“No, Sir John, you cannot,” I replied, “but you can fill an empty sack, and allow it to stand up itself.”
“Umph,” said Sir John, rising; “you will excuse me, John, for a few minutes,” and he left the room closing the door behind him.
I sat alone in patience for the best part of fifteen minutes, at the end of which period the old gentleman returned with some money in his hand. He sat down at his desk and counted it, then pushing the bundle towards me, said: “There is the amount you require. Try and be more wise hereafter. I bid you good-morning.” I took the money, which was the exact amount showing on the wrong side of my statement, and rose to go.
“Thank you, Sir John,” I said, “to-day you have saved a man,” and I offered him my hand. He took it and held it while he spoke, and I was surprised to feel a kindly pressure. “Don’t thank me,” he said, “thank Parson Edmund. I do not know that we are wise in helping you. It were perhaps better to have let you save yourself, as every man must who will be saved. We shall see. Good-bye.” And he sat down at his desk and prepared to write. I stammered something and stumbled awkwardly out of his office, after having had the longest interview I ever had with my millionaire godfather.
I am convinced that the Sir John I saw with what appeared to me cold, hard and precise ways, was not the real Sir John. The real one had a soft heart and emotions easily moved, and had merely adopted the air of coldness to protect himself. He had done it for so long that it had become at last a part of him. But he must be sorry at times for himself and for others, when he pauses to look round. He has lived the typical life of an old bachelor of large means, bullied and protected by his housekeeper, who has been with him for many years. Possibly he is in the main contented with what he has done with his life. The point of view makes all the difference; yet, considering our two human predicaments, I, John H. Wesblock, would not be Sir John Duff if I could. This brings me to say that Sir John would not have assisted me, I feel certain, had not Daddy Edmund intervened. The world points to people with money as successful men, and money becomes boastful, and arrogates to itself powers of judgment it does not possess. I have known several millionaires and many wealthy men who were not quite millionaires, and with few exceptions, they were crudities. Not one of them had one attribute I would have been glad to possess, except perhaps perseverance and acquisitiveness. Their outlook was narrow, their mental powers were quite ordinary, and they were without charm of personality. Sir John was a common type; he lived a cold, cheerless life without the warmth of friendship or love. Hundreds of people have kind thoughts of Daddy Edmund, and when his name comes up in conversation he is mentioned with affection. I have often heard people say, “Dear old Daddy!” but I never heard a dead millionaire thus spoken of. I would rather have ten people remember me as “dear old Wesblock” than have a million remember me by the amount of money I left behind me.
I paid all my creditors, even those who would have been willing to wait; for Sir John had to scrutinise my vouchers. In consequence I was left high and dry without a cent with which to bless myself after my affairs were settled, and I was on what Sir John termed “an even keel!” A living had to be made, and as my father was no longer in a position to make situations to order for me, I was forced to do all sorts of things as they came to my hand. I became a kind of broker or financial guttersnipe, selling anything that would pay a commission, assisting in audits and filling temporary positions in various capacities. It was a hard and very precarious life, but I was free, and called no man “master.” This I considered as no small advantage, for as yet I was only partly broken and had not learned to serve. As to life insurance, I would not touch it. Even when successful, I had always disliked it. I found, of course, that my gambling exploits did not help me in securing a permanent position. I was not considered a safe man.
People whom the good world considers disreputable have a wonderfully human way of hanging together and helping each other. I noticed this phenomenon more and more in following the wrong road; and it is to be met with further down, right into the under-world. Even those who are not frankly disreputable, but wear a mask of respectability, behind which they enjoy some loved vice, like gambling, consider themselves under obligations to the hapless fraternity, and are ready with a helping hand. I had a large acquaintance among this class. Lawyers, bankers, merchants, railroad men and politicians were among them, and they were very useful to me.
There are many kinds of poverty, and several roads lead to its diminishing degrees. Some roads are short: a quick, sharp slide on a slippery surface and there you are, suddenly destitute, without means or friends. There is no fight; you simply take the toboggan slide, and are almost instantly at the bottom among the unlucky, the shiftless and the degenerate. On other roads the grade is so gentle you hardly recognise your downward progress. The road I took was one of the slow ones, where you fight every inch of the way, the struggle being so strenuous sometimes that you believe you are making progress forward, while you are in effect slipping gradually backward, down, down, into the bog, which clogs your every energy, until you don’t care, and the final collapse is welcome. One day you awaken to some painful little fact, which enlightens you as to the direction you have been travelling. The weather may be cold and wet, there are several inches of slush on the sidewalks, and damp snow is falling. You find you have only one pair of boots fit to wear, and they are very thin in the sole, and you have no rubbers. You have much walking to do to secure some paltry sum to satisfy urgent necessities. It seems to you that only a little while ago you had several pairs of boots. Now you have but one pair. There is food in the pantry and coal in the cellar. Things are not exactly desperate; but you have only one pair of boots, no rubbers, and no money to buy them. That sets you thinking over your whole predicament, and you discover that you have gone to seed and are shabby. Your wardrobe is but the shadow of its former self; those things which are still good in it are too good, and would look ridiculous if you wore them.
Perhaps on the very day following the one on which you have had these thoughts, some well-meaning relative, who is better off than you are, sends your wife a kind note and a bundle of cast-off clothes for the children. Your patient and long-suffering wife is glad, and reads you the note, and says, “Oh, John, is that not kind of Aunt Mary?” This makes you jump; something seems to have given way inside; you feel a falling sensation in your bowels; you are touched on the raw, and as you look at your wife your eyebrows go up in the centre and your jaw falls like that of a dead man. Look out for the man who goes on the war-path after having suffered these things. He is dangerous.