“I know him very well, indeed.”
Doctor Bridges, the president of Tippecanoe College, was a venerable Presbyterian minister, widely beloved for his many virtues. Dameron’s face lighted at the mention of the name. Balcomb saw that he had struck the right note and continued volubly:
“Well, sir, I was the doctor’s secretary in my junior and senior years, and I shall always feel that I learned more from that venerable old patriarch than from my books. The doctor used to say to me in that sweet, winning way of his: ‘Balcomb,’ he would say, ‘be honest, be just.’ Over and over again he would repeat those words, and they got to be a sort of rule of life with me. It’s wonderful how many places they fit. I tell you, sir,”—and a quaver crept into his voice—“a young man’s temptations these days are mighty hard to deal with. Half a dozen times I’ve seen places where I could have fixed myself for life by doing things—promoting schemes and all that—that most any business man would call legitimate. But every time the doctor’s dear old face has risen up before me and I’ve heard that admonition of his, ‘Balcomb, be honest, be just,’ and it lost me money; but I guess it saved my conscience.”
Dameron listened sympathetically to this recital, nodding his head gravely from time to time.
“Doctor Bridges is a splendid man, a man of great spiritual power. I consider myself fortunate in having had him for my friend these forty-odd years.”
“Well,” said Jack, with an air of suddenly wakening to present duty; “I didn’t come here to take up your time with reminiscences.”
“I have enjoyed your remarks very much,” said Dameron, who had not, indeed, heard a great deal of what Balcomb said. He was thinking of his own enterprises, and of his present need of money to maintain his margins. He wished to make use of Balcomb without committing himself to the sale of the strip on the creek. That was a valuable piece of land; it was increasing rapidly in value, and even in his extremity Ezra Dameron had no thought of fooling it away. But Balcomb’s airiness and persistence had made their impression on Dameron. He did not realize it, but he and the young promoter had much in common. They belonged to different eras and yet there was a certain affinity between them.
“Mr. Balcomb,” said Dameron, tipping himself back in his chair, “you have suggested to me the possibility of selling a strip of land I hold as trustee out here on the creek. As I have told you before, I do not care to sell at this time. I have, however, some lots southwest of town, also a part of a trust, which I have about decided to dispose of. Several factories have been built in the neighborhood, and the lots are already in demand by mechanics who wish to build themselves homes. I have declined to sell them separately, as most of those people wish to pay a little at a time, and I don’t care to sell in that way. I am at an age, Mr. Balcomb, when I don’t like to accept promises for the future. Do I make myself clear?”
“Certainly, Mr. Dameron,” said Balcomb, with a note of sympathy that was almost moist with tears.
“But if you can manage this and sell those lots so as to bring me cash I shall be willing to pay you a commission,—the usual commission.”