I
John T. Unger came from a family that had been well known in Hades--a
small town on the Mississippi River--for several generations. John’s
father had held the amateur golf championship through many a heated
contest; Mrs. Unger was known “from hot-box to hot-bed,” as the local
phrase went, for her political addresses; and young John T. Unger, who
had just turned sixteen, had danced all the latest dances from New
York before he put on long trousers. And now, for a certain time, he
was to be away from home. That respect for a New England education
which is the bane of all provincial places, which drains them yearly
of their most promising young men, had seized upon his parents.
Nothing would suit them but that he should go to St. Midas’s School
near Boston--Hades was too small to hold their darling and gifted son.
Now in Hades--as you know if you ever have been there--the names of
the more fashionable preparatory schools and colleges mean very
little. The inhabitants have been so long out of the world that,
though they make a show of keeping up-to-date in dress and manners and
literature, they depend to a great extent on hearsay, and a function
that in Hades would be considered elaborate would doubtless be hailed
by a Chicago beef-princess as “perhaps a little tacky.”
John T. Unger was on the eve of departure. Mrs. Unger, with maternal
fatuity, packed his trunks full of linen suits and electric fans, and
Mr. Unger presented his son with an asbestos pocket-book stuffed with
money.
“Remember, you are always welcome here,” he said. “You can be sure,
boy, that we’ll keep the home fires burning.”
“I know,” answered John huskily.
“Don’t forget who you are and where you come from,” continued his
father proudly, “and you can do nothing to harm you. You are an
Unger--from Hades.”
So the old man and the young shook hands, and John walked away with
tears streaming from his eyes. Ten minutes later he had passed outside
the city limits and he stopped to glance back for the last time. Over
the gates the old-fashioned Victorian motto seemed strangely
attractive to him. His father had tried time and time again to have it
changed to something with a little more push and verve about it, such
as “Hades--Your Opportunity,” or else a plain “Welcome” sign set over
a hearty handshake pricked out in electric lights. The old motto was a
little depressing, Mr. Unger had thought--but now ....
So John took his look and then set his face resolutely toward his
destination. And, as he turned away, the lights of Hades against the
sky seemed full of a warm and passionate beauty.
* * * * *
St. Midas’s School is half an hour from Boston in a Rolls-Pierce
motor-car. The actual distance will never be known, for no one, except
John T. Unger, had ever arrived there save in a Rolls-Pierce and
probably no one ever will again. St. Midas’s is the most expensive and
the most exclusive boys’ preparatory school in the world.
John’s first two years there passed pleasantly. The fathers of all the
boys were money-kings, and John spent his summer visiting at
fashionable resorts. While he was very fond of all the boys he
visited, their fathers struck him as being much of a piece, and in his
boyish way he often wondered at their exceeding sameness. When he told
them where his home was they would ask jovially, “Pretty hot down
there?” and John would muster a faint smile and answer, “It certainly
is.” His response would have been heartier had they not all made this
joke--at best varying it with, “Is it hot enough for you down there?”
which he hated just as much.
In the middle of his second year at school, a quiet, handsome boy
named Percy Washington had been put in John’s form. The new-comer was
pleasant in his manner and exceedingly well dressed even for St.
Midas’s, but for some reason he kept aloof from the other boys. The
only person with whom he was intimate was John T. Unger, but even to
John he was entirely uncommunicative concerning his home or his
family. That he was wealthy went without saying, but beyond a few such
deductions John knew little of his friend, so it promised rich
confectionery for his curiosity when Percy invited him to spend the
summer at his home “in the West.” He accepted, without hesitation.
It was only when they were in the train that Percy became, for the
first time, rather communicative. One day while they were eating lunch
in the dining-car and discussing the imperfect characters of several
of the boys at school, Percy suddenly changed his tone and made an
abrupt remark.
“My father,” he said, “is by far the richest man in the world.”
“Oh,” said John politely. He could think of no answer to make to this
confidence. He considered “That’s very nice,” but it sounded hollow
and was on the point of saying, “Really?” but refrained since it would
seem to question Percy’s statement. And such an astounding statement
could scarcely be questioned.
“By far the richest,” repeated Percy.
“I was reading in the _World Almanac_,” began John, “that there
was one man in America with an income of over five million a year and
four men with incomes of over three million a year, and--”
“Oh, they’re nothing.” Percy’s mouth was a half-moon of scorn.
“Catch-penny capitalists, financial small-fry, petty merchants and
money-lenders. My father could buy them out and not know he’d done
it.”
“But how does he--”
“Why haven’t they put down _his_ income-tax? Because he doesn’t
pay any. At least he pays a little one--but he doesn’t pay any on his
_real_ income.”
“He must be very rich,” said John simply, “I’m glad. I like very rich
people.
“The richer a fella is, the better I like him.” There was a look of
passionate frankness upon his dark face. “I visited the
Schnlitzer-Murphys last Easter. Vivian Schnlitzer-Murphy had rubies as
big as hen’s eggs, and sapphires that were like globes with lights
inside them--”
“I love jewels,” agreed Percy enthusiastically. “Of course I wouldn’t
want any one at school to know about it, but I’ve got quite a
collection myself. I used to collect them instead of stamps.”
“And diamonds,” continued John eagerly. “The Schnlitzer-Murphys had
diamonds as big as walnuts--”
“That’s nothing.” Percy had leaned forward and dropped his voice to a
low whisper. “That’s nothing at all. My father has a diamond bigger
than the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.”