It may seem strange that a man of my character should keep books of
account. But the habit of keeping a financial memoranda had been formed
when I was very young; in my first pocket-money days, in fact. Father
gave me money at irregular intervals, and allowed me to earn small
sums, but he never made me a regular allowance of pocket-money at any
time. When I asked him for money, he always asked me what had become of
the last money I had owned, and failure to give a satisfactory account
would cut off supply for a few days. Then again, even as a small boy,
I had always spent several weeks of my summer holidays in father’s
office, where I passed my time with the head book-keeper, who, when not
too busy, was a kindly man, willing to satisfy my curiosity about the
huge books he kept; so that before I went to college, I had a working
idea of the art of keeping accounts. After Mason left the mill, the
simple book-keeping devolved on me, and I kept separate books for my
little general store. In this way, I formed a habit of keeping track of
where money went.
Leaving Sir John’s house I went home and prepared a simple and
straightforward statement of my affairs. It was not much of a task,
for I had systematically kept a record of everything, including house
expenses and all transactions in detail. My accounts could have stood
an audit. By them I knew how very unpromising was the outlook. The
statement was not much to my credit. It wrote me down a fool in
capital letters, but I could not afford to humbug myself, and much less
could I dare keep back any facts from Sir John.
After the work on my statement of affairs was done, I passed a most
miserable and anxious afternoon and evening. I could not talk to
Muriel, for I knew I could only speak of one subject, which I could
not hope to make her understand. She had been very much of a help
and comfort to me in a hundred ways, in fact in every way except on
the financial side of our common affairs. She was not born with a
mathematical mind. Figures only annoyed her and were never understood.
She was one of those women who count their change from a purchase
by the crude assistance of ten fingers. I had made one or two very
expensive experiments in attempts to make her a business woman, by
giving her a limited credit with a dry goods store. Nothing can be
done in this direction with a woman who believes that the difference
between one hundred dollars and two hundred dollars is a small affair.
In this she was Mrs. Joseph’s counterpart. Mrs. Joseph put disagreeable
financial facts away from her, with a wave of her well-shaped hand,
saying, “Don’t bother me about them; what do I know about such things?”
Muriel, consequently, was of little or no help to me in my financial
crisis. Some men habitually tell their money matters to their wives,
and get sound advice and much comfort. I never did. Muriel knew, of
course, that I was in difficulties, but she was not much disturbed. She
believed in luck and felt that everything would come out all right in
the end. She was a fatalist where money was concerned, and had implicit
faith in my destiny.
Sir John’s office was like himself—cold, cheerless, austere and
old-fashioned. It was in a very old building which had once been
a private house in St. James Street, now given up entirely to
business. The street was narrow, dirty, ill-paved and noisy. A narrow
door opening upon a narrow, steep, and dark staircase led to the
offices which were above a tobacconist’s shop. On a little skylight
over the door were two words in plain black letters, JOHN DUFF,
without explanation or embellishment; no word to say that he was a
manufacturer, or what he manufactured. How such a man as John Duff ever
came to accept the decoration of “Sir” is one of the mysteries of human
nature.
At the top of the stairway you found yourself in what had once been
a highly respectable house. The rooms were low, the windows small,
and the floors well worn. Evidently no attempt had been made to make
the place attractive or to disguise its bareness. Everything said as
plainly as could be that the man who spent days in such a place had
never dreamed that every-day things could or should be made beautiful.
Walking up the stairs, I found myself in the front room, where a
long gaunt spectre stood at an old-fashioned desk, looking as if he
had stood there for at least one hundred years. The spectre was the
guardian of Sir John’s privacy. He is now dead and is no doubt a ghost,
which can make but little difference to him. He spoke in a low voice,
as if in fear of waking a very sick woman. He glided towards me as I
stood at the rail between him and me, and whispered, “Good-morning, Mr.
Wesblock. You have an engagement with Sir John.”
I bade the spectre “Good-morning,” and said that I was expected by Sir
John.
Thereupon, with a murmured acquiescence, he disappeared into an
adjoining room. Presently he returned as he had gone, walking as if he
had tender feet; and I was shown into Sir John’s presence.
Sir John sat like a graven image at his pre-Victorian desk.
“Good-morning, Sir John,” I said, making a failure of an attempt to be
cheerful and hopeful in my tone.
“John,” he said, without returning my greeting, “I have decided to help
you.”
“Thank you, Sir John,” I said, and would have said more, but he
interrupted me.
“You have your books with you. Allow me to see them.”
I put my books, two in number, before him, brought my statement to his
notice and sat down without being asked. Sir John perused my documents
for a long time; it seemed about ten minutes. While he studied he
tapped the desk with his fingers and emitted from his inwardness
several short grunts, full of meaning.
“I cannot make an empty sack stand up,” he said at last.
“No, Sir John, you cannot,” I replied, “but you can fill an empty sack,
and allow it to stand up itself.”
“Umph,” said Sir John, rising; “you will excuse me, John, for a few
minutes,” and he left the room closing the door behind him.
I sat alone in patience for the best part of fifteen minutes, at the
end of which period the old gentleman returned with some money in his
hand. He sat down at his desk and counted it, then pushing the bundle
towards me, said: “There is the amount you require. Try and be more
wise hereafter. I bid you good-morning.” I took the money, which was
the exact amount showing on the wrong side of my statement, and rose
to go.
