SOME INSIDE FACTS
As Stuart dressed for Nan's party he brooded over his new relation to
his old sweetheart with increasing pleasure. She had begun to tease him
with gentle raillery about his tragic exaggeration of the treachery of
her betrayal, and laughingly promised to make it all up by introducing
him to a group of the richest and most beautiful girls in New York. He
could take his choice under her wise guidance. She promised to begin
his course of instruction to-night.
Never had Bivens's offer seemed more generous and wonderful. His pulse
beat with quickened stroke as he felt the new sense of power with which
he would look out on the world as a possible millionaire.
He gazed over the old Square with a feeling of regret at the thought of
leaving it. He had grown to love the place in the past years of
loneliness. He had become personally acquainted with every tree and
shrub and every limb of the nearby trees. He had watched them grow from
his window, seen them sway in the storm, bow beneath the ice, and grow
into new beauty and life each spring. He was deciding too soon,
perhaps. There were some features of Bivens's business he must
understand more clearly before he could give up his freedom and devote
himself body and soul to the task of money-making as his associate.
He resolved to make his decision with deliberation. But if he should go
in for money, he wouldn't forget his old friends, nor would he leave
Washington Square. He would buy that corner plot on Fifth Avenue across
the way for his house. There should be two beautiful suites in it for
the doctor and Harriet, and from their windows they could always see
the old home on the other side. He would buy the two adjoining houses,
turn them into a sanitarium, endow it and place the doctor in charge.
And he would give him a fund of ten thousand a year for his outside
work among the poor.
He woke from his reverie with a start and looked at his watch to find
he had been standing there dreaming for half an hour. He hurried across
the Square to take a cab at the Brevoort.
His mood was buoyant. He was looking out on life once more through
rose-tinted glasses. At Eighth Street he met at right angles the
swarming thousands hurrying across town from their work--heavy looking
men who tramped with tired step, striking the pavements dully with
their nailed shoes, tired anxious women, frouzle-headed little girls,
sad-eyed boys half-awake--all hurrying, the fear of want and the horror
of charity in their silent faces. And yet the sight touched no
responsive chord of sympathy in Stuart's heart as it often had.
To-night he saw only the thing that is and felt that it was good.
He pushed his way through the shabby throng, found a cab, sprang in and
gave his order to the driver. A row of taxicabs stood by the curb. He
took an old-fashioned hansom from choice. It seemed to link the present
moment of his life to the memory of some wonderful hours he had spent,
with Nan by his side, years ago.
As the cab whirled up Fifth Avenue he leaned back in his seat with a
feeling of glowing satisfaction with himself and the world. The shadows
of a beautiful spring night slowly deepened as the city drew her
shining mantle of light about her proud form. The Avenue flashed with
swift silent automobiles and blooded horses. These uptown crowds
through whose rushing streams he passed were all well dressed and
carried bundles of candy, flowers and toys. The newsboys were already
crying extras with glowing advance accounts of the banquet and ball.
Stuart felt the contagious enthusiasm of thousands of prosperous men
and women whose lives at the moment flowed about and enveloped his own.
This was a pretty fine old world after all, and New York the only town
worth living in.
And what was it that made the difference between the squalid atmosphere
below Fourth Street and the glowing, flashing, radiant, jewelled world
up-town? Money! It meant purple and fine linen, delicacies of food and
drink, pulsing machines that could make a mile a minute, high-stepping
horses and high-bred dogs, music and dancing, joy and laughter, sport
and adventure, the mountain and the sea, freedom from care, fear,
drudgery and slavery!
After all in this modern passion for money might there not be something
deeper than mere greed; perhaps the regenerating power of the spirit
pressing man upward? Certainly he could only see the bright side of it
to-night and the wonder grew on him that he had lived for twenty-five
years in a fog of sentiment and ignored deliberately the biggest fact
of the century, while the simpler mind of the poor white boy in Bivens
had grasped the truth at once and built his life squarely on it from
the beginning. Well, he had set his mind to it at last in time to reach
the highest goal of success, if he so willed. For that he was thankful.
