Never Victorious, Never Defeated

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  “I cannot tell you, Allan, how much we appreciate your consideration of the Interstate Iron & Steel Company. I should like to feel—and please don’t disillusion me!—that it was inspired by loyalty to us. Suppose, now, that we take an option on your patent for six months, giving you, as of this date, a company check for two thousand dollars?”

  Allan’s eyes narrowed. Then he slowly shook his head. “The option, if you wish to take it, must run for only two weeks. I am sure someone in this company has already studied other patents.” He stared at Rufus very hard.

  Rufus pretended he had not noticed that implacable stare. He slapped his hand roundly on the desk, and smiled so widely that almost all his teeth showed in the brilliant light of the chandelier. “You are a difficult young fellow to deal with, I must admit. Well, then, two weeks. In the meantime, terms concerning royalties will be considered, and we shall consult you.” He motioned to Mr. Angers, while not removing his smiling gaze from Allan. “Thomas, you will make out the check and the option papers for this boy at once.”

  “I might as well inform you, Mr. deWitt, that the royalties will have to be adequate.” Allan withdrew a slip of paper from his pocket. “Here is Janney’s offer.” He gave the slip to Rufus, who looked at it. Rufus was appalled. “This is preposterous!” he exclaimed, honestly shocked.

  Allan stood up. “I could ask for a bigger offer from you, Mr. deWitt. But I am only asking what Janney has offered. I believe that extraordinarily fair, considering that Janney has not merely offered me an option.”

  The two older men regarded him with outrage. But Allan smiled down at them. “I suppose your unspoken question is why, then, I have not accepted Janney’s offer, and why I have bothered to come to you. The answer is my own, and I don’t intend to tell you. I can only say that I don’t mean to live on my royalties. These will only be a source of a fortune. My business is law—labor law.”

  Only Rufus understood. “I see,” he murmured. “As I said before, Allan, we must have a talk, a very long talk, confidential and intimate.” He forced his face into a florid amiability again.

  When Allan had gone, check and option papers in pocket, Rufus said to Mr. Angers, “Thomas, that is the most dangerous, and most admirable, and most valuable young devil I have ever encountered. I am full of respect for him. And that is why, perhaps not too long in the future, he will join us.”

  Allan ran through the dark of the early evening, the rain pouring into his face. He was hot with exultation and triumph. He reached the yards, swung onto the caboose. He felt his heart pounding, and it was not with exertion. He had won the first major engagement. He would always win, to the end of his life.

  27

  The smart phaeton drove up the graveled driveway of Jim Purcell’s house, and a young man in his early thirties alighted as the gleaming white door of the mansion opened. The young man remembered this house from his childhood. It had been large but untidy, full of dust and mold, unkempt and “a disgrace to the neighborhood,” as the neighbors had protested sullenly among themselves. But Mrs. Purcell, who had once been Mrs. Rufus deWitt, had changed the picture gratifyingly. The house might still be ugly externally, and expressive of bad architecture; however, what had been bleak yellow brick had acquired a soft golden patina, glimmering through thick ivy, which mercifully blurred the uncouth lines. Jim Purcell, “the miser,” had permitted his wife to do whatever she wished, even to the discarding of his appalling furniture. He was proud of her taste, though he grumbled he did not understand it. But secretly, it gave him pleasure.

  There had been considerable whispered scandal when Lydia had quietly divorced Rufus, and then, in due time, had married Jim Purcell. The scandal did not reach Purcell’s ears; the gossipers were careful about that. He was a dangerous man, and never forgot injuries, and he had become more dangerous and powerful through the years. When Mrs. Purcell gave parties, the elite of Portersville thronged to the house eagerly. It was noted that she was less elusive since her second marriage; she had more warmth and kindliness, and her remarks were not so elliptical or mysteriously turned. If she was still reserved in a large measure, the reserve could be melted by a sincere reference to her little daughter Ruth, who had suffered “the paralysis” in her early childhood and who now limped cheerfully if pathetically. Ruth was seven years old; there had been no other children.

