“These people are not giving something for nothing,” Falcontent reflected, somewhat disturbed by this novelty of truth. “They’re getting something out of it.”
That was a business proposition.
“I wonder,” Falcontent puzzled, “what the deuce they do get out of it—in these days.”
Falcontent was himself a robust fellow. He was highly efficient: he was a hustler—of the most up-to-date and scientifically efficient sort. And he conformed: he was sane according to every notion of the times. In shirts, shoes, hose, cravats, hair-cut, occupation, waist-line, language, habits, interest, antipathies, finger-nails, clean-shaven condition, oaths, charities—in everything a man might be disposed to call in question—Falcontent was of the day and proper beyond quibble. He gave no sign even of the subtle beginnings of peculiarity. He was precisely like everybody else in the world: it would have horrified him—grieved and shamed him—to discover any symptom of significant difference. In brief, Falcontent was in vigorous health. Not an alienist of virtuous reputation could have discovered in him the least divergence from the straight line of normality.
Nor could a surgeon with due regard for the ethics of his profession have found in Falcontent any honest occupation for his knife; nor could a devoted practitioner of internal medicine have supplied a need of Falcontent’s hearty body.
Falcontent’s soul? Falcontent had no soul. Or rather, to be precise, he had a soul, of course. Everybody has a soul. Nobody doubts that any more; it is not in good taste even to discuss the thing. But Falcontent was not abnormally conscious of having a soul. Nobody in Falcontent’s world acknowledged the possession of a soul. Falcontent’s soul took care of itself; it did not trouble him. And had such a phantom of his childhood lingered to distress him—to cry out for the bread and water of attention,—Falcontent would with caution have concealed its aggravating habits from the normal fellows with whom he was accustomed to mingle upon terms of the most normally jovial good-fellowship. Falcontent—with a troublesome soul? You should have heard Falcontent laugh! A big, ruddy, big-hearted chap—that was James Falcontent; a clean, kindly, hopeful, energetic, merry fellow, given to no meanness, to no greed, to no unworthy pride, to no dishonor whatsoever.
Big James Falcontent surely stood in no peril of the machinations of mysticism.
But——
“I don’t know,” Falcontent brooded, as the bus sped on up Fifth Avenue, “but that little Jimmie had better start in going to Sunday-school.”
All very well! But little Jimmie might contract a morbid piety. He might become—an angelic child! Oh, Lord!... Doubtless revival-meetings were still in the fashion. And some vivid gentleman with a bright brass cornet or a tinkling banjo might catch the poor little devil.... Well, how about it? That was all right, wasn’t it? Jimmie had to rough it, hadn’t he?—as his father had done. Jimmie was going to the public school; he was taking his chances there like a little man—and surviving, too. That kid sure had the stuff in him.... But if Jimmie should turn out a parson?... Falcontent gulped. Parsons, poets, and pianists: they were the same sort of thing in Falcontent’s primitive category of the professions.... Well, anyhow, how about that? That was Jimmie’s business, wasn’t it? What right had Falcontent to butt in? If Jimmie really wanted to be a parson—or a poet—or even a pianist.... No: Falcontent could not with any degree of pride listen to suave sermons from Jimmie. Nor could he endure to hear Jimmie read poetry of his own composition; nor could he with fond equanimity observe Jimmie’s manipulation of the piano—no matter how astonishingly skilful.