“Why, Sir, because it wasn’t the last,” said the boy.
“For business purposes it was the last, Sir,” replied Mr. Newt. “You don’t know the first principles of business. The tongue is always the mischief-maker. Hold your tongue, Sir, hold your tongue, or you’ll lose your place, Sir.”
Mr. Boniface Newt, ruffled and red, went into his office, where he found Abel reading the newspaper and smoking a cigar. The clerks outside were pale at the audacity, of Newt, Jun. The young man was dressed extremely well. He had improved the few weeks of his residence in the city by visits to Frost the tailor, in Maiden Lane; and had sent his measure to Forr, the bootmaker in Paris, artists who turned out the prettiest figures that decorated the Broadway of those days. Mr. Abel Newt, to his father’s eyes, had the air of a man of superb leisure; and as he sat reading the paper, with one leg thrown over the arm of the office-chair, and the smoke languidly curling from his lips, Mr. Boniface Newt felt profoundly, but vaguely, uncomfortable, as if he had some slight prescience of a future of indolence for the hope of the house of Newt.
As his father entered, Mr. Abel dropped by his side the hand still holding the newspaper, and, without removing the cigar, said, through the cloud of smoke he blew,
“Father, you were imparting your philosophy of life.”
The older gentleman, somewhat discomposed, answered,
“Yes, I was saying what a pity it is that men are such d——d rascals, because they force every body else to be so too. But what can you do? It’s all very fine to talk, but we’ve got to live. I sha’n’t be such an ass as to run into the street and say, ‘I gave ten cents a yard for those goods, but you must pay me twenty.’ Not at all. It’s other men’s business to find that out if they can. It’s a great game, business is, and the smartest chap wins. Every body knows we are going to get the largest price we can. People are gouging, and shinning, and sucking all round. It’s give and take. I am not here to look out for other men, I’m here to take care of myself—for nobody else will. It’s very sad, I know; it’s very sad, indeed. It’s absolutely melancholy. Ah, yes! where was I? Oh! I was saying that a lie well stuck to is better than the truth wavering. It’s perfectly dreadful, my son, from some points of view—Christianity, for instance. But what on earth are you going to do? The only happy people are the rich people, for they don’t have this eternal bother how to make money. Don’t misunderstand me, my son; I do not say that you must always tell stories. Heaven forbid! But a man is not bound always to tell the whole truth. The very law itself says that no man need give evidence against himself. Besides, business is no worse than every other calling. Do you suppose a lawyer never defends a man whom he knows to be guilty? He says he does it to give the culprit a fair trial. Fiddle-de-dee! He strains every nerve to get the man off. A lawyer is hired to take the side of a company or a corporation in every quarrel. He’s paid by the year or by the case. He probably stops to consider whether his company is right, doesn’t he? he works for justice, not for victory? Oh, yes! stuff! He works for fees. What’s the meaning of a retainer? That if, upon examination, the lawyer finds the retaining party to be in the right, he will undertake the case? Fiddle! no! but that he will undertake the case any how and fight it through. So ‘tis all round. I wish I was rich, and I’d be out of it.”
Mr. Boniface Newt discoursed warmly; Mr. Abel Newt listened with extreme coolness. He whiffed his cigar, and leaned his head on one side as he hearkened to the wisdom of experience; observing that his father put his practice into words and called it philosophy.