“That was written by your Eugene Field,” offered the girl. “Now read the one on the opposite side. It is your Tekel Upharsin.”
He went to the one she indicated, and read the spiritual admonition from Bryant:
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“Leave the vain, low strife That makes men mad––the tug for wealth and power–– The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour.” |
“Now,” continued the girl, “that is only a suggestion to you of the real handwriting on the wall. I put it there purposely, knowing that some day you would come in here and read it.”
Ames turned and looked at her in dumb wonder, as if she were some uncanny creature, possessed of occult powers. Then the significance of her words trickled through the portals of his thought.
“You mean, I suppose,” he said, “that if I am not persuaded by the second motto I shall feel the force of the first, as it sways you, eh?”
“I mean, Mr. Ames,” she replied steadily, “that the world is entering upon a new era of thought, and that your carnal views and methods belong to a day that is past. This century has no place for them; it wearies of the things you represent; you are the epitome of that evil which must have its little hour of night before the reality dawns.”
He regarded her intently for some moments. “Am I to understand,” he asked, “that the Express, under its new management, is about to turn muck-raker, and shovel mud at us men of wealth?”
“We are not considering the Express now, Mr. Ames,” she replied. “It is I alone who am warning you.”