As his cab swung into Riverside Drive from Seventy-second Street the
sight which greeted him was one of startling splendour.
Bivens's yacht lay at anchor in the river just in front of his house.
She was festooned with electric lights from the water line to the top
of her towering steel masts. From every shroud and halyard hung
garlands of light, and the flags which flew from her peaks were
illumined with waving red, white and blue colours. From the water's
edge floated the songs of Venetian gondoliers imported from Italy for
the night's festival, moving back and forth from the yacht.
The illumination of the exterior of the Bivens house was remarkable.
The stone and iron fence surrounding the block, which had been built at
a cost of a hundred thousand dollars, was literally ablaze with lights.
Garlands of tiny electric bulbs had been fastened on every iron picket,
post and cross bar, and the most wonderful effect of all had been
achieved by leading these garlands of light along the lines of cement
in the massive granite walls on which the iron stanchions rested. The
effect was a triumph of artistic skill, a flashing electric fence built
on huge boulders of light.
The house was illumined from its foundations to the top of each
towering minaret with ruby-coloured lights. Each window, door, cornice,
column and line of wall glowed in soft red. The palace gleamed in the
darkness like a huge oriental ruby set in diamonds.
Stuart passed up the grand stairs through a row of gorgeous flunkies
and greeted his hostess.
Nan grasped his hand with a smile of joy.
"You are to lead me in to dinner, Jim, at the stroke of eight."
"I'll not forget," Stuart answered, his face flushing with surprise at
the unexpected honour.
"Cal wishes to see you at once. You will find him in the library."
Bivens met him at the door.
"Ah, there you are!" he cried cordially, "Come back down stairs with
me. I want you to see some people as they come in to-night. I've a lot
of funny things to tell you about them."
The house was crowded with an army of servants, attendants, musicians,
singers, entertainers and reporters.
The doctor had been recognized by one of the butlers whom he had
befriended on his arrival from the Old World. The grateful fellow had
gone out of the way to make him at home, and in his enthusiasm had put
an alcove which opened off the ball room at his and Harriet's disposal.
The doctor was elated at this evidence of Bivens's good feeling and
again congratulated himself on his common sense in coming.
Bivens led Stuart to a position near the grand stairway, from which he
could greet his guests as they returned from their formal presentation
to the hostess.
He kept up a running fire of biographical comment which amused Stuart
beyond measure.
"That fellow, Jim," he whispered, as a tall finely groomed man passed
and touched his hand, "that fellow is as slick a political grafter as
ever stole the ear-rings from the sleeping form of a fallen angel. He
levies blackmail on almost every crime named in the code. But you can't
prove it in court and he's worth millions. His influence on legislation
is enormous and he can't be ignored. He's one of the kind who like this
sort of thing, and he goes everywhere. Money is power. No matter how
you get it. Once gotten, it's divine. Call the man a thief and grafter
if you will, but the laws of centuries protect him. There are no rights
now except property rights. I'd like to kick him out of the house. I'd
as lief a toad or a lizard touched my wife's hand, but he's here
to-night, well, because I'm afraid of him."
Stuart nodded.
"Yes. I tried to send the gentleman to the penitentiary last year."
"But you didn't even get in speaking distance of him, did you?"
"No, and----"
"You bet you didn't; he's a lawyer himself."
"I thought he smiled when he shook hands."
"You remember that old Latin proverb we used to get off at college? I
was punk in Latin, but I never forgot that--'_Harus pex ad harus
picem_' when one priest meets another it's to smile! The lawyers are
the high priests of the modern world. Only the women support the
church."
"At least we can thank God there are only a few such men who force
their way into decent society."
"I guess you are right," Bivens answered, "and he couldn't do it by the
brute power of his money only. He has brains and culture combined with
the daring of the devil. Still, Jim, most of the big bugs who come here
to-night live in glass houses and have long ago learned that it don't
pay to throw stones."
