Of course, after the third blow Samuel put in several weeks at conscientious1 introspection. The blow years before at Andover had landed on his personal unpleasantness; the workman of his college days had jarred the snobbishness2 out of his system, and Marjorie’s husband had given a severe jolt3 to his greedy selfishness. It threw women out of his ken4 until a year later, when he met his future wife; for the only sort of woman worth while seemed to be the one who could be protected as Marjorie’s husband had protected her. Samuel could not imagine his grass- widow, Mrs. De Ferriac, causing any very righteous blows on her own account.
His early thirties found him well on his feet. He was associated with old Peter Carhart, who was in those days a national figure. Carhart’s physique was like a rough model for a statue of Hercules, and his record was just as solid — a pile made for the pure joy of it, without cheap extortion or shady scandal. He had been a great friend of Samuel’s father, but he watched the son for six years before taking him into his own office. Heaven knows how many things he controlled at that time — mines, railroads, banks, whole cities. Samuel was very close to him, knew his likes and dislikes, his prejudices, weaknesses and many strengths.
One day Carhart sent for Samuel and, closing the door of his inner office, offered him a chair and a cigar.
“Everything O.K., Samuel?” he asked.
“Why, yes.”
“I’ve been afraid you’re getting a bit stale.”
“Stale?” Samuel was puzzled.
“You’ve done no work outside the office for nearly ten years?”
“But I’ve had vacations, in the Adiron ——”
Carhart waved this aside.
“I mean outside work. Seeing the things move that we’ve always pulled the strings5 of here.”
“No “ admitted Samuel; “I haven’t.”
“So,” he said abruptly6 “I’m going to give you an outside job that’ll take about a month.”
Samuel didn’t argue. He rather liked the idea and he made up his mind that, whatever it was, he would put it through just as Carhart wanted it. That was his employer’s greatest hobby, and the men around him were as dumb under direct orders as infantry7 subalterns.
“You’ll go to San Antonio and see Hamil,” continued Carhart. “He’s got a job on hand and he wants a man to take charge.”
Hamil was in charge of the Carhart interests in the Southwest, a man who had grown up in the shadow of his employer, and with whom, though they had never met, Samuel had had much official correspondence.
“When do I leave?”
“You’d better go to-morrow,” answered Carhart, glancing at the calendar. “That’s the 1st of May. I’ll expect your report here on the 1st of June.”
Next morning Samuel left for Chicago, and two days later he was facing Hamil across a table in the office of the Merchants’ Trust in San Antonio. It didn’t take long to get the gist8 of the thing. It was a big deal in oil which concerned the buying up of seventeen huge adjoining ranches9. This buying up had to be done in one week, and it was a pure squeeze. Forces had been set in motion that put the seventeen owners between the devil and the deep sea, and Samuel’s part was simply to “handle” the matter from a little village near Pueblo11. With tact12 and efficiency the right man could bring it off without any friction13, for it was merely a question of sitting at the wheel and keeping a firm hold. Hamil, with an astuteness14 many times valuable to his chief, had arranged a situation that would give a much greater clear gain than any dealing15 in the open market. Samuel shook hands with Hamil, arranged to return in two weeks, and left for San Felipe, New Mexico.
It occurred to him, of course, that Carhart was trying him out. Hamil’s report on his handling of this might be a factor in something big for him, but even without that he would have done his best to put the thing through. Ten years in New York hadn’t made him sentimental16 and he was quite accustomed to finish everything he began — and a little bit more.
All went well at first. There was no enthusiasm, but each one of the seventeen ranchers concerned knew Samuel’s business, knew what he had behind him, and that they had as little chance of holding out as flies on a window-pane. Some of them were resigned — some of them cared like the devil, but they’d talked it over, argued it with lawyers and couldn’t see any possible loophole. Five of the ranches had oil, the other twelve were part of the chance, but quite as necessary to Hamil’s purpose, in any event.
