March did not notice the vanishing socialist. He was watching, with a teasing sense of familiarity, a tall, shabbily dressed, elderly man, who had just come in. He had the aquiline profile uncommon among Germans, and yet March recognized him at once as German. His long, soft beard and moustache had once been fair, and they kept some tone of their yellow in the gray to which they had turned. His eyes were full, and his lips and chin shaped the beard to the noble outline which shows in the beards the Italian masters liked to paint for their Last Suppers. His carriage was erect and soldierly, and March presently saw that he had lost his left hand. He took his place at a table where the overworked waiter found time to cut up his meat and put everything in easy reach of his right hand.
“Well,” Fulkerson resumed, “they took me round everywhere in Moffitt and showed me their big wells—tit ‘em up for a private view, and let me hear them purr with the soft accents of a mass meeting of locomotives. Why, when they let one of these wells loose in a meadow that they’d piped it into temporarily, it drove the flame away forty feet from the mouth of the pipe and blew it over half an acre of ground. They say when they let one of their big wells burn away all winter before they had learned how to control it, that well kept up a little summer all around it; the grass stayed green, and the flowers bloomed all through the winter. I don’t know whether it’s so or not. But I can believe anything of natural gas. My! But it was beautiful when they turned on the full force of that well and shot a Roman candle into the gas—that’s the way they light it—and a plume of fire about twenty feet wide and seventy-five feet high, all red and yellow and violet, jumped into the sky, and that big roar shook the ground under your feet! You felt like saying, ‘Don’t trouble yourself; I’m perfectly convinced.’ I believe in Moffitt. We-e-e-ll,” drawled Fulkerson, with a long breath, “that’s where I met old Dryfoos.”
“Oh yes—Dryfoos,” said March. He observed that the waiter had brought the old one-handed German a towering glass of beer.
“Yes,” Fulkerson laughed. “We’ve got round to Dryfoos again. I thought I could cut a long story short, but I seem to be cutting a short story long. If you’re not in a hurry, though—”
“Not in the least. Go on as long as you like.”
“I met him there in the office of a real-estate man—speculator, of course; everybody was, in Moffitt; but a first-rate fellow, and public spirited as all get-out; and when Dryfoos left he told me about him. Dryfoos was an old Pennsylvania Dutch farmer, about three or four miles out of Moffitt, and he’d lived there pretty much all his life; father was one of the first settlers. Everybody knew he had the right stuff in him, but he was slower than molasses in January, like those Pennsylvania Dutch. He’d got together the largest and handsomest farm anywhere around there; and he was making money on it, just like he was in some business somewhere; he was a very intelligent man; he took the papers and kept himself posted; but he was awfully old-fashioned in his ideas. He hung on to the doctrines as well as the dollars of the dads; it was a real thing with him. Well, when the boom began to come he hated it awfully, and he fought it. He used to write communications to the weekly newspaper in Moffitt—they’ve got three dailies there now—and throw cold water on the boom. He couldn’t catch on no way. It made him sick to hear the clack that went on about the gas the whole while, and that stirred up the neighborhood and got into his family. Whenever he’d hear of a man that had been offered a big price for his land and was going to sell out and move into town, he’d go and labor with him, and try to talk him out of it, and tell him how long his fifteen or twenty thousand would last him to live on, and shake the Standard Oil Company before him, and try to make him believe it wouldn’t be five years before the Standard owned the whole region.
“Of course he couldn’t do anything with them. When a man’s offered a big price for his farm, he don’t care whether it’s by a secret emissary from the Standard Oil or not; he’s going to sell and get the better of the other fellow if he can. Dryfoos couldn’t keep the boom out of his own family, even. His wife was with him. She thought whatever he said and did was just as right as if it had been thundered down from Sinai. But the young folks were skeptical, especially the girls that had been away to school. The boy that had been kept at home because he couldn’t be spared from helping his father manage the farm was more like him, but they contrived to stir the boy up with the hot end of the boom too. So when a fellow came along one day and offered old Dryfoos a cool hundred thousand for his farm, it was all up with Dryfoos. He’d ‘a liked to ’a kept the offer to himself and not done anything about it, but his vanity wouldn’t let him do that; and when he let it out in his family, the girls outvoted him. They just made him sell.
