The Plum Tree | Page 7

I mentally called the
roll--wealth, respectability, honor, all on their knees before Dominick,
each with his eye upon the branch of the plum tree that bore the kind of
fruit he fancied. And I wondered how they felt inside,--for I was then
ignorant of the great foundation truth of practical ethics, that a man's
conscience is not the producer but the product of his career.
Fessenden accompanied me to the door. "The old man's in a hell of a
humor to-night," said he. "His wife's caught on to a little game he's
been up to, and she's the only human being he's afraid of. She came in
here, one night, and led him out by the ear. What a fool a man is to

marry when there's a chance of running into a mess like that! But--you
made a hit with him. Besides, he needs you. Your family--" Buck
checked himself, feeling that drink was making him voluble.
"He's a strong man, isn't he?" said I; "a born leader."
"Middle-weight champion in his day," replied Fessenden. "He can still
knock out anybody in the organization in one round."
"Good night and thank you," said I. So I went my way, not elated but
utterly depressed,--more depressed than when I won the first case in
which I knew my client's opponent was in the right and had lost only
because I outgeneraled his stupid lawyer. I was, like most of the sons
and daughters of the vigorous families of the earnest, deeply religious
early-West, an idealist by inheritance and by training; but I suppose any
young man, however practical, must feel a shock when he begins those
compromises between theoretical and practical right which are part of
the daily routine of active life, and without which active life is
impossible.
I had said nothing to my mother, because I did not wish to raise her
hopes--or her objections. I now decided to be silent until the matter
should be settled. The next day but one Fessenden came, bad news in
his face. "The old man liked you," he began, "but--"
I had not then learned to control my expression. I could not help
showing what ruins of lofty castles that ominous "but" dropped upon
my head.
"You'll soon be used to getting it in the neck if you stay in politics,"
said Fessenden. "There's not much else. But you ain't so bad off as you
think. The old man has decided that he can afford to run one of his
reliable hacks for the place. He's suddenly found a way of sinking his
hooks in the head devil of the Reformers and Ben Cass' chief backer,
Singer,--you know him,--the lawyer."
Singer was one of the leaders of the state bar and superintendent of our
Sunday-school.

"Dominick has made De Forest give Singer the law business of the Gas
and Street Railway Company, so Singer is coming over to us." Buck
grinned. "He has found that 'local interests must be subordinated to the
broader interests of the party in state and nation.'"
I had been reading in our party's morning paper what a wise and
patriotic move Singer had made in advising the putting off of a Reform
campaign,--and I had believed in the sincerity of his motive!
Fessenden echoed my sneer, and went on: "He's a rotten hypocrite; but
then, we can always pull the bung out of these Reform movements that
way."
"You said it isn't as bad for me as it seems," I interrupted.
"Oh, yes. You're to be on the ticket. The old man's going to send you to
the legislature,--lower house, of course."
I did not cheer up. An assemblyman got only a thousand a year.
"The pay ain't much," confessed Buck, "but there ain't nothing to do
except vote according to order. Then there's a great deal to be picked up
on the side,--the old man understands that others have got to live
besides him. Salaries in politics don't cut no figure nowadays, anyhow.
It's the chance the place gives for pick-ups."
At first I flatly refused, but Buck pointed out that I was foolish to throw
away the benefits sure to come through the "old man's" liking for me.
"He'll take care of you," he assured me. "He's got you booked for a
quick rise." My poverty was so pressing that I had not the courage to
refuse,--the year and a half of ferocious struggle and the longing to
marry Betty Crosby had combined to break my spirit. I believe it is
Johnson who says the worst feature of genteel poverty is its power to
make one ridiculous. I don't think so. No; its worst feature is its power
to make one afraid.
That night I told my mother of my impending "honors." We were in the