He passed on down the room, chuckling to himself; and the Major said, “That’s Maltby Symmes. Have you heard of him?”
“No,” said Montague.
“He gets into the papers a good deal. He was up in supplementary proceedings the other day—couldn’t pay his liquor bill.”
“A member of the Millionaires’?” laughed Montague.
“Yes, the papers made quite a joke out of it,” said the other. “But you see he’s run through a couple of fortunes; the last was his mother’s—eleven millions, I believe. He’s been a pretty lively old boy in his time.”
The vinegar and oil had now arrived, and the Major set to work to dress the salad. This was quite a ceremony, and Montague took it with amused interest. The Major first gathered all the necessary articles together, and looked them all over and grumbled at them. Then he mixed the vinegar and the pepper and salt, a tablespoonful at a time, and poured it over the salad. Then very slowly and carefully the oil had to be poured on, the salad being poked and turned about so that it would be all absorbed. Perhaps it was because he was so busy narrating the escapades of Maltby Symmes that the old gentleman kneaded it about so long; all the time fussing over it like a hen-partridge with her chicks, and interrupting himself every sentence or two: “It was Lenore, the opera star, and he gave her about two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of railroad shares. (Really, you know, romaine ought not to be served in a bowl at all, but in a square, flat dish, so that one could keep the ends quite dry.) And when they quarrelled, she found the old scamp had fooled her—the shares had never been transferred. (One is not supposed to use a fork at all, you know.) But she sued him, and he settled with her for about half the value. (If this dressing were done properly, there ought not to be any oil in the bottom of the dish at all.)”
This last remark meant that the process had reached its climax—that the long, crisp leaves were receiving their final affectionate overturnings. While the waiter stood at respectful attention, two or three pieces at a time were laid carefully upon the little silver plate intended for Montague. “And now,” said the triumphant host, “try it! If it’s good, it ought to be neither sweet nor bitter, but just right.”—And he watched anxiously while Montague tasted it, saying, “If it’s the least bit bitter, say so; and we’ll send it out. I’ve told them about it often enough before.”
But it was not bitter, and so the Major proceeded to help himself, after which the waiter whisked the bowl away. “I’m told that salad is the one vegetable we have from the Romans,” said the old boy, as he munched at the crisp green leaves. “It’s mentioned by Horace, you know.—As I was saying, all this was in Symmes’s early days. But since his son’s been grown up, he’s married another chorus-girl.”
After the salad the Major had another cocktail. In the beginning Montague had noticed that his hands shook and his eyes were watery; but now, after these copious libations, he was vigorous, and, if possible, more full of anecdotes than ever. Montague thought that it would be a good time to broach his inquiry, and so when the coffee had been served, he asked, “Have you any objections to talking business after dinner?”
“Not with you,” said the Major. “Why? What is it?”
And then Montague told him about his friend’s proposition, and described the invention. The other listened attentively to the end; and then, after a pause, Montague asked him, “What do you think of it?”
“The invention’s no good,” said the Major, promptly.
“How do you know?” asked the other.
“Because, if it had been, the companies would have taken it long ago, without paying him a cent.”
“But he has it patented,” said Montague.
“Patented hell!” replied the other. “What’s a patent to lawyers of concerns of that size? They’d have taken it and had it in use from Maine to Texas; and when he sued, they’d have tied the case up in so many technicalities and quibbles that he couldn’t have got to the end of it in ten years—and he’d have been ruined ten times over in the process.”
“Is that really done?” asked Montague.
“Done!” exclaimed the Major. “It’s done so often you might say it’s the only thing that’s done.—The people are probably trying to take you in with a fake.”
“That couldn’t possibly be so,” responded the other. “The man is a friend—”
“I’ve found it an excellent rule never to do business with friends,” said the Major, grimly.
“But listen,” said Montague; and he argued long enough to convince his companion that that could not be the true explanation. Then the Major sat for a minute or two and pondered; and suddenly he exclaimed, “I have it! I see why they won’t touch it!”
“What is it?”
“It’s the coal companies! They’re giving the steamships short weight, and they don’t want the coal weighed truly!”
“But there’s no sense in that,” said Montague. “It’s the steamship companies that won’t take the machine.”
“Yes,” said the Major; “naturally, their officers are sharing the graft.” And he laughed heartily at Montague’s look of perplexity.
“Do you know anything about the business?” Montague asked.
“Nothing whatever,” said the Major. “I am like the German who shut himself up in his inner consciousness and deduced the shape of an elephant from first principles. I know the game of big business from A to Z, and I’m telling you that if the invention is good and the companies won’t take it, that’s the reason; and I’ll lay you a wager that if you were to make an investigation, some such thing as that is what you’d find! Last winter I went South on a steamer, and when we got near port, I saw them dumping a ton or two of good food overboard; and I made inquiries, and learned that one of the officials of the company ran a farm, and furnished the stuff—and the orders were to get rid of so much every trip!”
Montague’s jaw had fallen. “What could Major Thorne do against such a combination?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said the Major, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s a case to take to a lawyer—one who knows the ropes. Hawkins over there would know what to tell you. I should imagine the thing he’d advise would be to call a strike of the men who handle the coal, and tie up the companies and bring them to terms.”
“You’re joking now!” exclaimed the other.
“Not at all,” said the Major, laughing again. “It’s done all the time. There’s a building trust in this city, and the way it put all its rivals out of business was by having strikes called on their jobs.”
“But how could it do that?”
“Easiest thing in the world. A labour leader is a man with a great deal of power, and a very small salary to live on. And even if he won’t sell out—there are other ways. I could introduce you to a man right in this room who had a big strike on at an inconvenient time, and he had the president of the union trapped in a hotel with a woman, and the poor fellow gave in and called off the strike.”’
“I should think the strikers might sometimes get out of hand,” said Montague.
“Sometimes they do,” smiled the other. “There is a regular procedure for that case. Then you hire detectives and start violence, and call out the militia and put the strike leaders into jail.”
Montague could think of nothing to say to that. The programme seemed to be complete.
“You see,” the Major continued, earnestly, “I’m advising you as a friend, and I’m taking the point of view of a man who has money in his pocket. I’ve had some there always, but I’ve had to work hard to keep it there. All my life I’ve been surrounded by people who wanted to do me good; and the way they wanted to do it was to exchange my real money for pieces of paper which they’d had printed with fancy scroll-work and eagles and flags. Of course, if you want to look at the thing from the other side, why, then the invention is most ingenious, and trade is booming just now, and this is a great country, and merit is all you need in it—and everything else is just as it ought to be. It makes all the difference in the world, you know, whether a man is buying a horse or selling him!”