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About The Choteau Montanan (Choteau, Mont.) 1913-1925 | View This Issue
The Choteau Montanan (Choteau, Mont.), 14 Dec. 1923, located at <http://montananewspapers.org/lccn/sn85053031/1923-12-14/ed-1/seq-3/>, image provided by MONTANA NEWSPAPERS, Montana Historical Society, Helena, Montana.
By HENRY K1TGHELL WEBSTER Copyright by The Bobbs-Merriil Co. \ D O E S N 'T I T B O R E Y O U F R A N T I C ?” “ Really, though, except as a’ show, to look at now and then, doesn’t it bore you frantic? The whole thing, I mean— our sort of thing— the sort of people we are ¥ ’ \ I don’t know any of you very well,” he said, lamely. “I ’m not bored now.’’ “ Y ou keep going,” she said, “ from the time you’re quite small, thinking that life’s going to open out, somehow, like a door. And then some day you wake up and realize you’re thirty-five or so, and that it doesn’t mean to open out at a ll; there isn’t any door— not to the thing you’re in. And then you hear about somebody who’s never been shut up, in anything; somebody the whole world’s always been open to. And you try to get people to tell you about him, John and Jimmy Wallace and Henry and Margaret Craven — Margaret’s funny about you. You wonder what that kind of free dom feels like. 1 should think you’d feel,” she looked around at him suddenly, “ with us, you know, like a big moose, or something, that finds itself shut up in our pasture with the Holsteins.” These two talking are Joe Greer and Mrs. John Williamson, about whom Henry KItchell Webster’s fine story, \Joseph Greer and His Daughter\ revolves. It’s their first meeting. Greer is a latter-day pirate of the Chicago business world who has fought his way up from the bottom. Violet Williamson is the wife of a society millionaire who is backing Joe in the promotion of an invention. Joe has in California a wife who is planning to divorce him, and a nineteen-year-old daughter, Beatrice, whom he has never seen. He is taking his daughter away from her mother and planning to force her into Chicago society. Beatrice turns out to be as individual and dynamic as her father—an interesting feature of the story is their clash of wills and the resulting adventures that fall to Beatrice. Joe and Violet are irresistibly attracted to each other with results that lead them to the very brink of destruction more than once. There are other strong characters— Jennie MacArthur, for instance, Joe's 100 per cent efficient secretary. And these strikingly individual men and women go ahead and work out their own story, apparently without guidance from the master craftsman who has created them. For beyond question Webster Is a master craftsman in, the con struction of the modern novel of American life. And his life story reads like one of his own romances. He began his writing at twenty- four In Evanston, III., In 1899 in collaboration with Samuel Merwin, who has also achieved popularity as a novelist. Their \Calumet K” (1901) was a big success, as were other Joint stories. Then Webster had .a sort of intellectual shell shock and in the hope of recovering from it traveled all over the~world. In desperation he made a complete change in his literary methods. He dictated fifteen \howler\ stories that he sold readily under a pseudonym that he will not reveal. And his hand and brain regained ¿heir cunning—witness his latest novel, \Joseph Greer and His Daughter.\ CHAPTER 1 The Pawn. On the face of it, John Williamson’s invitation to lunch was nothing that Henry Craven need especially won der, let alone worry, about. It was ■unusual—Henry couldn’t remember, indeed, that it had ever huppened be fore in just these circumstances—but surely one needn’t feel on that account that there was anything ominous •about it. The manner of giving It had ■been a little overbearing, perhaps; liigh-handed, anyhow. But thut was John Williamson’s way, und no doubt .his place in Chicago’s financial world entitled him to it. Henry had been dictating a letter— ■around eleven o’clock this was—when ■one of the bank’s more important cus tomers spoke to him from across the marble rull. Evidently the man didn't ■care to come inside, so Henry went to the rail to see what was wanted. His telephone rang while he stood talking with the customer and, of course, his stenographer answered it. He heard her sny. \Yes Mr. Williamson.” And then, \He’s right here. Sha’n’t I call him?