V. V.s Eyes | Page 4

there;
and by that token they were early risers.
* * * * *
She was fluttered to-day, was Mrs. Garland, by the nocturnal
reappearance of her errant husband, Mister, as simply called: but she
did not forget the iron rule. The "Post" was under the door by seven
o'clock. Dr. Vivian perused by seven-fifteen. He perused with a
peculiar and paternal gusto: for doctoring was not his meat and drink,
and he had written these winged words himself. But of the vehicular
lad he heard nothing till some hours later, when Labor Commissioner
O'Neill, skirting the old park from Centre Street, where he had been for
cigars, dropped in on the way back to his office.
Even here, the words came first. O'Neill had a "Post" in his hand.
It was then nearing eleven o'clock. The doctor sat at a tall old
"secretary" between his windows, swinging round with expectancy as
his friend entered. There were still people of a sort, human beings in a
manner of speaking, in the waiting-room; but he let them wait now, that
being what the room was for.
"Well?... How'd it strike you?"
The Labor Commissioner mopped his brow with a snowy handkerchief,
which released into the office the scent of cologne. He was a stoutish

man, and the morning, for autumn, was astonishingly warm.
"Well, it's ill-timed, V.V.," said he, without ill-humor. "And--kind of
extreme. I told you the other day how I felt about it."
The face of the medico fell.
"I thought you said you approved of a good, pertinent letter, to show
that the laity were backing you up!"
"I said a mild, easy-tempered letter might be all right. But--"
"Why, Sam, don't you think that's an awfully mild letter? You ought to
see what I edited out of it."
"Well, you left in enough to let the 'Post' in for a damage suit, all right.
You, too.... Only you won't have much to lodge a judgment against,
long's you haven't got a billhead printed and charge regular fees like I
told you."
"I'm perfectly responsible--far as that goes. Don't you worry."
The doctor's look showed that he considered O'Neill's pleasantry in bad
taste, to say the least of it. He had told Sam often enough, one would
think, that he meant before long to put in a good businesslike system of
fees, small fees....
The Commissioner was continuing: "Point is, V.V., there's nothing
gained getting these people's backs way up. They 're sore now. A little
tact, a little bit of--"
"Tact!"
"Sure thing. Look here, old boy, remember it's only a week since my
report was in the papers, practically blacklisting those four plants, and
I've already called personally on every one of 'em, putting it right up to
'em. You heard me at Heth's and the Pickle people's, yourself. I guess I
put it up about as strong as could be done, hey? And that's all can be
done till I get me some more law. Put it right square...."
But V. Vivian, gazing steadily over the chair-back, had obviously been
stoking his inner fuel.
"Ah! Rousing public opinion's no use at all?... Why, don't you know
that public opinion is the grandfather of your little statute-book laws?
Don't you--"
"Yair. Know. See you say that in your letter."
"Well, it's a great truth!... How tactful will you feel some day, when
one of those floors at the Heth Works collapses and kills a hundred
people?"

Labor Commissioner O'Neill seemed unterrified by the grisly picture.
He was strolling about the very large, bare, and strange-looking
medical office, flicking cigar-ash where he would: a
good-natured-looking Commissioner of thirty, wearing a glossy brown
suit and strong yellow gloves. And his present pacific air was
undoubtedly to his credit; certainly he had been annoyed when his eye
first fell on the "Severe Arraignment," over his morning rasher....
"And that isn't the worst of it," shot the doctor again, flinging out an
arm. "It's only a detail, I say, this factory end of it; only a symptom,
don't you see? What we're dealing with is the most dangerous element
in the life of this city! Tact!... When fire couldn't sweep through that
new house of yours faster than the corrupting ideals of these people'll
lick through this community!"
"Whe-ew!" said Sam O'Neill, this ground being not unfamiliar.... "Got
to take 'em along slowly, Doctor, all the same. Rome wasn't built in a
day."
"But mark my words, the vandals kicked it down in about fifteen
minutes."
O'Neill felt vaguely worsted by this riposte. He was the older man, the
practical man, with a proven ability to make money out of real estate;
but old V.V., though talking like an anarchist of late, was admitted to
have a verbal dexterity at debate. Argument