Paradise Garden | Page 2

quite necessary economies, and while not what may be
called a heavy eater, I am willing to admit that there were times when I
felt distinctly empty. Curiously enough, my philosophy did little to
relieve me of that physical condition, for as someone has said,
"Philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a
journey."
But it seems that the journeying of my jade was near its ending. For
upon this morning, fortune threw me into the way of a fellow who had
been in my class at the University, who was to be my deus ex machina.
No two persons in the world could have been more dissimilar than
"Jack" Ballard and I, and yet, perhaps for that reason, there had always
been a kind of affinity between us. He was one of the wealthiest men in
my class and was now, as he gleefully informed me, busily engaged

clipping coupons in his father's office, "with office hours from two to
three some Thursdays." Of course, that was his idea of a joke, for it
seems quite obvious that a person who gave so little time to his
business had better have kept no hours at all. He greeted me warmly
and led me into his club, which happened to be near by, where over the
lunch table he finally succeeded in eliciting the fact that I was down to
my last dollar with prospects far from encouraging.
"Good old Pope!" he cried, clapping me on the back. "Pope" was my
pseudonym at the University, conferred in a jocular moment by Ballard
himself on account of a fancied resemblance to Urban the Eighth. "Just
the man! Wonder why I didn't think of you before!" And while I
wondered what he was coming at, "How would, you like to make a neat
five thousand a year?"
I laughed him off, not sure that this wasn't a sample of the Ballard
humor.
"Anything," I said, trying to smile, "short of murder--"
"Oh, I am not joking!" he went on with an encouraging flash of
seriousness. "Five thousand a year cool, and no expenses--livin' on the
fat of the land, with nothin' to do but--"
He broke off suddenly and grasped me by the arm.
"Did you ever hear of old John Benham, the multi-millionaire?" he
asked. I remarked that my acquaintance with millionaires, until that
moment, had not been large.
"Oh, of course," he laughed, "if I had mentioned Xenophon, you'd have
pricked up your ears like an old war horse. But John Benham, as a
name to conjure with, means nothing to you. You must know then that
John Benham was for years the man of mystery of Wall Street. Queer
old bird! Friend of the governor's, or at least as much of a friend of the
governor's as he ever was of anybody. Made a pot of money in
railroads. Millions! Of course, if you've never heard of Benham you've
never heard of the Wall."

I hadn't.
"Well, the Benham Wall in Greene County is one of the wonders of the
age. It's nine feet high, built of solid masonry and encloses five
thousand acres of land."
Figures meant nothing to me and I told him so.
"The strange thing about it is that there's no mystery at all. The old man
had no secrets except in business and no past that anybody could care
about. But he was a cold-blooded proposition. No man ever had his
confidence, no woman ever had his affection except his wife, and when
she died all that was human in him was centered on his son, the sole
heir to twenty millions. Lucky little beggar. What?"
"I'm not so sure," I put in slowly.
"Now this is where you come in," Ballard went on quickly. "It seems
that inside his crusty shell old Benham was an idealist of sorts with
queer ideas about the raising of children. His will is a wonder. He
directs his executors (the governor's one of six, you know) to bring up
his boy inside that stone wall at Horsham Manor, with no knowledge of
the world except what can be gotten from an expurgated edition of the
classics. He wants him brought to manhood as nearly as can be made, a
perfect specimen of the human male animal without one thought of sex.
It's a weird experiment, but I don't see why it shouldn't be interesting."
"Interesting!" I muttered, trying to conceal my amazement and delight.
"The executors must proceed at once. The boy is still under the care of
a governess. On the twelfth of December he will be ten years of age.
The woman is to go and a man takes her place. I think I can put you in.
Will you take