Now perhaps they would have to take an apartment and cut down their expenditures. There would be an income ample for all necessities—even for the best apartment in Corinth, for a reasonable amount of entertaining.
“But can’t anything be done? Can’t I pitch in—?”
Mr. Hamilton laughed and looked at his son kindly.
“You’ve used that expression twice today, Bob,” he said. “It’s not like pitching hay or even pitching for a baseball team. I know you’re willing. But the smashup came while you were still in France—right after the armistice. It’s not as though anyone can help at this stage of the game, like a pinch hitter.”
Robert wondered how his father could take the matter so lightly. He suddenly gripped his father’s hand and stammered:
“It’s great how you can smile through everything like that. It’s—!”
Mr. Hamilton patted his shoulder.
“Wait until you’re my age, son. My loss is really nothing. There are things tremendously more important than money. Health, love, friendship. The ability to appreciate this cigar or to tell a good drink or a good book from a poor one. Money is valuable only in buying that appreciation. I’ve tried to give you that—to give you an education and a viewpoint. And we still have enough money left to buy a few good cigars and drinks and books.”
Mr. Hamilton sketched the decline of the Hamilton corporation. It had never been as important as Robert had thought—there had always been heavily mortgaged properties, for instance. During the war, most of the hardwood lands had been sold and the money used to expand the cotton mills. In the spring of 1918 it seemed certain that the war would last at least another year and so a huge plant had been erected near Charleston. Prices were high, the work lagged, the expense was enormous. In order to insure a sufficient supply of cotton and to guard against continued increases in price, Hamilton had bought heavily for future delivery. The armistice had come. The bottom had fallen out of the market. The demand for cotton goods had ceased. There was no foreign market. Well, it was hopeless. Out of the mess there would be left perhaps $200,000, anyway $100,000. He had disposed of most of his stock at a small figure. A set of Yankees and Jews were in control.
“Whatever you do,” said Mr. Hamilton, looking at Robert steadily, “whatever you do, don’t gamble on the exchange. Poker is all right, within your means. It’s a gentleman’s game. Dice has an honorable origin and at least you get a chance to hold the dice once in a while. But on the stock market or exchange you never hold the dice. You’ll remember, won’t you?