Читать книгу Unsought Adventure - Howard Angus Kennedy - Страница 9

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Sam bought a paper to read on his way home as usual, and sat holding it up before his eyes, but never a word he read. The flaunting front-page headlines might have been printed in blazing gold, and he would not have noticed them. He only saw—an old brown book.

Visions of future bliss came flooding into his mind. He smiled to find his thought shaping itself to the tune of a revival song,—

“Yes, there will be

Glory for me!”

With natural incongruity, the same thought took the shape of a theatrical announcement: “Samuel Johnson presents—” The reflected glory of a royal accoucheur presenting a loyal empire with a long-expected heir to the throne, was nothing to the glory of the one and only bookseller chosen by Providence to dazzle a universe with the totally unexpected treasure of treasures.

Glory—yes, and profit, now he allowed himself to think of that. Decidedly, a handsome profit. Only a commission, to be sure. Alone, he could not buy the book outright, and he never went into partnerships or syndicates; but a very moderate commission would mean a big sum. The book would fetch an enormous price, the highest by far ever paid in all the fevered annals of book-collecting.

He saw himself surrounded by a clamorous crowd of potentates,—deigning only a silent smile in contemptuous rejection of hundred thousand dollar bids,—reluctantly letting the treasure go at a quarter-million,—bringing home a $25,000 cheque to his wife,—filling the last days of a dying young man with comfort and luxury.

THE IN-EQUALITY OF FATE

Yes, he was sincerely and generously glad, and glad that he felt glad, on poor young Galt’s account as much as on his own....

Here a fellow-passenger, swaying past him to the door, trod on the dreamer’s toes, and offered not even a grunt of apology. A supercilious glance at the projecting foot proclaimed that he felt rather sinned against than sinning. An offensively prosperous and proud young man. So unlike young Galt.

Under the sting of youthful insolence, however, Sam’s thinking took a less benevolent turn. The vast difference between young Galt’s share and his own occurred to him. That $225,000 was really more than the invalid could spend easily, or at any rate decently, in his remaining time on earth. The other $25,000 would have given him everything he could possibly need, or even desire, with one foot in the grave. If, now—if their positions had been reversed,—if Providence had given the ownership to the dealer and the dealership to the owner—?

This vague idea at once took definite form.

Sam’s great ambition from youth up had been to retire from business rich, buy back the ancestral farm in Vermont, and live the country life. A stony hill farm it had been, to be sure. His father had been starved out of it, and he himself could hardly hope to dig a living out of dirt and rock. He had no wish to try. He would build an ideal country home. The old farm sloped down to the shore of exquisite Lake Memphremagog,—the Loch Katrine of America, as a Scottish writer had called it, and that from a Scotsman was superlative praise. He would turn most of the farm into a park, as Nature had meant it to remain. He would hire other men to cultivate the rest,—men who liked that sort of thing when profit was no object.

It would take a lot of money, to make that beautiful home, and a lot more to keep it up. Sam had started saving early but for years now he had been living up to his income. Bad investments and high expenses had banished his dream to the clouds. Only a great stroke of luck could bring it back to earth. He was past middle age. And to think of that young man on the point of raking in $225,000 which he had not earned and could not hope to spend!

Sam’s wife needed the change,—he himself only wanted it. She was delicate. He had sent her down south, the last three winters. Not this winter, for it could not be done without borrowing, and she would not hear of that. He was in debt already. The $25,000 would clear off everything and leave—well, what would have seemed a noble surplus but for that dream, which had suddenly returned from the clouds and persisted in hovering just—only just—out of his reach.

$225,000!

“Bah!” he said to himself, “what’s the matter with you, Sam Johnson? Coveting your neighbor’s goods, eh? Come out of it!”

He shook himself in disgust, as if to shake off a caterpillar. The man next him, feeling his elbow jogged, looked up in mild surprise. Johnson apologized, and started reading his paper.

He walked home from the station an honest man, honest in thought as well as deed. Glad of his luck, and glad of the other fellow’s bigger luck. No, he did not envy, he did not covet.