Samuel soon saw that the real leader was an early settler named McIntyre, a man of perhaps fifty, gray-haired, clean-shaven, bronzed by forty New Mexico summers, and with those clear steady eye that Texas and New Mexico weather are apt to give. His ranch10 had not as yet shown oil, but it was in the pool, and if any man hated to lose his land McIntyre did. Every one had rather looked to him at first to avert17 the big calamity18, and he had hunted all over the territory for the legal means with which to do it, but he had failed, and he knew it. He avoided Samuel assiduously, but Samuel was sure that when the day came for the signatures he would appear.
It came — a baking May day, with hot wave rising off the parched19 land as far as eyes could see, and as Samuel sat stewing20 in his little improvised21 office — a few chairs, a bench, and a wooden table — he was glad the thing was almost over. He wanted to get back East the worst way, and join his wife and children for a week at the seashore.
The meeting was set for four o’clock, and he was rather surprised at three-thirty when the door opened and McIntyre came in. Samuel could not help respecting the man’s attitude, and feeling a bit sorry for him. McIntyre seemed closely related to the prairies, and Samuel had the little flicker22 of envy that city people feel toward men who live in the open.
“Afternoon,” said McIntyre, standing23 in the open doorway24, with his feet apart and his hands on his hips25.
“Hello, Mr. McIntyre.” Samuel rose, but omitted the formality of offering his hand. He imagined the rancher cordially loathed26 him, and he hardly blamed him. McIntyre came in and sat down leisurely27.
“You got us,” he said suddenly.
This didn’t seem to require any answer.
“When I heard Carhart was back of this,” he continued, “I gave up.”
“Mr. Carhart is ——” began Samuel, but McIntyre waved him silent.
“Don’t talk about the dirty sneak-thief!”
“Mr. McIntyre,” said Samuel briskly, “if this half-hour is to be devoted28 to that sort of talk ——”
“Oh, dry up, young man,” McIntyre interrupted, “you can’t abuse a man who’d do a thing like this.”
Samuel made no answer.
“It’s simply a dirty filch29. There just ARE skunks30 like him too big to handle.”
“You’re being paid liberally,” offered Samuel.
“Shut up!” roared McIntyre suddenly. “I want the privilege of talking.” He walked to the door and looked out across the land, the sunny, steaming pasturage that began almost at his feet and ended with the gray-green of the distant mountains. When he turned around his mouth was trembling.
“Do you fellows love Wall Street?” he said hoarsely31, “or wherever you do your dirty scheming ——” He paused. “I suppose you do. No critter gets so low that he doesn’t sort of love the place he’s worked, where he’s sweated out the best he’s had in him.”
Samuel watched him awkwardly. McIntyre wiped his forehead with a huge blue handkerchief, and continued:
“I reckon this rotten old devil had to have another million. I reckon we’re just a few of the poor he’s blotted32 out to buy a couple more carriages or something.” He waved his hand toward the door. “I built a house out there when I was seventeen, with these two hands. I took a wife there at twenty-one, added two wings, and with four mangy steers33 I started out. Forty summers I’ve saw the sun come up over those mountains and drop down red as blood in the evening, before the heat drifted off and the stars came out. I been happy in that house. My boy was born there and he died there, late one spring, in the hottest part of an afternoon like this. Then the wife and I lived there alone like we’d lived before, and sort of tried to have a home, after all, not a real home but nigh it — cause the boy always seemed around close, somehow, and we expected a lot of nights to see him runnin’ up the path to supper.” His voice was shaking so he could hardly speak and he turned again to the door, his gray eyes contracted.
“That’s my land out there,” he said, stretching out his arm, “my land, by God —— It’s all I got in the world — and ever wanted.” He dashed his sleeve across his face, and his tone changed as he turned slowly and faced Samuel. “But I suppose it’s got to go when they want it — it’s got to go.”
Samuel had to talk. He felt that in a minute more he would lose his head. So he began, as level-voiced as he could — in the sort of tone he saved for disagreeable duties.