“He wouldn’t sell all. He kept about eighty acres that was off in one piece by itself, but the three hundred that had the old brick house on it and the big barn—that went, and Dryfoos bought him a place in Moffitt and moved into town to live on the interest of his money. just what he had scolded and ridiculed everybody else for doing. Well, they say that at first he seemed like he would go crazy. He hadn’t anything to do. He took a fancy to that land agent, and he used to go and set in his office and ask him what he should do. ‘I hain’t got any horses, I hain’t got any cows, I hain’t got any pigs, I hain’t got any chickens. I hain’t got anything to do from sunup to sundown.’ The fellow said the tears used to run down the old fellow’s cheeks, and if he hadn’t been so busy himself he believed he should ’a cried too. But most o’ people thought old Dryfoos was down in the mouth because he hadn’t asked more for his farm, when he wanted to buy it back and found they held it at a hundred and fifty thousand. People couldn’t believe he was just homesick and heartsick for the old place. Well, perhaps he was sorry he hadn’t asked more; that’s human nature too.
“After a while something happened. That land agent used to tell Dryfoos to get out to Europe with his money and see life a little, or go and live in Washington, where he could be somebody; but Dryfoos wouldn’t, and he kept listening to the talk there, and all of a sudden he caught on. He came into that fellow’s one day with a plan for cutting up the eighty acres he’d kept into town lots; and he’d got it all plotted out so well and had so many practical ideas about it that the fellow was astonished. He went right in with him, as far as Dryfoos would let him, and glad of the chance; and they were working the thing for all it was worth when I struck Moffitt. Old Dryfoos wanted me to go out and see the Dryfoos & Hendry Addition—guess he thought maybe I’d write it up; and he drove me out there himself. Well, it was funny to see a town made: streets driven through; two rows of shade trees, hard and soft, planted; cellars dug and houses put up—regular Queen Anne style too, with stained glass—all at once. Dryfoos apologized for the streets because they were handmade; said they expected their street-making machine Tuesday, and then they intended to push things.”
Fulkerson enjoyed the effect of his picture on March for a moment, and then went on: “He was mighty intelligent too, and he questioned me up about my business as sharp as I ever was questioned ; seemed to kind of strike his fancy; I guess he wanted to find out if there was any money in it. He was making money, hand over hand, then; and he never stopped speculating and improving till he’d scraped together three or four hundred thousand dollars; they said a million, but they like round numbers at Moffitt, and I guess half a million would lay over it comfortably and leave a few thousands to spare, probably. Then he came on to New York.”
Fulkerson struck a match against the ribbed side of the porcelain cup that held the matches in the center of the table, and lit a cigarette, which he began to smoke, throwing his head back with a leisurely effect, as if he had got to the end of at least as much of his story as he meant to tell without prompting.
March asked him the desired question—“What in the world for?”
Fulkerson took out his cigarette and said, with a smile: “To spend his money and get his daughters into the old Knickerbocker society. Maybe he thought they were all
the same kind of Dutch.”
“And has he succeeded?”
“Well, they’re not social leaders yet. But it’s only a question of time—generation or two—especially if time’s money, and if Every Other Week is the success it’s bound to be.”
“You don’t mean to say, Fulkerson,” said March, with a half-doubting, half-daunted laugh, “that he’s your angel?”
“That’s what I mean to say,” returned Fulkerson. “I ran onto him in Broadway one day last summer. If you ever saw anybody in your life, you’re sure to meet him in Broadway again, sooner or later. That’s the philosophy of the bunco business; country people from the same neighborhood are sure to run up against each other the first time they come to New York. I put out my hand, and I said, ‘Isn’t this Mr. Dryfoos from Moffitt?’ He didn’t seem to have any use for my hand; he let me keep it; and he squared those old lips of his till his imperial stuck straight out. Ever see Bern-hardt in L‘Étrangère? Well, the American husband is old Dryfoos all over; no moustache, and hay-colored chin whiskers cut slanting from the corners of his mouth. He cocked his little gray eyes at me, and says he: ‘Yes, young man. My name is Dryfoos, and I’m from Moffitt. But I don’t want no present of Longfellow’s works, illustrated; and I don’t want to taste no fine teas; but I know a policeman that does; and if you’re the son of my old friend Squire Strohfeldt, you’d better get out. ’ ‘Well, then,’ said I, ‘how would you like to go into the newspaper-syndicate business?’ He gave another look at me, and then he burst out laughing, and he grabbed my hand, and he just froze to it. I never saw anybody so glad.