  As the young man mounted the low wet steps to the door, he was, for the first troubled moment that night, conscious of the brilliance of the white December moon and of the voice of the river. Another sound struck him as he entered the white and walnut hall. Laura deWitt, in the distant music room which Lydia had so exquisitely decorated and furnished, was playing Debussy. The shining notes seemed to sparkle in the air, trembling with radiance, at once meditative and unearthly. The young man forgot the servant standing by the opened door. He stood and listened, one foot on the top step, his head turned to look at the stark black trees on the lawns, and the whitened river flowing under the moon.

  The young man, disturbed as he was, wished he could stand here in lonely silence for a little longer, letting the notes drop about him while he let the night console and calm him. But the servant, however patiently waiting, was still waiting, and the air was sharp with cold. “Good evening, Senator,” said the old man, smiling at the visitor with genuine pleasure. “Good evening, Gratz,” replied the other, and gave the butler his hard bowler hat, his white scarf, his well-cut coat, and his cane. “The family is in the music room,” said Gratz, and Patrick Peale nodded and went down through the hallway, which extended from the front door to the rear, and entered the music room through a wide archway.

  Two blazing gas-lighted chandeliers dropped like stalactites from the carved white oval ceiling, and shimmered over white, ivory, and gold furniture. On a raised platform stood Laura’s white and gilt piano, which faced the archway. Jim Purcell was sprawled on a gold-colored velvet sofa, with his little daughter nestling close to him. Lydia sat by the monster white marble fireplace working at petit point. Laura saw Patrick first, and she smiled at him quietly while her fingers wove out the last pattern of music on the keys. No one as yet, except Laura, had noticed the slight young man in the arched doorway, a grave young man with inflexible brown eyes, wavy light brown hair, and a compact figure. And, though conscious of the other inhabitants of the oval room, he really saw only Laura, a thin and graceful girl in a blue-velvet dress that outlined her figure and displayed her pale narrow shoulders. Her dark hair, fine and silky, was like a vapor about her almost colorless face. But her eyes, large, gray, and radiant, gave an exceptional beauty to small features which otherwise would have been too inconspicuous and indefinite for loveliness.

  Patrick had known that Cornelia deWitt had desired him, but the thought, instead of flattering him, had been distasteful and almost humiliating. And yet, because she had loved him, he was almost compassionate for her, and had extricated himself from the situation so tactfully, so expertly, over a long period, that he had left her pride intact

  Lydia Purcell glanced up as Laura concluded her music, and she smiled welcomingly at Patrick. Her black hair was winged with white, and there were lines in her face, but her body, in dark green velvet, was as graceful as Laura’s. Her dark eyes touched him luminously, and Jim Purcell turned his gross head and nodded without speaking. His little daughter was sleeping in the shelter of his big arm, her bright golden ringlets on his sleeve. His hair was a shock of untidy gray on his great round head, and the years had made his rude features more repulsive than ever, and had hardened them into masses of stone.

  Laura rose from the piano, stepped down from the platform, and gave Patrick her hand. She led him into the room, and he sat down opposite Lydia, with Laura beside him. They began to speak in low voices, because of the sleeping child, who ought, thought Patrick, to be in bed. It was long after ten o’clock, and Ruth was frail. But Purcell found it hard to part with his daughter. Somewhere in the house, there was a portrait of young Alice Fielding, and
Patrick often remarked that Ruth bore a striking resemblance to her dead aunt, which gratified Lydia.

  Jim Purcell noted that Patrick was unusually serious. So he muttered in his hoarse voice, “Well, how did that talk go which young Marshall gave tonight?”

  Patrick frowned. “There was something strange about it. I can’t lay my finger on it, but there it was. As usual, it was eloquent—he has the most remarkable voice, and he can play any tune with it. And it was full of threat.”

  Purcell smiled sourly. “His speeches usually are.”

  Patrick shook his head, as if baffled. “Yes. And this talk was no less threatening than the rest. ‘The bosses.’ ‘The exploiters of labor.’ The oppressors of the people.’ ‘The despoilers of the workers.’ ‘The serfdom of the masses.’ ‘The dumb patience of the toilers.’ All the usual things. The men listened, and their mouths and eyes were open, and they hardly seemed to breathe. When he had finished, they became hysterical, and mobbed him, and threw their arms around him, and many of them cried. It was very moving.” Patrick paused. “But still, I was uneasy. Something was wrong.”