“Thank you, Sir John,” I said, “to-day you have saved a man,” and I
offered him my hand. He took it and held it while he spoke, and I was
surprised to feel a kindly pressure. “Don’t thank me,” he said, “thank
Parson Edmund. I do not know that we are wise in helping you. It were
perhaps better to have let you save yourself, as every man must who
will be saved. We shall see. Good-bye.” And he sat down at his desk and
prepared to write. I stammered something and stumbled awkwardly out of
his office, after having had the longest interview I ever had with my
millionaire godfather.
I am convinced that the Sir John I saw with what appeared to me cold,
hard and precise ways, was not the real Sir John. The real one had a
soft heart and emotions easily moved, and had merely adopted the air
of coldness to protect himself. He had done it for so long that it
had become at last a part of him. But he must be sorry at times for
himself and for others, when he pauses to look round. He has lived the
typical life of an old bachelor of large means, bullied and protected
by his housekeeper, who has been with him for many years. Possibly
he is in the main contented with what he has done with his life. The
point of view makes all the difference; yet, considering our two human
predicaments, I, John H. Wesblock, would not be Sir John Duff if I
could. This brings me to say that Sir John would not have assisted me,
I feel certain, had not Daddy Edmund intervened. The world points to
people with money as successful men, and money becomes boastful, and
arrogates to itself powers of judgment it does not possess. I have
known several millionaires and many wealthy men who were not quite
millionaires, and with few exceptions, they were crudities. Not one
of them had one attribute I would have been glad to possess, except
perhaps perseverance and acquisitiveness. Their outlook was narrow,
their mental powers were quite ordinary, and they were without charm
of personality. Sir John was a common type; he lived a cold, cheerless
life without the warmth of friendship or love. Hundreds of people
have kind thoughts of Daddy Edmund, and when his name comes up in
conversation he is mentioned with affection. I have often heard people
say, “Dear old Daddy!” but I never heard a dead millionaire thus spoken
of. I would rather have ten people remember me as “dear old Wesblock”
than have a million remember me by the amount of money I left behind me.
I paid all my creditors, even those who would have been willing to
wait; for Sir John had to scrutinise my vouchers. In consequence I was
left high and dry without a cent with which to bless myself after my
affairs were settled, and I was on what Sir John termed “an even keel!”
A living had to be made, and as my father was no longer in a position
to make situations to order for me, I was forced to do all sorts of
things as they came to my hand. I became a kind of broker or financial
guttersnipe, selling anything that would pay a commission, assisting
in audits and filling temporary positions in various capacities. It
was a hard and very precarious life, but I was free, and called no man
“master.” This I considered as no small advantage, for as yet I was
only partly broken and had not learned to serve. As to life insurance,
I would not touch it. Even when successful, I had always disliked it.
I found, of course, that my gambling exploits did not help me in
securing a permanent position. I was not considered a safe man.
People whom the good world considers disreputable have a wonderfully
human way of hanging together and helping each other. I noticed this
phenomenon more and more in following the wrong road; and it is to be
met with further down, right into the under-world. Even those who are
not frankly disreputable, but wear a mask of respectability, behind
which they enjoy some loved vice, like gambling, consider themselves
under obligations to the hapless fraternity, and are ready with a
helping hand. I had a large acquaintance among this class. Lawyers,
bankers, merchants, railroad men and politicians were among them, and
they were very useful to me.
There are many kinds of poverty, and several roads lead to its
diminishing degrees. Some roads are short: a quick, sharp slide on
a slippery surface and there you are, suddenly destitute, without
means or friends. There is no fight; you simply take the toboggan
slide, and are almost instantly at the bottom among the unlucky, the
shiftless and the degenerate. On other roads the grade is so gentle
you hardly recognise your downward progress. The road I took was one
of the slow ones, where you fight every inch of the way, the struggle
being so strenuous sometimes that you believe you are making progress
forward, while you are in effect slipping gradually backward, down,
down, into the bog, which clogs your every energy, until you don’t
care, and the final collapse is welcome. One day you awaken to some
painful little fact, which enlightens you as to the direction you have
been travelling. The weather may be cold and wet, there are several
inches of slush on the sidewalks, and damp snow is falling. You find
you have only one pair of boots fit to wear, and they are very thin
in the sole, and you have no rubbers. You have much walking to do to
secure some paltry sum to satisfy urgent necessities. It seems to you
that only a little while ago you had several pairs of boots. Now you
have but one pair. There is food in the pantry and coal in the cellar.
Things are not exactly desperate; but you have only one pair of boots,
no rubbers, and no money to buy them. That sets you thinking over
your whole predicament, and you discover that you have gone to seed
and are shabby. Your wardrobe is but the shadow of its former self;
those things which are still good in it are too good, and would look
ridiculous if you wore them.
Perhaps on the very day following the one on which you have had these
thoughts, some well-meaning relative, who is better off than you are,
sends your wife a kind note and a bundle of cast-off clothes for the
children. Your patient and long-suffering wife is glad, and reads you
the note, and says, “Oh, John, is that not kind of Aunt Mary?” This
makes you jump; something seems to have given way inside; you feel a
falling sensation in your bowels; you are touched on the raw, and as
you look at your wife your eyebrows go up in the centre and your jaw
falls like that of a dead man. Look out for the man who goes on the
war-path after having suffered these things. He is dangerous.