Part 50 (1/2)

”They know enough to understand that old rascal's game, whatever it is, and hoot with her when she's done me. And she's given me the tip, with her dramatics up there on the platform, and the way they answered.

They're children, and they want to play. She had the cleverness to see it. And they shall play with me.”

”But they won't act Shakespeare,” said Lydia. ”They only care about their own countries. That's why they love Madame Beattie.”

”What are their countries, Lydia?”

”Greece, Italy, Poland, Russia--oh, a lot more.”

”Aren't they voting here in this country?”

”Why, yes, ever so many of them.”

”Then,” said Jeff, ”this is their country, and this is their language, and they've got to learn some English plays and act them as G.o.d pleases.

But act them they shall. Or their children shall. And you may give my compliments to Madame Beattie and tell her if she blocks my game I'll block hers. She'll understand. And they've got to learn what England was and what America meant to be till she got on the rocks.”

”Jeff,” said Lydia, venturing, ”aren't you going into business?”

”I am in business,” said Jeff. ”It's my business to bail out the scuppers here in Addington and bust Weedie Moore.”

”If you went into business,” said Lydia, ”and made money you could--”

”I could pay off my creditors? No, I couldn't, Lydia. I could as easily lift this house.”

”But you could pay something--”

”Something on a dollar? Lydia, I've been a thief, a plain common thief.

I stole a chicken, say. Well, the chicken got s.n.a.t.c.hed away somehow and scrambled for, and eaten. Anyway, the chicken isn't. And you want me to steal another--”

”No, no.”

”Yes, you do. I should have to steal it. I haven't time enough in my whole life to get another chicken as big and as fat, unless I steal it.

No, Lydia, I can't do it. If you make me try, I shall blow my nut off, that's all.”

Lydia was terrified and he rea.s.sured her.

”No. Don't worry. I sha'n't let go my grip on the earth. When I walk now I'm actually sticking my claws into her. I've found out what she is.”

But Lydia still looked at him, hungry for his happiness, and he despairingly tried to show her his true mind.

”You mustn't think for a minute I can wipe out my old score and show you a perfectly clean slate with a nice scrollwork round it. Can't do it, Lydia. I sha'n't come in for any of the prizes. I've got to be a very ordinary, insignificant person from now on.”

That hurt her and it did no good. She didn't believe him.

Not many days from this Jeff started out talking to men. He frankly wanted something and asked for it. Addington, he told them, if they built more factories and put in big industries, as they were trying to do, was going to call in more and more foreign workmen. It was going to be a melting-pot of small size. That was a current catchword. Jeff used it as glibly as the women of the clubs. The pot was going to seethe and bubble over and some demagogue--he did not mention Weedie--was going to stir it, and the Addington of our fathers would be lost. The business men looked at him with the slow smile of the sane for the fanatic and answered from the fatuous optimism of the man who expects the world to last at least his time. Some of them said something about ”this great country”, as if it were chartered by the Almighty to stand the a.s.saults of other races, and when he reminded them that Addington was not trying to amalgamate its aliens with its own ideals, and was giving them over instead to Weedon Moore, they laughed at him.

”What's Weedon Moore?” one man said. ”A dirty little shyster. Let him talk. He can't do any harm.”

”Do you know what he's telling them?” Jeff inquired.