\ But John, evidently, hadn’t thought it necessary to wait, even a minute. There was another pause while she made a notation on a pad, and finally, \Very well, Mr. William son. I’ll tell him.\ What Henry’s stenographer had written on her pnd was: “ Be at J. W.’s office at twelve-thirty. Lunch.\ No \Ifs” at all. Not even an “ if pos sible.” Weil, of course there were no \Ifs.\ \ John was one of two or three Olym pians who, among their other cloudy vast affairs, directed the policies of this great bank, in which his cousin by marriage, Henry Craven, after six teen years of faithful service, had re cently been promoted to be one of the assistant cashiers. Naturally, then, If John wanted him for any reason, big or little, Henry would come. It was unlikely, wasn’t It, that the thing was of any serious Importance? It mightn't be a business mat/er at all. lome little domestic problem or other. Violet (she woe John’s wife and Henry’s cousin) had a birthday coming next week. It was possible that Henry’s cultivated taste was go ing to be requisitioned to pick out a present for her. Only would John have wasted a priceless lunch hour— the most Important hour of his hard- driven uay—upon a trifle like that? It was Inconceivable. The lunch-table was just where men like John talked over and arrived 'at their major de cisions. Yet what major decision of John’s could Imaginably concern Henry? Un less— unless It was a question of Hen ry’s own Job In the bank. They weren’t- going to promote him again; they’d Just don'e that. But suppose—suppose they felt he hadn't made good, and had decided to do the other thing. Wouldn't it be broken to him just like this, genially, over the lunch-table? He pulled himself up with a jerk nnd shot a glance at his stenographer. Had his moment of panic been legible to her in his face? But she was gaz ing out nowhere in the sort of trance that is one of the accomplishments of her profession. “ Wlint’s the Inst thing I said?” he demanded. Then ns the girl started to read, \No give me the whole thing from the beginning.\ He didn't need, it, but he did need another minute or two In which to take possession of himself. That fear —that damnable black dog of a fear, had slunk at his heels since his first duy at the bnnk. It had been natural enough at first, when he was’ bruised and bewildered by u sudden tragic change in the whole prospect of his life. John had given him this job out of charity, or, If you preferred putting It so, by way of meeting an obligation he had as sumed on marrying into the Craven family. He’d come Into the bank as a lame duck. There was, though, no reasonable doubt that he stayed and advanced on his merits. All the evidence leaned that wny. But the fear persisted. Not, of course, as a constant compan ion. There were days, weeks of them together sometimes, when he never thought of It. But at .^ome trifling enigma, fancied very likely, In the conduct of one of his superiors, some conversation unavoidably half over heard, some smile that he felt glanced his way, the thing would seize him like a spasm of pain from an Injured nerve. He knew it was a weakness. He, made valiant attempts to conquer it. He grew ashamed of it. He devel oped the corollary fear that It would be discovered. 1 HIs latest promotion had, he’d sup posed, worked a cure. An assistant cashier was one of the officers of the bank. “If ever they make me an offi cer,” he’d said to himself a thousand times, “then I’ll know I’m safe.\ And Indeed, during the three months since it had occurred, he’d been” breathing deeper, luxuriating in a new security. But now, for no better reason than that his Cousin John had invited him to lunch, he was quaking at the pit of his stomach like a schoolboy who’s been told to report to the principal. It was absurd. A desire came flooding over him as he sat upon that straight chair in John Williamson's outer of fice— a passionate desire to do some thing unexpected, wicked quite possi bly, but successful, immense; to the effect that telephone girls should stand In awe of him and private sec retaries treat him with respect. Through an open transom Henry could hear loud laughter as a heavy voice rumbled through a story and Ills anger, that he should be kept waiting under such circumstances, rose. He was about to have the girl telephone .to John that he was .waiting when.the door into Mills’ office was brusquely opened. Henry heard young Mills, evidently at the other door, say, “You can get out this way, Mr. Greer.