A titled nobleman passed, and Bivens winked.
"The poor we have with us always!"
Stuart smiled and returned at once to the point.
"Just what did you mean by that last remark about glass houses?"
"Simply this, old man, that all these high-browed society people who
turn up their noses behind my back and marvel at my low origin and
speak in bated whispers about my questionable financial strokes--all
have their little secrets. For my own comfort I've made a special study
of great fortunes in America. The funny thing is that apparently every
one of them was founded on some questionable trick of trade."
"Not every one, surely."
"In my study of the subject I ran across a brilliant young Socialist by
the name of Gustavus who has devoted his life to the study of the
origin of these fortunes. He has written a book about them. I have read
it in manuscript. It will fill four volumes when completed. Honestly
I've laughed over it until I cried. For instance, speaking of the
devil, here comes Major Viking. His people are no longer in trade. Such
vulgarity is beneath them. He comes here because I'm supposed to be
worth a hundred million and belong to the inner circle of the elect.
There are less than two dozen of us, you know."
"Delighted to greet you, Major. My old friend and college mate, James
Stuart."
The proud head of the house of Viking grasped Stuart's hand and gave it
a friendly shake. His manner was simple, unaffected, manly and the
bronzed look of his face told its story of life in the open.
"Not our distinguished young district attorney whom the politicians had
to get rid of?" he asked in tones of surprise and pleasure.
"The very same," Bivens answered gravely.
The Major gripped Stuart's hand a second time.
"Then I want to shake again and offer you my congratulations on the
service you have rendered the Nation. It's an honour to know you, sir."
Stuart was too much amazed at such a speech to reply before the tall
figure had disappeared.
Bivens pressed his arm.
"That's why I could afford to pay you a million a year."
"You don't mean to say that _his_ fortune is streaked with the stain of
fraud?" Stuart asked, in low tones.
"Certainly. Personally, he's a fine fellow. He's a big man and lives in
a big world. His fortune is not less than two hundred million, securely
salted down in gilt-edged real estate, most of it. But the original
fortune was made by fraud and violence in the old days of colonial
history. The elder Viking was a furrier. The fur trade was enormously
profitable. Why? Because the whole scheme was built on the simple
process by which an Indian was made drunk and in one brief hour cheated
out of the results of a year's work. His agents never paid money for
skins. They first used whiskey to blind their victims and then traded
worthless beads and trinkets for priceless treasures of fur. And on
such a foundation was the great house founded."
"It's incredible."
"The facts have been published. If they were not true the publisher
could be driven out of business. The Vikings maintain a dignified
silence. They have to do it, but softly, here is the head of the house
of Black Friday. Everybody knows about his father's sins. Yet he was
the friend and comrade of the great who were canonized while he was
cannonaded. Good fellow, too, all the same breed when you come right
down to it, only some of them have the genius for getting away with the
goods and saving their reputations at the same time."
"For instance?" Stuart asked.
Bivens craned his neck toward the stairs.
"There's one of them, now, one of the great railroad kings, not one of
your Western bounders, but the real Eastern, New York patriotic brand,
one of the brave, daring pioneers who risked all to push great
transcontinental railroads through the trackless deserts of the
West--with millions furnished by the government--which they dumped into
their own pockets while the world was shouting their praises for
developing the Nation's resources."
"My friend, Mr. James Stuart, Mr. Van Dam."
It was with difficulty that the young lawyer kept his face straight
during those introductions.