  Purcell smiled again, and the smile was darker, if indulgent. “Look, now, Pat. Don’t go cryptic on me. Let’s have facts, not imaginin’s. What the hell is it all about?”

  “I don’t know,” said the young senator slowly. “But I did notice something. Duncan Baynes—you know, Mr. Rufus’s local assistant superintendent—was there, and listening to every word. He kept far in the background, and tried to hide his face with his hand.”

  “What’s wrong with him bein’ there? Labor trouble comin’ up, we all think. Maybe Red Rufe sent him to get an idea of the men’s tempers.”

  “It could be,” agreed Patrick thoughtfully. “But I’m not satisfied. Why should he send Duncan Baynes, who’s too important for spying? Baynes is a very ruthless and clever man. …”

  “Maybe it needed such a feller for the job tonight. Think you’re gettin’ too vaporish, Pat. Looking for bogiemen. Is that the only ‘fact’ you got to offer?”

  Patrick moved uncomfortably on his chair. “Just the quality of the speech. I felt that Marshall was showing off his power; I felt that his threats were definitely focused. It was as if he was warning some one in particular, and exhibiting what he could do. He was particularly showy tonight, and I think it was for a purpose.” He tried to smile at the contemptuously glowering Purcell. “It’s the purpose that is worrying me.”

  Purcell snapped his fingers. “I told you, I don’t deal in intangibles. If Marshall was threatenin’, or showin’ off, or warnin’ anyone, it was for the sake of the men. Mind you, and I’ve told you this a dozen times, I don’t like Marshall. He’s a trouble-maker, and I hate trouble-makers. I’m not sayin’ the men are gettin’ a livin’ wage, and I’m not sayin’ I wouldn’t vote for more money for ’em, but I got no use for the Marshalls. And I think Marshall is just out for himself.”

  He pointed a hard but shapeless finger at Patrick: “And what’s wrong with a man usin’ other men? If he uses them, and gets somethin’ for them, sort of a by-product to what he gets for himself, who’s to get all indignant and fired-up?”

  Patrick colored. He met Purcell’s derisive smile angrily. “Allan convinced me, for over four years, that he was dedicated to helping his fellow workers. I believe that some men are honestly devoted to the cause of others.” He hesitated, then added, “I am. I believe I am.”

  “That’s because you can afford it,” said Purcell. “What can young Marshall afford? It’s true that he’s sold his automatic coupler to Interstate Iron & Steel Company, and will probably make a fortune out of his royalties. But so far he’s got only five thousand dollars on it. Maybe the coupler will bring him in a lot of money in a few years. Yes, maybe. In the meantime, he’s readin’ law in your father’s offices, and from what I hear he’s goin’ to make a mighty smart lawyer. Well. He’s goin’ to make a fortune for himself, and he’s goin’ to be a labor lawyer.” He rubbed his big chin, which was bristling with mingled black and white whiskers. “If Rufe’s disturbed about him, he’s got reason.”

  Patrick was silent a few moments. Then he said, “I was convinced tonight, and I admit I might be wrong, that Allan’s not concerned, and never was concerned, about the plight of his class. And so I don’t think that Mr. Rufus need be afraid of him. I think it is others who should be afraid.”

  Purcell laughed jeeringly, but carefully, in order not to awaken little Ruth. “And who was it who was all enthusiastic about that young jackanapes in the beginnin’? You, Pat. And comin’ down to facts, again, what have you against him gettin’ somewheres? You want others to carry the burden for you, while you live in your fine house, and go to Washington with fanfares? Come on, don’t glare at me. I’m not throwin’ sneers at you. I’m just remindin’ you that if Marshall don’t want to be a martyr for anybody, no one can blame him.”

  “I have no objection to a man ‘getting somewheres,’ as you say, Mr. Purcell,” said Patrick coldly. “But I do ask that he not be a hypocrite and a liar, and I do insist that he not use others, who trust him, and who are helpless, to further his own purposes.”

  Purcell chuckled. “Fine sentiments. But only rich men can afford ’em.” He shook his finger at Patrick again. “Not that I like hypocrites. If a man’s a scoundrel, and if he’s thinkin’ only of himself, let him be open about it. Seems as if all your worries is because you’ve convinced yourself Marshall’s a liar and a hypocrite, and a scoundrel to boot. Throw him out of your office, if you don’t trust him any more.”