\ The man addressed stood there In an attitude of arrested motion, grin ning back Into the room. And Henry, while he stared at the sight of him, held his breath. All his fidgety an noyances were forgotten, swallowed up In the sensation which the man's appearance produced. His beard was the first thing you saw. It was cut round and short—not fushloned at all—and It was black, as black as If it bad been drawn- upon his face with India ink. His hair was just as black and thick, and it war cut quite short enough to hide a ten dency to curl. Against this blackness of jowl nnd brow the gleam of his teeth and the whites of his eyes made a dazzling „contrast. But indeed, as you took him in, you saw that he was a bundle of contrasts; the lightness of bis poise, ns he stood there holding' the door, against the burly breadth of those shoulders and the bull-neck: the look of geniality that you got from l»s smile, contradicted by his nose, wnlch jutted out In so bluntly aggressi.e a manner ns to be—piratical almost, Henry felt He had answered Rollie Mills by saying in his peculiarly resonant voice that he always thought he was lucky, coming to a place like this, if he could get out the same door he’d come in by; and he 'continued for a minute rubbing this in. Ail these rob ber barons of finance had, he sup posed, a chute down which the unwary visitor, having been shorn, was per mitted to plunge. John looked absent-minded when he appeared a moment later. He did not come out of his abstraction until Just as they were turning Into the club; then he took Henry by the arm. “Did you know that fellow?\ he asked. “The man who was up In my office ?’’ “No,\ Henry said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him before. I’m sure he's not one of the customers over at the bank.\ “His name’s Greer,” said John. \Joseph Greer. Ever heard of him?\ \The name's vaguely familiar, per haps, but I can’t place It. I’ll be glad to look him up for-you, If you like.\ “ We’ve looked him up,” said John. “I guess we know pretty much nil there is to know about him. He’s got a proposition we’re going to take up. Going Into business with him. I’ll tell you the whole thing at lunch.” By this time Henry perceived that danger of his Job being taken away from him did not exist and he breathed easy again. When the two men sat down to the table John launched Into a description of Greer’s business. It seemed that the farmers of the coun try, who were growing plants for lin seed oil, were throwing away the flax- straw from some two million acrer of land. every year and that Greer had discovered a process by which to make linen from it at a price that would permit America to compete with the cheap hand labor of Europe. John finally wound up his talk by telling Henry that he had picked him as treasurer of the new company at a salary of ten thousand n year. Frankly, ne stated, the directors had faith In Greer’s ability in a practical way but they feared his handling huge amounts of money without some sort of a check being kept on him, and that was to be Henry’s duty. John did not press Henry for an Immediate answer and told him to sleep on It before giv ing him his answer. The offer was a splendid one for Craven after the fifteen years of ter rible struggle on the part of himself and his sister to keep up appearances. His father had died when Henry was a mere boy, leaving his family prac tically penniless but the brother and sister, aided by powerful friends of their father, had managed to keep up the home. Henry arrived home ahead of his sister and when the buzzer announced a caller he rushed to the door, expect ing to see Margaret, although she usually carried a key. It wasn’t Margaret, though. There were two people coming up, and they proved to be Violet Williamson and young Dorothy. The latter, when she saw vVho was waiting for them, left her mother behind, took the remain ing flight of stairs two at a time, flung ber-arms around him, gave him a tight hug, and kissed him soundly, just as she'd used to do when she wns un equivocally a little girl. It was a heart-warming experience. The two foraged in the pantry and through the Icebox for materials for tea. “I am practicing on you,” Dorothy admitted. “She wants me to.” “Your mother?