I
Smoking, as usual, and wasting your time after luncheon, instead of hurrying to your offices and coining time into money like old Sam Dodson, who can give the cash value of every five minutes,” and Welsby sat down beside three other young Liverpool merchants in the club—all men who had one eye on business and the other on the good of the city. “Something's happened since I saw you fellows last on 'Change. Guess.” “Cotton up three points? A corn corner at Chicago? A big bear in lard? Anything to do with fruit?”
“Nothing whatever to do with such prosaic subjects, and I am ashamed to notice your mercenary tempers; this is a public affair, and is to be a profound secret for exactly seventy minutes, after which it will appear in the fourth edition of the Evening Trumpet.
“It's a pity that the early news could not be used for an operation in cotton, but I'll take it along to the 'Flags,' and tell it under pledge of silence to half a dozen brokers. If you are really interested in the matter, this will give it a wider and more certain circulation than any Trumpet could.”
“We're all ears, Welsby.”
“Well, to begin at the beginning, you know how our people in Liverpool are crowded together in courts and rookeries without room or air. It's hard on the men and women, but it's hardest on the children, who have no place to play in but the gutter.
“So a man wrote a letter to the papers about a month ago, pleading for a fund to put down small playgrounds in the crowded districts, where the little folk could come of an evening, and the mothers could sit, and the men might smoke a pipe...
“I remember the letter,” broke in Cotton; “it was signed 'Philanthropist,' and was generally supposed to have been composed in a moment of inspiration by some proprietor of insanitary property; it was an elegant letter, and affected me very much—to tears, in fact,”
“It was signed 'Charles Welsby,' and you never read a word of it, because it had no reference to polo nor the Macfarlane Institute for Working Lads, the only subjects to which you give any attention. Four people read it, however, and wrote to me at once. One man denounced the scheme as another instance of the patronage of the rich. He added that it was a sop, and that the toilers would soon find open places for themselves.”
“He would mean your garden, Welsby,” suggested Lard. “The Socialist has two main principles of action: first, to give nothing to any good cause himself; and second, to appropriate his neighbour's property on the first opportunity. And your other correspondents?”
“I had a letter from the inventor of a nonintoxicating beer, offering £5 on condition that we advertised his beverage, which he discovered by supernatural guidance and sold for philanthropic ends.”
“All queer beverages and patent medicines are owned by high-class religious people, as far as I can understand,” remarked Com.
“Go on.”
“A third letter warned me that such spaces would be abused by bad characters and sap the morals of the people; the writer also wanted to know whether they would be closed on the Sabbath.”
“A publican evidently,” remarked Cotton; “no man is so concerned about Sabbath observance. And so you got sick of the whole affair?”
“Rather, till I got this letter. I'll read it, and then you can make your guesses at the enclosure.
“'Liverpool, June 9, 189-.
“'MY DEAR Sir,—Your letter of 7th ult, in the issue of the Morning Trumpet of May 8, caught my eye and received my most careful attention. As you appeared to have established a primâ facie case for what you designate “People's Playgrounds,” I have occupied my leisure time in examining the sanitary and social condition of certain parts of our city which were more or less distinctly indicated in your letter. As the result of my investigations, I am thoroughly convinced, in the first place, that you have proved your case as regards the unfortunate circumstances of the children in such parts, and, in the second place, that your plan for their relief is practical and wisely considered,
“'It then became my duty as a citizen of Liverpool to consider what I could do to further the ends of your scheme, and it seemed to me on the whole most advisable to place a sum of money at your disposal, on condition that it be spent with such other sums as may be sent you in purchasing decaying property and creating playgrounds—said playgrounds to be vested in the Parks and Gardens Committee of the City Council—and I would suggest that people interested in each district be allowed and encouraged to contribute to the furnishing and adornment of the playgrounds.
“'I beg therefore to enclose a draft in your favour on Messrs. Goldbeater & Co., Lombard Street, London, and I have only to add my sincere approval of the good work you are doing among the poor of Liverpool, and my wish, which, as a man of honour, you will doubtless carefully respect, that you will take no steps to discover my name.—I have the honour to be, your obedient servant,
“'Zaccheus.'”
“Satisfactory, very, although a trifle pedantic and long-winded. And the sum, Welsby? I say £250.”
“£500” said Cotton.
“£1,000,” cried Lard.
“What do you say to £10,000?” and the draft was handed round.
“Congratulate you, old man.” Com shook hands with Welsby, and so did they all, for he had worked hard in many a good cause. “You deserve your luck; think I'll take to writing letters for my pet hospital. Who can he be? Do you suspect any one?”
“Half a dozen, but I'm bound not to inquire; and I rather think that the trail is covered at Goldbeater's beyond finding. But I know who did not give it—Sam Dodson.
“No, of course I did not ask him for help. One does not court refusals; but you know his meddling, ferreting ways. If he didn't stop me in the street and ask fifty questions till I hinted at a subscription, when he was off in a minute.”
“Nothing frightens him like a suggestion of that kind. He has raised meanness to the height of genius. They say that he is worth £200,000, but I wouldn't change with him,” said Lard, “for a million. When he dies, Dodson will not leave a soul to regret him, and there'll not be six people at his funeral.”
“You can't be sure, gentlemen,” said a quiet voice behind; “I've overheard you on Dodson, and I hope what you say is not true.”
The speaker was one of those rare souls God sends forth at a time to establish our faith in goodness; who are believed in by all parties, and respected by all creeds, and loved by all classes; who sit on all the charitable boards, and help on every good cause, and make peace in quarrels; whom old men consult in their perplexities, and young men turn to in trouble, and people follow with affectionate glances in the street; who never suspect their own excellence, always take the lowest seat, and have to be compelled to accept an honour.
“You have a good word to say for everybody, sir,” said Cotton with deep respect; “but have you, even, ever got a penny from Mr. Dodson far a charity?”
“Well, I cannot say that I remember an instance; only I'm sure that he has his own way of doing good. Every one has, unless he be utterly bad; and I'm seventy years old, gentle-men, and I never met that kind yet.”
“Greatheart is the only man in Liverpool who would say a word for Dodson,” said Lard a minute later, “and in this case his charity has rather overshot the mark; but it does one good to hear the old man. He is a walking Sermon on the Mount, and the best thing about him is that he believes in everybody; the very sight of his white hair makes me a better man.”