She was not satisfied.
“Why, then,” she asked, “doesn’t this Clarkson man work the land himself and not let us have all this profit? It looks to me like a gift.”
“It is,” said Richard.
“What!” she bristled.
“It is an outright gift of Mitchell Lear’s wise brain. You might ask why Lear doesn’t take the thing up as a personal speculation. The reason is that he is a lawyer by natural selection. He is a genius at making money, too; he told me a dozen ways to turn over cash right in this neighbourhood, but he’s a lawyer first, last and all the time. Or you might ask why Fennill and Holloday and Hoskins don’t go into the apple business properly. The answer is simple, they couldn’t if they wanted to; they haven’t the brains, Lear says. He says that some of those fellows haven’t brains enough to raise dandelions! No; you’ve got to take off your hat to Mitchell Lear. He’s as loyal to this family as George Alexander.”
“I would not accept a cent as a gift,” said Jerry firmly, “but I would take much in the name of loyalty.”
To cover any possible misunderstanding of her last remark she asked quickly, “Suppose the income does not reach your expectations?”
“It’s a risk,” he admitted, “like all living. But I am trusting Mitchell Lear on those figures. He knows what is being done by careful grape and apple farmers hereabouts—the most scientific fellows—and he knows what ‘Red Jacket’ used to get before the spray experiment began, and he claims that he has made no over-statements. The biggest asset ‘Red Jacket’ has, he says, is its loyal labour, and the fortunate possession among the negroes of a half-dozen men like George Alexander and Bolivar, who have an uncanny knowledge of all this new tree and vine lore; and a still more uncanny knowledge of how to make those negroes work! It looks to me like good business,” he examined the sheet proudly; “and you haven’t said a word about my magnificent financial engineering.”
She reached forward and patted him on the arm.
“It is magnificent!” she said. “Wonderful! I thought you were an impractical dreamer, and here you present me with a magician’s wand.... I did not realize—no, I really did not—what ‘Red Jacket’ meant to me.... And it is fortunate that I didn’t. I felt so cold and ... benumbed, because of the whole ugly business that I believe I should have walked out of that door and down the path without a tear, without even once looking back at old ‘Tshoti’ and ‘Da’ and ‘Waga.’... You are a very wonderful, practical man, Richard-my-dear, but ... I liked you just as well as poet.”