\ The girl nodded. Henry was still speechless over this when he heard Margaret talking to Violet In the oth er room. It was only a moment later that his sister, without stopping to remove her wraps, swooped down upon them in the pantry. She kissed Doro thy enthusiastically and held her off in both hands. “You’re a delicious-looking young thing,\ she said. \I wish I looked like you,” the girl retorted, a little flushed but easily enough. \I always have, you know.\ People had Just one adjective for Margaret—good-looking. She fell short of beauty nnd there was nothing pret ty about her. She had regular fea tures, rather finely modeled, a good skin, and enough hair. Had her life run on in the channel that it had start ed _,ln, she might have attained an ef fect of style, smartness anyhow. As It was what she had achieved was n crispness of movement and In flection, an air of adequacy to any situation that might arise, which men, in the main, found a little formidable. The men who liked her best were old er than she and nmrrled. But Just this quality, it was easy to guess, was what young Dorothy admired. • And you could not mistake the sincerity of what she had just snid. Abruptly, Margaret shooed them out into the sitting-room to keep Violet amused while she got the tea. Just as Margaret was coming In with the tray Violet said, \It must seem strnnge to be Ienving the bank, doesn't It?” He . answered quickly, “Margaret doesn’t know.” Then to his sister he went on, “John offered me a new job at luneb today and I—I’m taking it.\ Her eyebrows went up with an ex pression which betrayed nothing but good-humored surprise. Then she said, “It must be pretty good if you could make up your mind as quickly as that to take it.\ “Well, I’m sure it must look good to John,\ Vollet observed. \The whole scheme, i mean. Because uriles- It had looked—well — marvelous, he’d never have gone in with that man.\ \Greer you mean,” Henry said, and turned once more to Margaret with explanations. “He’s an inventor and he's found a way to make linen out of American flax straw. They’ve never been able to do it before and the farm ers have burned it—thousands, or maybe millions, of tons of It every year. I don’t understand Greer’s process In the leust. I’m not even sure that John does. But he seems to have no doubt It works. John wants me to be treasurer of the new com pany,\ he concluded. “The inventor himself Is to be president.” \Have you met him yet?” Violet asked. \1 just got a glimpse of him,\ Henry answered. “I hadn’t time to see any thing but his beard.\ “That’s the man, all right,\ Violet said, with a nod. And went on, since they were both visibly waiting for more: “Why, he sounds amusing to me; really attractive. Jimmie Wal lace likes him quite a lot. He likes to play with theatrical people—thnt’s how Jimmie knows him. uut, or course, Jimmie himself Isn’t exactly what you’d call—austere. He’s got an apartment—Greer, I mean—up on Sheridan road, in the same building that Bella and Bill Forrester are in. Bella is quite an authority on him. Never met him, of course. But site meets up with him, accidentally, you know, every now and then, and they get very pally. She’s hoping, she says, that he'll invite her to one of his par ties. They must be pretty terrific from all accounts.” “I got the Impression,” Henry ob served, “from John’s biogrnphy of him that he’s a bachelor.\ “ I don’t know,\ said Violet. \It comes to that, anyhow. He lives In thut big apartment all by himself. At least—\ she qualified, and br»k£ off with a glance toward iter daughter. \You needn't mind me,\ Dorothy said qul6tly. \I’m reading the Literary News. AH the same.