurse, who
fanned him during the final Hours, never suspected. But the
Caddy-Master knew that he had died of a Broken Heart.
MORAL: Those who travel the hardest are not always the first to
arrive.