“It’s business, Mr. McIntyre,” he said. “It’s inside the law. Perhaps we couldn’t have bought out two or three of you at any price, but most of you did have a price. Progress demands some things ——”
Never had he felt so inadequate34, and it was with the greatest relief that he heard hoof-beats a few hundred yards away.
But at his words the grief in McIntyre’s eyes had changed to fury.
“You and your dirty gang of crooks35!” be cried. “Not one of you has got an honest love for anything on God’s earth! You’re a herd36 of money-swine!”
Samuel rose and McIntyre took a step toward him.
“You long-winded dude. You got our land — take that for Peter Carhart!”
He swung from the shoulder quick as lightning and down went Samuel in a heap. Dimly he heard steps in the doorway and knew that some one was holding McIntyre, but there was no need. The rancher had sunk down in his chair, and dropped his head in his hands.
Samuel’s brain was whirring. He realized that the fourth fist had hit him, and a great flood of emotion cried out that the law that had inexorably ruled his life was in motion again. In a half-daze he got up and strode from the room.
The next ten minutes were perhaps the hardest of his life. People talk of the courage of convictions, but in actual life a man’s duty to his family may make a rigid37 corpse38 seem a selfish indulgence of his own righteousness. Samuel thought mostly of his family, yet he never really wavered. That jolt had brought him to.
When he came back in the room there were a log of worried faces waiting for him, but he didn’t waste any time explaining.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “Mr. McIntyre has been kind enough to convince me that in this matter you are absolutely right and the Peter Carhart interests absolutely wrong. As far as I am concerned you can keep your ranches to the rest of your days.”
He pushed his way through an astounded39 gathering40, and within a half-hour he had sent two telegrams that staggered the operator into complete unfitness for business; one was to Hamil in San Antonio; one was to Peter Carhart in New York.
Samuel didn’t sleep much that night. He knew that for the first time in his business career he had made a dismal41, miserable42 failure. But some instinct in him, stronger than will, deeper than training, had forced him to do what would probably end his ambitions and his happiness. But it was done and it never occurred to him that he could have acted otherwise.
Next morning two telegrams were waiting for him. The first was from Hamil. It contained three words:
“You blamed idiot!”
The second was from New York:
“Deal off come to New York immediately Carhart.”
Within a week things had happened. Hamil quarrelled furiously and violently defended his scheme. He was summoned to New York and spent a bad half-hour on the carpet in Peter Carhart’s office. He broke with the Carhart interests in July, and in August Samuel Meredith, at thirty-five years old, was, to all intents, made Carhart’s partner. The fourth fist had done its work.
I suppose that there’s a caddish streak43 in every man that runs crosswise across his character and disposition44 and general outlook. With some men it’s secret and we never know it’s there until they strike us in the dark one night. But Samuel’s showed when it was in action, and the sight of it made people see red. He was rather lucky in that, because every time his little devil came up it met a reception that sent it scurrying45 down below in a sickly, feeble condition. It was the same devil, the same streak that made him order Gilly’s friends off the bed, that made him go inside Marjorie’s house.
If you could run your hand along Samuel Meredith’s jaw46 you’d feel a lump. He admits he’s never been sure which fist left it there, but he wouldn’t lose it for anything. He says there’s no cad like an old cad, and that sometimes just before making a decision, it’s a great help to stroke his chin. The reporters call it a nervous characteristic, but it’s not that. It’s so he can feel again the gorgeous clarity, the lightning sanity47 of those four fists.
The End
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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snobbishness
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| 势利； 势利眼 | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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strings
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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ranches
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| 大农场， （兼种果树，养鸡等的）大牧场( ranch的名词复数 ) | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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pueblo
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| n.（美国西南部或墨西哥等）印第安人的村庄 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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15
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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stewing
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| 炖 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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filch
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| v.偷窃 | |
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skunks
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| n.臭鼬( skunk的名词复数 )；臭鼬毛皮；卑鄙的人；可恶的人 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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