“I don’t see why fair play isn’t the thing—the only thing—for a white man after he leaves college as much as before.”
“You’ve missed some points,” said Trefethen quietly. “If we didn’t have variety we wouldn’t have civilization. It’s the men who step out of the ranks who make progress. We’d all be cave-dwellers yet if some old skin-dressed fellow hadn’t begun to accumulate stone knives and oyster-shells. I dare say they called him a menace to society. It’s better for the world that some houses should be filled with pictures and books than that all should be hovels alike.”
He stopped and considered, puffing at his cigar thoughtfully, and the bright-faced boys, sitting about the table, regarded him eagerly, respectfully.
“The race is tied together. The whole procession moves up when the leaders take a step. The hovels of to-day have luxuries the palaces didn’t have once. It’s competition; it’s survival of the fittest that raises the standard for all. To the man fittest to organize and lead goes the prize. It’s right it should go to him; he has earned it. He has created capital by efficiency. Before long his income inevitably exceeds his expenditures. A fortune is made, and it is a benefit to mankind that men of mental grasp should handle such fortunes, have the power to found libraries and hospitals and great public works; doing good to thousands, rather than that the money should be dribbled out in small sums among those who can’t accumulate and who can’t spend wisely.”
Van Arden was on his feet; his tall, nervous figure quivered with intensity. “That’s the optimist view, Mr. Lord; that’s not the average. Here and there, one in a thousand, maybe, is a magnate who takes his luck responsibly, but mostly what you see is vulgar greed—use of privilege without genius—brutal indifference, power used tyrannically, cynical hardness to human feelings. Why, the papers are chuck-full of it. Look at our case; look at this Trefethen.” He stopped and smiled a frank deprecation. “You see, I’m back to the personal view. I own up. Well, it isn’t an abstract question in New Haven to-night. It’s concrete as the dickens—it’s Carl.”
“This Trefethen,” lighting a fresh cigar, did not care to smile back into the sincere eyes; he occupied himself closely with the cigar. The football captain thundered in.
“Carl!” he echoed dramatically. “Of course it’s Carl, and he’s an illustration of the whole mess. What sort of fairness has been shown in his case? Legal, all right; but that play wouldn’t go in football. Just because Trefethen & Co. think they might as well make all the money in sight. He’s rolling now, but they say he’s going to be the richest man in the world—a sweet ambition! Hope he’ll enjoy himself! I’ll bet a doughnut he isn’t happy this second. I wouldn’t be in his skin for a dollar a minute.”
And the silent Trefethen squirmed under that skin and agreed.
“He’s a Yale man,” put in Van Arden reflectively.