I knew what he meant—that with the return of prosperity, with vast capital ready for investment, with the control of the packing and food-products transportation business—which we packers had been organizing into a compact machine—there was no limit to the reach of our power in this land, in the world. (And I was of his way of thinking, then, not believing that a power existed which could check our operations. And I do not believe it now, I may add; nor do I know a man conversant with the modern situation of capital who believes that with our present system of government any effective check upon the operations of capital can be devised.)
"Think it over," Carmichael urged, "and let me know when I return from Chicago the first of the week. You don't want to make the mistake of your life by dropping out just now."
But while he was talking to me, urging on me the greatness of the future, my thoughts went back to that letter of Jane Dround's. She had seen swiftly a truth that was coming to me slowly. There might be twenty, forty, sixty millions in the packers' deal, but the joy of the game had gone for me. All of those millions would not give me the joy I had when I sold that sausage plant to Strauss! I shook my head.
"No, I don't want it, John. But Strauss's death makes a big difference. I am willing to offer some kind of trade with you,—to let you have my stock on better terms, if your people will do what I want."
Carmichael waited for my proposal. I said:—
"Old Parkinson is pretty near his end, I hear. It's likely there will be a vacant seat in the Senate sometime soon."
The Irishman's eyes opened wide in astonishment.
"Strauss used to keep in touch with Springfield," I suggested. "He and Vitzer" (who was the great traction wolf in Chicago) "used to work pretty close together sometimes—"
"You want to go to the Senate, Van?"
Carmichael burst into a laugh that attracted the attention of the men sitting around us.