Van Dam bowed with grave courtesy, and when he was beyond the reach of
Bivens's voice the little dark biographer went on:
"Old Van Dam, the founder of the house, whose palaces now crowd Fifth
Avenue, was a plain-spoken, hard-swearing, God-fearing, man-hating old
scoundrel who put on no airs, but simply went for what he wanted and
got it. He was the first big transportation king we developed. His
fortune was founded on the twin arts of bribery and blackmail. The
lobby he maintained in secret collusion with his alleged rivals in
Washington while he was working his subsidy bills through Congress was
a wonder, even in its day. He and his rival with two gangs of thieves
publicly lobbying against each other met in secret and divided the
spoils when the campaign was over. If a real rival succeeded in getting
a Government subsidy for a transportation line in which he had no
share, his procedure was always the same; he began the construction or
equipment of a rival line until they bought him off by a big payment of
monthly blackmail. His income from blackmail alone was frequently more
than a million a year. His sons are fine fellows and doubled the old
man's millions in bigger, cleaner ways, as I've doubled mine. But it
gives me a pain when these men begin to nose around; inquiring about my
early history."
"Well, Cal," Stuart broke in with a laugh, "the one thing I like about
you is that you have never been ashamed of your humble origin."
"Still I'm not without my weak spot, even there, Jim," the little man
said, with an accent of pain that startled Stuart.
"What do you mean?"
"You see that bunch of newspaper reporters over there? They are the
ghosts that haunt my dreams. Oh, not what they'll say in their dirty
papers. We can control that, we own them. But there's a magazine
muckraker among them. He has nosed his way in here to-night as a
reporter, for some devilish purpose. He has been down in North
Carolina, moving heaven and earth to find my poor old father and mother
and get under my hide with a biographical sketch. He has written a
volume of lies about them already--but list, here's another one of the
great ones you must know, old Grantly, the proud possessor of a fortune
made in the services of the Nation for the nominal consideration of
fifty per cent. profit, a typical Civil War nabob."
Bivens bowed with exaggerated courtesy to the great man, introduced him
and said with a quiet sneer:
"The kind that makes me really sick is the patriotic poser. I suppose
it was because my dad wasn't a very brave soldier." He laughed quietly.
"Remember the day you knocked those brutes down at college for forcing
me to make a speech in praise of my father's heroism? I could have died
for you that day, Jim."
"Oh, that was nothing," Stuart protested lightly.
"To you, maybe, but to me--well, as I was saying, the great man who
just passed is very proud, not only because he is a multi-millionaire
but because his house is supposed to be one of the pillars of the
Nation. The truth is that during the Civil War he formed a 'Union
Defense Committee' and raised funds to carry on the war.
Incidentally--quite incidentally, of course--he got contracts for
supplies from the Government and made millions by the frauds he
practised. One of his tricks was the importation of worthless arms from
Europe which he sold the Government at enormous profits. He made more
than a half-million selling these worthless guns to the State
authorities of the North. The Hall Carbine was his favourite weapon, a
gun that would blow the fingers off the soldier who tried to shoot it,
but was never known to do any harm to the man who stood in front of it.
I never knew what the fellow meant when he said 'Patriotism is the last
refuge of a scoundrel,' until I became personally acquainted with that
gentleman."
Bivens bent low and whispered:
"The sweetest memory of my life is that I pulled a couple of millions
of wool out of his hide in the recent panic. Jim, you love to hunt. You
don't know what real sport is until you jump a skunk like that in a
panic. You go all the way to Virginia to shoot ducks. When you get to
my office in Wall Street I'll take you on a hunt you'll not forget.
What's the use to waste your time for a whole day trying to kill a poor
little duck when there are hundreds of big, fat, juicy animals like
that roaming around loose in New York!"
"I see," Stuart laughed, "that's what you mean by the game."
"Surely, my boy,--it's the only game worth playing, this big red game
of life and death with a two-footed human beast the quarry."
Bivens's little swarthy figure suddenly stiffened and his black eyes
flashed. He looked up the stairs and a smile lighted his face.
"Now, Jim, here comes one into whose hide I know you'd enjoy putting a
harpoon--a pillar of the church. Look at the cut of those solemn
Presbyterian whiskers. It makes me faint to remember how many times
I've tried and failed to get my hooks into him. I know you could land
the deacon. I'd joyfully give you a million just to see him wriggle in
my hands."
