Light-Fingered Gentry

by David Graham Phillips

Still, he began to hope against hope, as the proxies rolled in for him—by hundreds, by thousands, by tens of thousands. Most of the letters accompanying the proxies justified his cynical opinion that the average man is never so wrong as when he is right; the writers gave the most absurd reasons for supporting him, not a few of them frankly saying that it was to the best interest of the company to leave the control to the man who was in with the powers of Wall Street! But there were letters, hundreds of them, from men and women who showed that they understood the situation; and, curiously enough, most of these letters were badly written, badly spelled, letters from so-called ignorant people. It was a striking exhibit of how little education has to do with brains. "I've always said," thought Armstrong, "that our rotten system of education is responsible for most of the fools and all the damn fools, but I never before knew how true it was."

And the weeks passed, and the annual meeting and election drew nearer and nearer. Instead of Armstrong's agitation increasing, it disappeared entirely. Within, he was as calm as he had all along seemed at the surface. It was an unexpected reward for trying to do the square thing. He was eminently practical in his morals, was the last man in the world to turn the other cheek, was disposed to return a blow both in kind and in degree. But he knew, also, that the calm he now felt was due to the changed course, could never have been his in the old course.

On the morning of the great day, he stopped shaving to look into his own eyes reflected in the glass. "Old man," said he aloud, "there's much to be said for being clean—reasonably, humanly clean. It begins to have compensations sooner than the preachers seem to think."

As Armstrong entered the splendid assembly chamber of the new O.A.D. building, the first figure his eyes hit upon was that of Hugo Fosdick, entering at the opposite door. To look at him was like hearing a good joke. He was walking as if upon air, head rearing, lofty brow corrugated, eyes rolling and serious, shoulders squared as if bearing lightly a ponderous burden. Of all the trifles that flash and wink out upon the expanse of the infinite, the physically vain man seems the most trivial. The so-called upper classes, being condemned to think about themselves almost all the time, furnish to the drama of life the most of the low comedy, with their struttings and swellings and posings. Those who in addition to class vanity have physical vanity are the clowns of the great show. Hugo was of the clowns—and he dressed the part, that day. He had on a tremendously loud tweed suit, a billycock hat of a peculiar shade of brown to match, a huge plaid overcoat; he was wearing a big, rough-looking chrysanthemum that seemed of a piece with his tie; he diffused perfume like a woman who wishes to be known by the scent she uses. As he drew off his big, thick driving gloves, he gazed grandly around. His eyes met Armstrong's, and his haughty lip curled in a supercilious smile.

"Did you come down in an auto?" some one asked him.

"No, not in an auto," he said in a voice intended to be heard by all. "I drove down. I've dropped the auto—it's become vulgar, like the bicycle. It was merely a fad, and the best people soon exhausted it. There's no chance for individual taste in those mechanical things, as there is in horses. Anyone can get together the best there is going in automobiles; but how many men can provide themselves with well turned out traps—horses, harness, the men on the box, just as a gentleman's turnout should be?"

One of the Western men laughed behind his hand, and said, "Wot t' hell!" But most of the assembly gazed rather awedly at Hugo. They would have thought him ridiculous had he been presented to them as a laugh-provoker; but, as he was presented as a representative of the "top notch" of New York, they were respectfully silent and obediently impressed.

And now, with Randall, a Duncan man, in the chair, the meeting began—formalities, reading of reports to which nobody listened, making of motions in which nobody was interested. Half an hour of this, with the tension increasing. Duncan had dry-smoked three cigars, and the corners of his fat mouth were yellow with tobacco stains; Hugo, struggling hard for a gentleman's sang froid, had half torn out the sweat band of his pot hat, had bit his lip till it bled. He was watching Armstrong, was hating him and envying him—for the big Westerner sat at the right of the chairman with no more trace of excitement on his face than there is in the features of a bronze Buddha who has been staring cross-legged into Nirvana for twenty-five centuries.

Nor did he rouse himself when the election began, though a nervous shiver like an electric shock visibly shook every other man in the room. His lieutenants proposed his list of candidates; Duncan's men proposed the "Popular" list; the voting began. Barry, for Armstrong, cast sixty-two thousand four hundred and fifteen votes—the proxies that had come in for Armstrong in answer to his appeal and also the uncanceled proxies of those he had had since the beginning of his term. Duncan and his crowd burst into a cheer, and in rapid succession nine of them cast forty-three thousand and eleven votes. Then they turned anxious eyes on Hugo. Armstrong, too, looked at him. He could not understand. Hugo's name was not on the Duncan list of persons to whom the "new broom" proxies were to be sent. Hugo, pale and trembling, rose. He fixed revengeful, triumphant, gloating eyes upon Armstrong and addressed him, as he said to the chairman, "For Mr. Wolcott here, I cast for the Popular, or anti-Armstrong ticket, the proxies of ninety thousand six hundred and four policy holders."

Armstrong looked at Hugo as if he were not seeing him; indeed, he seemed almost oblivious of his surroundings, as if he were absorbed in some tranquil, interesting mental problem. Silence followed Hugo's announcement, and the porters brought in and piled upon the huge table, over against the now insignificant bundles of Armstrong's proxies, the packages which were the tangible demonstration of the overwhelming force and power of his foes. As the porters completed their task, the spectacle became so inspiring to Duncan and his friends that they forgot their dignity, and gave way to their feelings. They yelled, they tossed their hats; they embraced, shook hands, gave each other resounding slaps upon the shoulders. Hugo condescended to join in their jubilations, never taking his eyes off Armstrong's face. Armstrong and Barry and Driggs sat silent, Armstrong impassive, Barry frowning, Driggs gnawing his mustache. Armstrong's gaze went from face to face of these "policy holders"; on each he saw written the basest emotions—emotions from the jungle, emotions of tusk and claw. The O.A.D. with all its vast treasures was theirs to despoil—and they were clashing their fangs and licking their savage chops in anticipation of the feast. The vast majority of the policy holders had been too indifferent to respond to the appeal of either side—this, though the future of their widows and their orphans was at stake! Of those who had responded, the overwhelming majority had declared against Armstrong.