The Colossus | Page 3

then, that settles it. But really, he'd like to have you. You'll like
him; little peculiar at times, but you'll find him all right. You'll get a
good deal of money for those letters, won't you?"
"No; a hired mail on a newspaper doesn't get much money."
"But it must take a good deal of brains to do your work."
"Presumably, but there stands a long row of brains ready to take the
engagement--to take it, in fact, at a cut rate. The market is full of
brains."
"How old did you say you were?"
"I am nearly thirty," DeGolyer answered.
"I'm only twenty-five, but that don't make any difference; we'll have a
splendid time all the same. You read a good deal, I notice. Uncle's got a
whole raft of books, and you can read to me when you get tired of
reading to yourself. I've gone to school a good deal, but I'm not much
of a hand with a book; but I tell you what I believe--I believe I could
run a business to the queen's taste if I had a chance, and I'm going to try

it one of these days. Uncle tells me that after awhile I may be worth
some money, and if I am I'll get rich as sure as you're born. Business
was born in me, but I've never had a chance to do anything, I have
traded around a little, and I've made some money, too, but the trouble is
that I've never been settled down long enough to do much of anything,
I've scarcely any chance at all out at Ulmata. What would you rather be
than anything else?"
"I don't know. It doesn't seem that nature has exerted herself in fitting
me for anything, and I am a strong believer in natural fitness. We may
learn to do a thing in an average sort of way, but excellence requires
instinct, and instinct, of course, can't be learned."
"I guess that's so. I can see hundreds of ways to make money. I'd rather
be a big merchant than anything else. Old fellow," he suddenly broke
off, "I am as happy as can be to have you go out yonder with us; and
mark what I tell you--we're going to have a splendid time."

CHAPTER II
.
A SLEEPY VILLAGE AND A FUSSY OLD MAN.
In the village of Ulmata there was just enough of life to picture the
dreamy indolence of man. Rest was its complexion, and freedom from
all marks of care its most pleasing aspect.
Old Sawyer was so demonstrably gratified to have a companion for his
nephew that he invited DeGolyer to take a room in his house, and
DeGolyer gratefully accepted this kindness. Young Sawyer was
delighted when the household had thus been arranged, and with many
small confidences and unstudied graces of boyish friendship, he kept
his guest in the refreshing atmosphere of welcome. And in the main the
uncle was agreeable and courteous, but there were times when he flew
out of his orbit of goodfellowship.
Once he came puffing into the room where DeGolyer was writing, and
blusteringly flounced upon a sofa. He remained quiet for a few
moments, and then he blew so strong a spout of annoyance that
DeGolyer turned to him and asked:
"Has anything gone wrong?"
The old fellow's eyes bulged out as if he were straining under a heavy

load. "Yes," he puffed, "the devil's gone wrong."
"But isn't that of ancient date?" DeGolyer asked.
"Here, now, young fellow, don't try to saw me!" And then he broke off
with this execration: "Oh, this miserable world--this infernal pot where
men are boiled!" He rolled his eyes like a choking ox, and after a short
silence, asked: "Young fellow, do you know what I'd do if I were of
your age?"
"If you were of my temperament as well as of my age I don't think
you'd do much of anything."
"Yes, I would; I would confer a degree of high favor on myself. I
would cut my throat, sir."
"Pardon me, but is it too late at your time of life?"
"Yes, for my nerve is diseased and I am a coward, an infamous,
doddering old coward, sir. Good God! to live for years in darkness,
bumping against the sharp corners of conscience. I have never told
Henry, but I don't mind telling you that at times I am almost mad. For
years I have sought to read myself out of it, but to an unsettled mind a
book is a sly poison--the greatest of books are but the records of trouble.
Don't you say a word to Henry. He thinks that my mind is as sound as a
new acorn, but it isn't."
"I won't--but, by the way,