  Patrick got to his feet and began to pace up and down, slowly and uneasily. “What good would it do if I acted on impulse, and threw him out? He has money now; he’ll have more. And he can finance his own law education himself. No, it’s better to have him under my eye, I think.” He stopped in front of Purcell, and his normally composed face was disturbed. “I believe he is preparing to sell the men out.”

  Purcell shrugged. “Maybe. But that’s just your idea. Comin’ back to me, I’d rather he was on our side than the other. You’ve known that all along; I never fooled you.”

  “But you’re not a liar, or a hypocrite,” said Patrick. He laughed a little uncomfortably. “You are, at the very least, neutral. You wouldn’t advance the cause of the workers, but you wouldn’t oppose it.”

  Purcell grunted, but made no answer. Patrick sat down again. “I’m marrying Laura in June. My business is politics, and law. I’ve never taken any interest in the railroad business, except the labor problem. But now I want some information. The Interstate Railroad Company is as rich as the New York Central now. But I’m hazy on the extent of it.”

  “Oho,” said Purcell, and grinned. “Well, that’s easy. Five years ago it absorbed the Capital Railroad Company, here in Pennsylvania, and then the Chicago Railroad System. Goes clear to New York, now. Absorbed the old Baynes Locals, too, when old Joe went bankrupt after Steve died. Has a lease line to St. Louis, from Chicago. Big business. Rufe’s responsible for all that. We’re might lucky to have him.

  “I think I know what’s in your mind, my bucko. Steve, quite a while before he died, pledged twenty-five per cent of his fifty-one per cent holdin’s in the company to old Jay Regan; he needed the money for a lot of damn fool schemes, for your precious workers, and others. After Steve died, Gunther purchased the stock from Jay Regan, but arranged with Rufe that he would vote his stock to approve the election of Rufe as president of the road, and arranged with our beamin’ friend that he would sell the stock back to him at a prevailin’ price each year, five per cent of it, until Rufe had gained back the whole twenty-five per cent, provided that at no time Gunther should suffer any loss in his original investment. So, Rufe now has fifty-one per cent.”

  He grinned cantankerously at Patrick. “You don’t like our Rufe. But let me tell you that I respect him. He’s brought us a fortune. He’s made the road what it is. Steve would have kept it nice and conservative, and maybe’ve run it into bankruptcy. Could
be you prefer bankruptcy to dishonor, but you’d be a lone young feller in this world, and the sooner you learn that the better. You’re goin’ to have to deal more and more with the world as it is, especially now you’re in politics, and politics stink to high heaven.

  “You know that Laura here has sixteen per cent of the stock in her name. Steve had twenty-six per cent before he died. But he owed a pile of debts. Stupendous, that’s what they were. It was necessary for the estate to sell ten per cent of the stock to liquidate his idiotic debts, and Rufe, who was one of the executors of the estate, sold Jay Regan that ten per cent, with the condition that it would be resold to Rufe upon payment, interest, principle, and a bonus. That’s how he cornered his fifty-one per cent.”

  Purcell lifted his sleeping child into his arms and cradled her, brooding over the gilded head on his shoulder. He added grumpily, “You’re wonderin’ why Gunther and Jay Regan did all that for our Rufe. I can tell you. They like him. You wouldn’t think that men like Regan and Gunther would slaver over charm, would you? They love our Red Rufe. Even murderers like those two sharks soften up with Rufe. They’ll do things for him they wouldn’t do for their own brothers. And they know he’s able as hell. They might laugh at what you call virtue, but they never laugh at ability, even in a competitor.” He squinted at Patrick sardonically. “You ain’t poor, yourself, Pat, my boy. But Laura’s not a Cinderella, either. Thanks to Rufe, she’s a mighty rich girl. You should be grateful.”

  Patrick stood up again, stiff and unbending. “Thank you,” he said. Purcell smiled furtively at the young man’s tone, but waited. “I’m thinking of Laura’s sixteen per cent, sir. Mrs. Purcell and Mr. Rufe are her guardians. Mr. Stephen stipulated that when she was married her husband would become her guardian.”