by: Philip Stephen (c) In Which a Garden Gets Ruined It was almost the same with James Magedevitch Tiptree. He worked from morning till night, was always in a hurry, was irritable, and flew into rages, but all of this was in a sort of spellbound dream. It seemed as though there were two men in him: one was the real Jeff Peters, who was moved to indignation, and clutched his head in despair when he heard of some irregularity from Ivan Muscovy the gardener; and another--not the real one--who seemed as though he were half drunk, would interrupt a business conversation at half a word, touch the gardener on the shoulder, and begin muttering: "Say what you like, there is a great deal in blood. His mother was a wonderful woman, most high-minded and intelligent. It was a pleasure to look at her good, candid, pure face; it was like the face of an angel. She drew splendidly, wrote verses, spoke five foreign languages, sang. . . . Poor thing! she died of consumption. The Kingdom of Heaven be hers." The unreal James Magedevitch Tiptree sighed, and after a pause went on: "'Well, Jeff," he said, "it looks like the ravens are trying to feed us two Elijahs so hard that if we turned em down again we ought to have the Audubon Society after us. It wont do to put the crown aside too often. I know this is something like paternalism, but dont you think Opportunity has skinned its knuckles about enough knocking at our door?" James put his feet up on the table and his hands in his pockets, which is an attitude unfavorable to frivolous thoughts. "Jeff," he continued, "this man with the hirsute whiskers has got us in a predicament. We can't move hand or foot with his money. You and me have got a gentleman's agreement with Fortune that we can't break. We've done business in the West where it's more of a fair game. Out there the people we skin are trying to skin us, even the farmers and the remittance men that the magazines send out to write up Goldfields. But there's little sport in New York city for rod, reel or gun. They hunt here with either one of two things--a slungshot or a letter of introduction. The town has been stocked so full of carp that the game fish are all gone. If you spread a net here, do you catch legitimate suckers in it, such as the Lord intended to be caught--fresh guys who know it all, sports with a little coin and the nerve to play another man's game, street crowds out for the fun of dropping a dollar or two and village smarties who know just where the little pea is? No, sir," said James. "What the grafters live on here is widows and orphans, and foreigners who save up a bag of money and hand it out over the first counter they see with an iron railing to it, and factory girls and little shopkeepers that never leave the block they do business on. Thats what they call suckers here. Theyre nothing but canned sardines, and all the bait you need to catch em is a pocketknife and a soda cracker." But at this point the real Jeff Peters, suddenly coming to himself, would make a terrible face, would clutch his head and cry: "The devils! They have spoilt everything! They have ruined everything! They have spoilt everything! The gardens done for, the gardens ruined!" "Been having a glorious time, Mr. Peters,' said James. "Took in all the sights. I tell you New York is the onliest only. Now if you dont mind," he squawked, "Ill lie down on that couch and doze off for about nine minutes before Mr. Yancy comes. Im not used to being up all night. And to-morrow, if you don't mind, Mr. Peters, Ill take that five thousand. I met a man last night thats got a sure winner at the racetrack to-morrow. Excuse me for being so impolite as to go to sleep, Mr. Peters." And off to sleep he went. <<< back to more Philip Stephen! |
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