CHAPTER XLV
BITTER TRIALS
With the removal to Plainfield came the commencement of a period of bitter trial and almost unremitting struggle for existence.
Norman, though he occasionally assisted me with small amounts, never redeemed his promise to do the joint-account business which was to pay those debts, as much his as mine, and recoup my losses. Meanwhile, he was doing well and reported to be making money fast.
The months passed by, and though I managed to make the payments to Mrs. Slater I was running behind on my bills at the office and at home. Something must be done. I tried in every way to get Norman to pay me part of the considerable sum which stood against him on my books-he was heartless. He knew I would not sue him and if I did he could keep the matter hanging in the courts for years. Then I resolved to get some money out of him in another way.
He was accustomed to make certain deliveries through our office, the payments being made to us. In the next settlement I made with him I deducted a few hundred dollars, sufficient to pay my most pressing bills; and gave him credit for the amount.
I felt I had a perfect legal and moral right to keep this money; but a few days later thought perhaps, as a matter of policy, I had made a mistake, as he could throw more or less business my way which I might lose if he resented my action. I then wrote him expressing my regret for the necessity of the step. At first he took it very nicely, told me not to speak of it, and that it was all right; but later he did his utmost to divert business from me and then my only regret was that I had not kept the whole amount.
From an office-boy at four dollars per week I had brought him up in my business, launched him out as a broker, supported him liberally, and made him successful. All he ever had in the world he owed either directly or indirectly to me. He wronged me in the old days before the failure in 1895, again in this later failure, and now added insult to injury in his base ingratitude.
In these days of trial I was often severely pressed for ready money in small amounts for current expenses. My old friend Will Curtice had responded to my occasional requests for loans, which had been invariably returned, though not always with promptness. The time came when he declined, saying he could not do it, which meant he would not, for he was becoming a rich man. At a later period, and when my credit with butcher and grocer had reached the limit. I wrote to him for fifty dollars. I told him it was for bread and butter for my family and that whether he made the loan or not I should never again appeal to him. He returned my letter, first writing across it, "It is quite impossible." A few days later I met him in the street. He saw me coming and deliberately cut me.
Another friend gone. One of the old "Immortal Ten"—the man who had composed that song containing the lines:
"And Stowe has been so generous since,
That all the crowd have dubbed him Prince."
At one of our old dinner-parties I heard Curtice say, in the course of conversation, "Friends are of no use except for what you can get out of them." He laughed when he said it and I supposed it was a thoughtless joke—perhaps he meant it seriously.