"A Modern Hercules," The Tale of a Sculptress/Chapter 26
CHAPTER XXVI.
DOANE TOASTS DISEASE.
Doane, Connors, Salmon and Wayland were all members of the Union League Club, and spent much of their time amid its comfortable, enticing environments. There is a common opinion prevalent, particularly in New York, that a society man may as well be dead as not to hold membership in at least one of the fashionable clubs. You can eat there, receive the billet doux of your lady friends, and if you want to gamble you can be accommodated at any limit of the game. If you are convivially inclined you can there get on a decent drunk, and perfect care will be taken that you do not fall into the hands of the police. In fact the club is a great protection to married as well as single men. Many a husband, who likes a quiet time apart from domestic influences, has had his shortcomings covered by the club. This sort of thing is not for the poor man. He takes his drink in the groggery, and woe betide him if he should stagger on the public highway.
Doane, the editor, and Salmon, the lawyer, both sharp witted, were seated in one of the private rooms of the Union League. It was shortly after Salmon, apart from his usual custom in the profession, had been victorious in a celebrated murder trial.
"I congratulate you on your acquittal of Wilcox," said Doane.
"A hard case," remarked Salmon. "He was convicted once, actually sat in the electric death chair, but I got a new hearing, secured a second trial, and now the accused is as free as you or I."
"A clever victory for you, but bad for society. The way murderers are freed now only encourages desperate deeds. There would be more respect for law if there were fewer lawyers," said the editor.
"Perhaps it would be better," said Salmon, "if we permitted the newspapers to administer justice."
"How so?" said Doane, ignoring the covert sarcasm of his friend.
"I will illustrate," said the lawyer: "About a year ago, in this city, a man was hacked to pieces. With him lived a Polish immigrant. He knew but little of the language or customs of the country. A sensational newspaper put its blood-hound-detective-reporters on the trail. They convicted Skinoski, only to find a few months later, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that a slight mistake had been made, and after all they had electrocuted the wrong man."
"Yes, a little error of that kind will occur, you know," said Doane, unfeelingly, "but then it only removed another of these filthy, foreign paupers. We have too many of these cattle on hand now. Not that I have any very great respect for the native toiler."
"What is your objection to him?" said Salmon.
"I like the laboring man well enough in his way," said Doane, "but I wish he would take a bath once in a while. There is too little sweat on his brow and too much on his hands to suit me."
"Yet your paper parades the fact," said Salmon, "that it fights his battles."
"I admit that," said Doane, with a wink, "we need readers and a circulation to justify us in raising advertising rates. This is business versus sentiment."
Just then Mr. Wayland, the stock broker, entered, and, as he took an easy chair, said, "I'll wager that Doane has just said something biting. There is on his face a smile of derision."
"No, I have been making practical suggestions; that is all. Have been talking about the Plebeian herd, and must have a quart of champagne with which to cleanse my tongue."
A button within easy reach is touched; a waiter appears; takes the order, and soon returns with the wine.
"It shall be on me," said Wayland. "I can afford it. I made a fortune today."
"How?" said Doane. "Did you bankrupt another railroad?"
"No; like Joseph I cornered wheat, and made a million. Will you help me spend it?"
"Yes. Buy a newspaper, and employ Salmon there. He's a most expensive luxury," said Doane.
"What reason have you for always jumping on me?" said Salmon. "Did I not safely escort you through seven libel suits last year?"
"Yes, and how much of our stock do you now hold in the way of fee?"
"Let's cease this merriment," said Wayland, in either real or assumed sadness. "I am in mourning. The City of Hamburg has just arrived, and brings the news that 'La Petite Goldie' died at sea, and was buried beneath the cruel waves of the unfeeling Atlantic."
"Another $50,000 you will have to credit to profit and loss," said Doane.
"Was that another of Gould's operative speculations?" asked Salmon.
"Yes, gentlemen, she was, and truly I am awfully cut up over the matter. I liked the girl very much, and besides, she had great talent."
"She died of what ailment?" queried the lawyer.
"That's the puzzling thing," said the broker. "Some dreadful, mysterious ailment, the germs of which floated up from the steerage. The confounded steamer should have been quarantined. The first thing we know New York will be scourged."
"A few thousand useless cattle will be killed off," said Doane. "A good thing."
"It might lay its heavy hand on you," said Salmon.
"No," replied Doane, "I am too wicked to die. Satan would refuse me entrance to hell for fear I'd rival him for his kingdom."
"Anyhow," said Wayland, "I intend to wear crape for a year."
"Bah," said Doane, "the next pretty face will cure you. You'll get no sympathy from us."
"See here, Doane. I bought that bottle of wine as a bribe for sympathy, and I shall engage Salmon here to prosecute you for obtaining it under false pretense."
"This possibility of some mysterious epidemic in New York annoys me," said Doane. "I shall take occasion in tomorrow's paper, to rake the health officers sharply over the coals," and for some cause or other, a sickening shudder passed over his frame.
"Does it trouble you, Doane?" said Wayland, "if so, let's go abroad."
"No, personally I do not fear," said the editor. "I have looked pistols in the eye; have been a war correspondent, with bullets flying about like hail; and, have in addition, faced an angry husband or two. A little disease—bah! There are a hundred doctors who would serve me for the asking. Give me another drink," and as he held the glass aloft, he offered a toast: "Here's to grim disease," he said, "may it kill off ten thousand"—he did not finish; the wine glass fell upon the floor and was cracked in many particles, while Doane tottered, fainting in the arms of Salmon.