Bivens grasped his hand with pious unction.
"A glorious night, deacon. I know you won't stay for the ball, but if
you'll do justice to the dinner I'll forgive you."
The deacon murmured his thanks and hurried on.
"It's evident that however much he loves the Lord he don't love you,
Cal."
"No, he's just afraid of me. That's why he came to-night. Jim, if you
can get even with him for me, I'd give you the half of my kingdom."
"Why don't you like him?"
"Because he has slipped through my hands like an eel every time I
thought I had him. His specialty is piety. That makes me tired. I'm a
church member myself, but I don't trade on my piety."
"Well, there couldn't have been anything crooked about his fortune?"
Bivens chuckled softly.
"No. It was a masterpiece of fine art! His father was the original
founder of the importing trade graft. He was the first man to discover
that a colossal fortune could be made over night by swindling the
United States Government at the port of New York. His people have been
noted for their solid and substantial standing in the business world.
The head of the house was known as the premier among the high-toned
business men of the old school. His family set up his statue in a
public square in New York. I suppose they bribed the city fathers to
get a permit. Well, one day before this statue was unveiled a plain
little honest fool of a U.S. Treasury agent got onto the old man's
curves and the Government brought suit for a part of what he had
stolen. Old William Crookes paid into the Treasury the neat sum of one
million and compromised the case. Some of his modern imitators with
their false weights and scales haven't been so wise."
"The world has never heard of this--that's funny!" Stuart exclaimed.
"Not so funny, Jim, when you think of the power of money to make the
world forget. God only knows how many fortunes in America had their
origin in thefts from the Nation during the Civil War, and the
systematic frauds that have been practised on our Government since.
I've turned some pretty sharp tricks, Jim, in stalking my game in this
big man-hunt of Wall Street, but at least I've never robbed the wounded
or the dead on a battlefield and I've never used a dark lantern to get
into the Government vaults at Washington. I'm not asking you to stand
for that."
"If you did----"
"Yes, I know the answer, but speak softly, his majesty the king
approaches--long live the king!"
Bivens spoke in low, half-joking tones, but the excitement of his voice
told Stuart only too plainly that he fully appreciated the royal honour
his majesty was paying in this the first social visit he had ever made
to his home.
The little financier's eyes danced with pleasure and his delicate hand
trembled as he extended it to the great one.
The king gave him a pleasant nod and grasped Stuart's hand with a
hearty cordial grip. He was a man of few words, but he always said
exactly what he thought.
"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Stuart. You've done us a good turn in
sending some of our crooks to the penitentiary. You've cleared the air
and made it possible for an old-fashioned banker to breathe in New
York. It's a pleasure to shake hands with you."
The king passed on into the crowd, the focus of a hundred admiring
eyes. Bivens could scarcely believe his ears when he listened with open
mouth while his majesty spoke to Stuart.
"Great Scott, Jim!" he gasped at last. "That's the longest speech I
ever heard him make. I knew you had scored the biggest hit any lawyer
has made in this town in a generation, but I never dreamed you'd
capture the king's imagination. I'm beginning to think my offer wasn't
so generous after all. Look here, you've got to promise me one thing
right now. When you do go in to make your pile it shall be with me and
no other man."
Nan passed and threw him a gracious smile.
"It will be with you, if I go, Cal, I promise."
"Well, it's settled, then. Your word's as good as a Government bond.
His majesty is in a gracious mood to-night. Watch him unbend and chat
with the boys."
"At least, Cal," Stuart broke in, jokingly, "there's one exception to
your indictment of all great fortunes."
"That's the funniest thing of all," Bivens whispered. "He's not an
exception. Understand, I'm loyal to the king. He's a wonder. I like
him, I like his big head, his big shaggy eyebrows, his big hands and
big feet. I like to hear him growl and snap his answer--'Yes',
'No'--that means life or death to men who kneel at his feet. He's a
dead game sport. But he, too, has his little blots in his early
copy-books at school if you care to turn the pages."
