选择-I
Old Jerome Warren lived in a hundred-thousand-dollar house at 35
East Fifty-Soforth Street. He was a downtown broker, so rich that
he could afford to walk—for his health—a few blocks in the
direction of his office every morning, and then call a cab.
He had an adopted son, the son of an old friend named
Gilbert—Cyril Scott could play him nicely—who was becoming a
successful painter as fast as he could squeeze the paint out of
his tubes. Another member of the household was Barbara Ross, a
step-niece. Man is born to trouble; so, as old Jerome had no
family of his own, he took up the burdens of others.
Gilbert and Barbara got along swimmingly. There was a tacit and
tactical understanding all round that the two would stand up under
a floral bell some high noon, and promise the minister to keep old
Jerome's money in a state of high commotion. But at this point
complications must be introduced.
Thirty years before, when old Jerome was young Jerome, there was a
brother of his named Dick. Dick went West to seek his or somebody
else's fortune. Nothing was heard of him until one day old Jerome
had a letter from his brother. It was badly written on ruled paper
that smelled of salt bacon and coffee-grounds. The writing was
asthmatic and the spelling St. Vitusy.
It appeared that instead of Dick having forced Fortune to stand
and deliver, he had been held up himself, and made to give
hostages to the enemy. That is, as his letter disclosed, he was on
the point of pegging out with a complication of disorders that
even whiskey had failed to check. All that his thirty years of
prospecting had netted him was one daughter, nineteen years old,
as per invoice, whom he was shipping East, charges prepaid, for
Jerome to clothe, feed, educate, comfort, and cherish for the rest
of her natural life or until matrimony should them part.
Old Jerome was a board-walk. Everybody knows that the world is
supported by the shoulders of Atlas; and that Atlas stands on a
rail-fence; and that the rail-fence is built on a turtle's back.
Now, the turtle has to stand on something; and that is a
board-walk made of men like old Jerome.
I do not know whether immortality shall accrue to man; but if not
so, I would like to know when men like old Jerome get what is due
them?
They met Nevada Warren at the station. She was a little girl,
deeply sunburned and wholesomely good-looking, with a manner that
was frankly unsophisticated, yet one that not even a cigar-drummer
would intrude upon without thinking twice. Looking at her, somehow
you would expect to see her in a short skirt and leather leggings,
shooting glass balls or taming mustangs. But in her plain white
waist and black skirt she sent you guessing again. With an easy
exhibition of strength she swung along a heavy valise, which the
uniformed porters tried in vain to wrest from her.
"I am sure we shall be the best of friends," said Barbara, pecking
at the firm, sunburned cheek.
"I hope so," said Nevada.
"Dear little niece," said old Jerome, "you are as welcome to my
home as if it were your father's own."
"Thanks," said Nevada.
"And I am going to call you 'cousin,'" said Gilbert, with his
charming smile.
"Take the valise, please," said Nevada. "It weighs a million
pounds. It's got samples from six of dad's old mines in it," she
explained to Barbara. "I calculate they'd assay about nine cents
to the thousand tons, but I promised him to bring them along."