“Well, the long and the short of it was that I asked him round here to Maroni’s to dinner; and before we broke up for the night we had settled the financial side of the plan that’s brought you to New York. I can see,” said Fulkerson, who had kept his eyes fast on March’s face, “that you don’t more than half like the idea of Dryfoos. It ought to give you more confidence in the thing than you ever had. You needn’t be afraid,” he added, with some feeling, “that I talked Dryfoos into the thing for my own advantage.”
“Oh, my dear Fulkerson!” March protested, all the more fervently because he was really a little guilty.
“Well, of course not! I didn’t mean you were. But I just happened to tell him what I wanted to go into when I could see my way to it, and he caught on of his own accord. The fact is,” said Fulkerson, “I guess I’d better make a clean breast of it, now I’m at it. Dryfoos wanted to get something for that boy of his to do. He’s in railroads himself, and he’s in mines and other things, and he keeps busy, and he can’t bear to have his boy hanging round the house doing nothing, like as if he was a girl. I told him that the great object of a rich man was to get his son into just that fix; but he couldn’t seem to see it, and the boy hated it himself. He’s got a good head, and he wanted to study for the ministry when they were all living together out on the farm; but his father had the old-fashioned ideas about that. You know they used to think that any sort of stuff was good enough to make a preacher out of, but they wanted the good timber for business; and so the old man wouldn’t let him. You’ll see the fellow; you’ll like him; he’s no fool, I can tell you; and he’s going to be our publisher, nominally at first, and actually when I’ve taught him the ropes a little.”
XII
FULKERSON STOPPED AND LOOKED at March, whom he saw lapsing into a serious silence. Doubtless he divined his uneasiness with the facts that had been given him to digest. He pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “See here, how would you like to go up to Forty-sixth Street with me, and drop in on old Dryfoos? Now’s your chance. He’s going west tomorrow, and won’t be back for a month or so. They’ll all be glad to see you, and you’ll understand things better when you’ve seen him and his family. I can’t explain.”
March reflected a moment. Then he said, with a wisdom that surprised him, for he would have liked to yield to the impulse of his curiosity: “Perhaps we’d better wait till Mrs. March comes down, and let things take the usual course. The Dryfoos ladies will want to call on her as the lastcomer, and if I treated myself en garçon now and paid the first visit, it might complicate matters.”
“Well, perhaps you’re right,” said Fulkerson. “I don’t know much about these things, and I don’t believe Ma Dryfoos does either.” He was on his legs lighting another cigarette. “I suppose the girls are getting themselves up in etiquette, though. Well, then, let’s have a look at the Every Other Week building, and then, if you like your quarters there, you can go round and close for Mrs. Green’s flat.”
March’s dormant allegiance to his wife’s wishes had been roused by his decision in favor of good social usage. “I don’t think I shall take the flat,” he said.
“Well, don’t reject it without giving it another look, anyway. Come on!”
He helped March on with his light overcoat, and the little stir they made for their departure caught the notice of the old German; he looked up from his beer at them. March was more than ever impressed with something familiar in his face. In compensation for his prudence in regard to the Dryfooses he now indulged an impulse. He stepped across to where the old man sat, with his bald head shining like ivory under the gas jet, and his fine patriarchal length of bearded mask taking picturesque lights and shadows, and put out his hand to him.
“Lindau! Isn’t this Mr. Lindau?”