"No!" Stuart interrupted, incredulously.
Bivens glanced about to make sure he could not be overheard and
continued in low tones.
"Yes, sir, he turned the slickest trick on Uncle Sam of all the bunch.
He was a youngster and it was his first deal. When the Civil War broke
out the Government had no guns for the volunteers. He learned that
there were 5,000 old Hall carbines stored away among the junk in one of
the national arsenals in New York. He bought these guns (on a credit)
for a song--about $3 apiece--and shipped them to General Fremont, who
was in St. Louis howling for arms. Fremont agreed to pay $22.50 each
for the new rifles and closed the deal at once by drawing on the
Government for enough to enable the young buccaneer to pay his
$3-contract price to Uncle Sam in New York and lay aside a snug sum for
a rainy day besides.
"When Fremont found that the guns were worthless, he advised the
Government to stop payment on the balance. It was stopped on the ground
of fraud. And then the youngster showed the stuff he was made of. Did
he crawl and apologize? Not much. He sued the United States Government
for the full amount and pushed that suit to the Supreme Court. In the
face of the sneers of his enemies he won, and took the full amount with
interest. He's the king to-day because he was born a king. His father
was a millionaire before him. He's the greatest financial genius of the
century."
Bivens paused and a dreamy look came into the black eyes.
"Jim," he continued with slow emphasis, "I'd rather get my fingers on
his throat in a death-struggle than lead the combined armies of the
world to victory."
Stuart was silent.
The financier moved uneasily and asked:
"What are you brooding over now?"
"I was just wondering why the devil you've taken the pains to tell me
all these incredible stories about the great ones here to-night?"
"And I answer with perfect frankness. When you come in with me it must
be with your whole soul, without a single reservation. When it comes to
the critical moment of your decision it may turn on a sentimental
whim--a question of high-browed honour. I want you to come with your
eyes wide open. I want you to know that I'm no better, no worse, than
the best of the big ones whose names fill the world with awe. Every
word I've told you about them is true and a great deal more that will
never be told; and mind you there's not a Jew among the fellows I've
sketched. There are two men in New York of old Scotch ancestry who have
more money than the whole Hebrew race in America."
"The stuff you've told me seems beyond belief."
"Exactly. That's why I wanted you to know. The truth is, Jim, you'd
just as well face it at once. I am asking you to resign your place in
the old academic world to enter commerce, the real modern world.
Commerce is built on the power to over-reach. Isn't deceit the
foundation of all successful trade? The butcher, the baker, the
candle-stick maker, the banker, the broker--their business is all
alike. A trader is a trader, one who clutches and fights his competitor
and lays traps for his customers, in short, his victims. A trader is
one who by hook or crook beats down the price at which he will buy
below its market value and marks it up to the limit of his victim's
credulity when he sells. That's the grain of truth beneath the mountain
of chaff in the old aristocratic hatred of people who are in trade. The
world has outgrown this hatred. The age of the aristocrat is past."
"I'm not so sure of that," Stuart answered, thoughtfully. "The old
aristocracy had their weaknesses. They were always gamblers and the
devotees of licentiousness. But they despised lying and stealing. And
the feudal code of the old patrician bred a high type of man. The new
code of the liar has not yet made this demonstration. The grace,
elegance, breeding and culture of the past are no longer binding laws
on the new masters of the world. I think you may get on a while without
the patrician, but the question is how long can you live without his
virtues?"
An answer was on Bivens's lips when the soft tones of hidden oriental
gongs began to chime the call for dinner. The chimes melted into a
beautiful piece of orchestral music which seemed to steal from the sky,
so skilfully had the musicians been concealed.
Nan suddenly appeared by Stuart's side, and he was given the honour of
leading his hostess into the banquet hall, before even the king, while
the great ones of earth slowly followed.