"But if it was only doing some good—When I see the misery all about—"
"Wait a bit. You're putting the cart before the horse, my boy. There's no sin in being rich, in piling it up, as you say, if you're not doing anybody any harm. Have you ever thought of the thousands who work for you, of the lands, the railroads, the steamships, the mills, all carrying and producing—producing, Jerry, helping people to live, to work? Isn't it something to have a share in building up your country?"
"But not the lion's share. It's so impersonal, Roger. My companies may be helping, but I'm not. I want to help people myself."
"That's just what I'm getting at. The more money you make, the more people you can help," I laughed. "It's simplicity itself."
"In theory, yes. But I see where it's leading me. If I go on making money, where will I find the time to give it away? It seems to be a passion with these men getting more—always more. I don't want to get like Ballard or Stewardson. And I won't!"
He snapped his jaws together and strode with long steps the length of the room.
"I won't, Roger," he repeated. "And I've told 'em so."
I remained silent for a moment, gazing at the portrait of John Benham on the wall opposite me. He had a jaw like Jerry's, not so well turned and the lips were thinner, a hard man, a merciless man in business, a man of mystery and hidden impulses. The boy was keen enough, I knew, when it came to a question of right and wrong. There was some ancient history for Jerry to learn. Did Jerry already suspect the kind of man his father had been?
"You're sure that you're right?" I asked quietly.
"Positive. It's all very well to talk about those my money helps, but it harms, too. If anything gets in the way of Ballard's interests or mine, he crushes 'em like egg-shells. My father—"