“No, no, no!” shouted Lindau. “The State shall do that—the whole beople. The men who voark shall have and shall eat; and the men that will not voark, they shall sdarfe. But no man need sdarfe. He will go to the State, and the State will see that he haf voark, and that he haf foodt. All the roadts and mills and mines and landts shall be the beople’s and be ron by the beople for the beople. There shall be no rich and no boor; and there shall not be war anymore, for what bower wouldt dare to addack a beople bound togeder in a broderhood like that?”
“Lion and lamb act,” said Fulkerson, not well knowing, after so much champagne, what words he was using.
No one noticed him, and Colonel Woodburn said coldly to Lindau, “You are talking paternalism, sir.”
“And you are dalking feutalism!” retorted the old man.
The colonel did not reply. A silence ensued, which no one broke till Fulkerson said: “Well, now, look here. If either one of these millenniums was brought about, by force of arms, or otherwise, what would become of Every Other Week? Who would want March for an editor? How would Beaton sell his pictures? Who would print Mr. Kendricks’s little society verses and short stories? What would become of Conrad and his good works?” Those named grinned in support of Fulkerson’s diversion, but Lindau and the colonel did not speak; Dryfoos looked down at his plate, frowning. A waiter came round with cigars, and Fulkerson took one. “Ah,” he said, as he bit off the end, and leaned over to the emblematic masterpiece, where the brandy was still feebly flickering, “I wonder if there’s enough natural gas left to light my cigar.” His effort put the flame out and knocked the derrick over; it broke in fragments on the table. Fulkerson cackled over the ruin: “I wonder if all Moffitt will look that way after labor and capital have fought it out together. I hope this ain’t ominous of anything personal, Dryfoos?”
“I’ll take the risk of it,” said the old man, harshly.
He rose mechanically, and Fulkerson said to Frescobaldi’s man, “You can bring us the coffee in the library.”
The talk did not recover itself there. Lindau would not sit down; he refused coffee, and dismissed himself with a haughty bow to the company; Colonel Woodburn shook hands elaborately all round, when he had smoked his cigar; the others followed him. It seemed to March that his own good night from Dryfoos was dry and cold.
VII
March met Fulkerson on the steps of the office next morning, when he arrived rather later than his wont. Fulkerson did not show any of the signs of suffering from the last night’s pleasure which painted themselves in March’s face. He flirted his hand gayly in the air, and said, “How’s your poor head?” and broke into a knowing laugh. “You don’t seem to have got up with the lark this morning. The old gentleman is in there with Conrad, as bright as a biscuit; he’s beat you down. Well, we did have a good time, didn’t we? And old Lindau and the colonel, didn’t they have a good time? I don’t suppose they ever had a chance before to give their theories quite so much air. Oh, my! how they did ride over us! I’m just going down to see Beaton about the cover of the Christmas number. I think we ought to try it in three or four colors, if we are going to observe the day at all.” He was off before March could pull himself together to ask what Dryfoos wanted at the office at that hour of the morning; he always came in the afternoon on his way uptown.
The fact of his presence renewed the sinister misgivings with which March had parted from him the night before, but Fulkerson’s cheerfulness seemed to gainsay them; afterward March did not know whether to attribute this mood to the slipperiness that he was aware of at times in Fulkerson, or to a cynical amusement he might have felt at leaving him alone to the old man, who mounted to his room shortly after March had reached it.
A sort of dumb anger showed itself in his face; his jaw was set so firmly that he did not seem able at once to open it. He asked, without the ceremonies of greeting, “What does that one-armed Dutchman do on this book?”
“What does he do?” March echoed, as people are apt to do with a question that is mandatory and offensive.
“Yes, sir, what does he do? Does he write for it?”
“I suppose you mean Lindau,” said March. He saw no reason for refusing to answer Dryfoos’s demand, and he decided to ignore its terms. “No, he doesn’t write for it in the usual way. He translates for it; he examines the foreign magazines, and draws my attention to anything he thinks of interest. But I told you about this before—”
“I know what you told me, well enough. And I know what he is. He is a red-mouthed labor agitator. He’s one of those foreigners that come here from places where they’ve never had a decent meal’s victuals in their lives, and as soon as they get their stomachs full, they begin to make trouble between our people and their hands. There’s where the strikes come from, and the unions and the secret societies. They come here and break our Sabbath, and teach their atheism. They ought to be hung! Let ’em go back if they don’t like it over here. They want to ruin the country.”
March could not help smiling a little at the words, which came fast enough now in the hoarse staccato of Dryfoos’s passion. “I don’t know whom you mean by they, generally speaking; but I had the impression that poor old Lindau had once done his best to save the country. I don’t always like his way of
