I was privileged to witness one of these interviews. On this occasion the subject was the proprietor of a big general store in the neighbouring industrial city. Mr. Magnate (it is safer not to reveal his name) was to be accosted while he was travelling to business by the 9:30 train. John consented to my presence, but only on condition that I should pretend to be a stranger.
We let the quarry pass through the turnstile and settle himself in his first-class compartment. Then we went to the booking office, where I rather self-consciously demanded “a first single and a half.” Independently we strayed into Mr. Magnate’s carriage. When I arrived, John was already settled in the corner opposite to the great man, who occasionally glanced from his paper at the queer child with a cliff for brow and caves for eyes. Soon after I had taken my post, in the corner diagonally opposite to John, two other business men entered, and settled themselves to read their papers.
John was apparently deep in Comic Cuts, or some such periodical. Though this had been bought merely to serve as stage property, I believe he was quite capable of enjoying it; for at this time, in spite of his wonderful gifts, he was still at heart “the little vulgar boy”. In the conversation which followed he was obviously to some extent playing up to the business man’s idea of a precocious yet naive child. But also he was a naive child, backward as well as diabolically intelligent. I myself, though I knew him well, could not decide how much of his talk on this occasion was sincere, and how much mere acting.
When the train had started, John began to watch his prey so intently that Mr. Magnate took cover behind a wall of newspaper. Presently John’s curiously precise treble gathered all eyes upon him. “Mr. Magnate,” he said, “may I talk to you?” The newspaper was lowered, and its owner endeavoured to look neither awkward nor condescending.
“Certainly, boy, go ahead. What’s your name?”
“Oh, my name’s John. I’m a queer child, but that doesn’t matter. It’s you we’re going to talk about.”
We all laughed. Mr. Magnate shifted in his seat, but continued to look his part.
“Well,” he said, “you certainly are a queer child.” He glanced at his adult fellow travellers for confirmation. We duly smiled.
“Yes,” replied John, “but you see from my point of view you are a queer man.” Mr. Magnate hung for a moment between amusement and annoyance; but since we had all laughed, except John, he chose to be tickled and benevolent.
“Surely,” he said, “there’s nothing remarkable about me. I’m just a business man. Why do you think I’m queer?”
“Well,” said John, “ I’m thought queer because I have more brains than most children. Some say I have more brains than I ought to have. You’re queer because you have more money than most people; and (some say) more than you ought to have.”
Once more we laughed, rather anxiously.
John continued: “I haven’t found out yet what to do with my brains, and I’m wondering if you have found out what to do with your money.”
“My dear boy, you may not believe me, but the fact is I have no real choice. Needs of all sorts keep cropping up, and I have to fork out.”
“I see,” said John; “but then you can’t fork out for all the possible needs. You must have some sort of big plan or aim to help you to choose.”
“Well now, how shall I put it? I’m James Magnate, with a wife and family and a rather complicated business and a whole lot of obligations rising out of all that. All the money I control, or nearly all, goes in keeping all those balls rolling, so to speak.”
“I see,” said John again. “My station and its duties, as Hegel said, and no need to worry about the sense of it all.”
Like a dog encountering an unfamiliar and rather formidable smell, Mr. Magnate sniffed this remark, bristled, and vaguely growled.
“Worry!” he snorted. “There’s plenty of that; but it’s practical day-to-day worry about how to get goods cheap enough to sell them at a profit instead of a loss. If I started worrying about ‘the sense of it all’ the business would soon go to pieces. No time for that. I find myself with a pretty big job that the country needs doing, and I just do it.”
There was a pause, then John remarked, “How splendid it must be to have a pretty big job that needs doing, and to do it well! Do you do it well, sir? And does it really need doing? But of course you do, and it must; else the country wouldn’t pay you for it.”
Mr. Magnate looked anxiously at all his fellow travellers in turn, wondering whether his leg was being pulled. He was reassured, however, by John’s innocent and respectful gaze. The boy’s next remark was rather disconcerting. “It must be so snug to feel both safe and important.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” the great man replied. “But I give the public what it wants, and as cheaply as I can, and I get enough out of it to keep my family in reasonable comfort.”
“Is that what you make money for, to keep your family in comfort?”
“That and other things. I get rid of my money in all sorts of ways. If you must know, quite a lot goes to the political party that I think can govern the country best. Some goes to hospitals and other charities in our great city. But most goes into the business itself to make it bigger and better.”
“Wait a minute,” said John. “You’ve raised a lot of interesting points. I mustn’t lose any of them. First, about comfort. You live in that big half-timbered house on the hill, don’t you?”
“Yes. It’s a copy of an Elizabethan mansion. I could have done without it, but my wife had set her heart on it. And putting it up was a great thing for the local building trade.”
“And you have a Rolls, and a Wolseley?”
“Yes,” said the Magnate, adding with magnanimity. “Come up the hill on Saturday and I’ll give you a run in the Rolls. When she’s doing eighty it feels like thirty.”
John’s eyelids sank and rose again, a movement which I knew as an expression of amused contempt. But why was he contemptuous? He was a bit of a speed-hog himself, Never, for instance, was he satisfied with my cautious driving. Was it that he saw in this remark a cowardly attempt to side-track the conversation? After the interview I learned that he had already made several trips in the Magnate car, having suborned the chauffeur. He had even learned to drive it, with cushions behind him, so as to help his short legs to reach the pedals.
“Oh, thank you, I should love to go in your Rolls,” he said, looking gratefully into the benevolent grey eyes of the rich man. “Of course, you couldn’t work properly unless you had reasonable comfort. And that means a big house and two cars, and furs and jewels for your wife, and first-class railway fares, and swank schools for your children.” He paused, while Mr. Magnate looked suspiciously at him. Then he added, “But you won’t be really comfortable till you’ve got that knighthood. Why doesn’t it come? You’ve paid enough already, haven’t you?”
One of our fellow passengers sniggered. Mr. Magnate coloured, gasped, muttered, “Offensive little brat!” and retired behind his paper.