The old man lifted himself slowly to his feet with mechanical politeness and cautiously took March’s hand. “Yes, my name is Lindau,” he said slowly, while he scanned March’s face. Then he broke into a long cry. “Ah-h-h-h-h, my dear poy! My yong friendt! My—my—Idt is Passil Marge—not zo? Ah, ha, ha, ha! How gladt I am to zee you! Why, I am gladt! And you rememberdt me? You remember Schiller, and Goethe, and Uhland? And Indianapolis? You still life in Indianapolis? It sheers my hardt to zee you. But you are lidtle oldt too? Tventy-five years makes a difference. Ah, I am gladt! Dell me, idt is Passil Marge—not zo?”
He looked anxiously into March’s face, with a gentle smile of mixed hope and doubt, and March said: “As sure as it’s Berthold Lindau, and I guess it’s you. And you remember the old times? You were as much of a boy as I was, Lindau. Are you living in New York? Do you recollect how you tried to teach me to fence? I don’t know how to this day, Lindau. How good you were, and how patient! Do you remember how we used to sit up in the little parlor back of your printing office, and read Die Räuber, and Die Theilung der Erde, and Die Glocke? And Mrs. Lindau? Is she with—”
“Deadt—deadt long ago. Right after I got home from the war—tventy years ago. But tell me, you are married? Children? Yes! Goodt! And how oldt are you now?”
“It makes me seventeen to see you, Lindau, but I’ve got a son nearly as old.”
“Ah, ha, ha! Goodt! And where do you life?”
“Well, I’m just coming to live in New York,” March said, looking over at Fulkerson, who had been watching his interview with the perfunctory smile of sympathy that people put on at the meeting of old friends. “I want to introduce you to my friend Mr. Fulkerson. He and I are going into a literary enterprise here.”
“Ah! Zo?” said the old man, with polite interest. He took Fulkerson’s proffered hand, and they all stood talking a few moments together.
Then Fulkerson said, with another look at his watch, “Well, March, we’re keeping Mr. Lindau from his dinner.”
“Dinner!” cried the old man. “Idt’s better than breadt and meadt to see Mr. Marge!”
“I must be going, anyway,” said March. “But I must see you again soon, Lindau. Where do you live? I want a long talk.”
“And I. You will find me here at dinnertime,” said the old man. “It is the best place”; and March fancied him reluctant to give another address.
To cover his consciousness he answered, gaily, “Then, it’s Auf Wiedersehen with us. Well!”
“Also!” The old man took his hand and made a mechanical movement with his mutilated arm, as if he would have taken it
in a double clasp. He laughed at himself. “I wanted to gife you the other handt too, but I gafe it to your gountry a goodt while ago.”
“To my country?” asked March, with a sense of pain, and yet lightly, as if it were a joke of the old man’s. “Your country too, Lindau?”
The old man turned very grave and said, almost coldly, “What gountry hass a poor man got, Mr. Marge?”
“Well, you ought to have a share in the one you helped to save for us rich men, Lindau,” March returned, still humoring the joke.
The old man smiled sadly, but made no answer as he sat down again.
“Seems to be a little soured,” said Fulkerson as they went down the steps. He was one of those Americans whose habitual conception of life is unalloyed prosperity. When any experience or observation of his went counter to it he suffered something like physical pain. He eagerly shrugged away the impression left upon his buoyancy by Lindau and added to March’s continued silence, “What did I tell you about meeting every man in New York that you ever knew before?”
“I never expected to meet Lindau in the world again,” said March, more to himself than to Fulkerson. “I had an impression that he had been killed in the war. I almost wish he had been.”
“Oh, hello, now!” cried Fulkerson.
March laughed, but went on soberly. “He was a man predestined to adversity, though. When I first knew him out in Indianapolis he was starving along with a sick wife and a sick newspaper. It was before the Germans had come over to the Republicans generally, but Lindau was fighting the antislavery battle just as naturally at Indianapolis in 1858 as he fought behind the barricades at Berlin in 1848. And yet he was always such a gentle soul! And so generous! He taught me German for the love of it; he wouldn’t spoil his pleasure by taking a cent from me; he seemed to get enough out of my being young and enthusiastic, and out of prophesying great things for me. I wonder what the poor old fellow is doing here, and with that one hand of his?”
A Hazard of New Fortunes Page 12