\ the girl went on, looking up at Henry -from the magazine her glance had fallen upon, \I think that sort of Inventor would be a wonderful person to have about. Mostly they’re so awfully noble and Innocent, aren’t they, and about a hun dred years old? Or is that just In the movies? Anyhow, I think you’ll like it a lot. I wish father would gLve me a Job In the new company.” She rose then, put down her cup, and, coming round behind her moth er’s chair, took her lightly by the shoulders. “I was to drag you away by force at a quarter to six,\ she said. (Henry noted how she had evaded us ing any term of address.) “It’s nearly that now, and you haven’t done your errand yet.” \I’m having a dinner tomorrow night,\ Violet explained to Margaret, \and as things have turned out, I’m simply gorged with men. Can I rteal you away from Henry? It’s going to be frightfully dull, I'm afraid.\ Margaret thought she could come. Dorotny had come over to Henry and offered him her hand, “for luck.” He retained it as he turned to her mother and asked, “How about an even exchange?- Or wouldn’t it be proper? Or are you going t* com mandeer Dorothy, too?\ “Yes, It’s all right,\ Margaret said, from her desk In the corner. “Love to I Seven-thirty?\ \Oh Dorothy’s perfectly—unattain able,\ Violet told Henry. \She’s din ing and dancing somewhere tomorrow night I don’t in the least remember where. All I know is I accepted eleven Invitations for her for Easter week.\ “I’m desolated that I can’t dine with you,\ Dorothy cried In the best no- “ I'm Desolated That I Can’t Dine With You,” Dorothy Cried. cents of Vanity Fair. “ It would be much more amusing.\ “I call that\ Henry grumbled, after he had closed the door behind them, “an infernal outrage. Oh, not your going out to dinner I\ he added, for he had caught a look in his sister’s face that startled him. “I meant the wny she’s trying to spoil that lovely child. John said today that seventeen was a devilish age. He’s wrong. It’s thirty- eight that Is.\ “I didn’t suppose you meant about the dinner,\ she said, her voice com ing rather flat, “ and I suppose you did mean Dorothy. But there was just a chance, I thought, that you respited the way John had treated you.\ \John! In offering me the new Job, you menn? That’s because you don’t know about it yet. Violet spoiled things, rather, making me tell it back ward. It’s ten thousand a year. Peg, to begin with—stock in the company— independence again, if the thing goes right—something like old times.’ She asked him abruptly, \When did you first hear nbout this?\ “ Why—Just today at lunch. You don’t think I’d keep a thing like that from you. I’m sorry I mid Violet first, but it came up naturally, somehow, and then I took It for granted that she’d know anyway.\ “And you accepted It finally— right there at the lunch-tnble?” “No, of course not. As a matter of fact, John didn’t ask me to. He knew I’d wnnt to think it over—talk it over with you.” “ How long did he give you to de cide?\ she asked. “ Well, the meeting is tomorrow aft ernoon,\ snid Henry, and all the wind went out-of his sails on the admission. “They'll wnnt t6 know before then. I told John I'd call him up in the morning.\ “Thut’s what I thought you might resent.” Her voici flattened down upon the words and, as she’d turned away from him, they were hardly audible. “ I don’t feel I’m being unduly hur- 'ried,\ he assured her, “if that’s what you menn. I’ve already decided, un less you’ve some serious objection to urge, that I’ll take It.\ “ You haven’t decided anything,\ she contradicted. \You haven’t had any chance to decide. You don’t know whether the process works or not. I don’t believe you know whether It’s ever been tried or Is just a theory John’s decided it for you. He’s going to take a flier. He con afford to lose as well as not. He’s used you like a pawn In a game of chess—pushing you in. It won’t matter to him whether you're taken or not.” “You’re the only stenographer in the world,” he said. (TO B E C O N TIN U ED .) A mean man usually rejoices be cause of his meanness. IMPROVED UNIFORM D í TERNATIOÑÁL í . (By' REV. P. B. FITZWATER. D. D*j „ Teacher of English Bible In the Moody Bible Institute of Chicago.) iffl.H J S W««»*ra N * w » d » p » i ' U n ion.* LESSON FOR DECEMBER 16 — WORLD-WIDE MISSIONS LESSON TEXT—Acts 16:9-15; 28:30, 31; Rom. 15:18-21. GOLDEN TEXT—“I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ, for It Is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.\—Rom. 1:16. PRIMARY TOPIC—Preaching by a Rive’rside. JUNIOR TOPIC—Paul Crosses the Sea. INTERMEDIATE AND SENIOR TOP IC—Paul’s Ambition. YOUNG PEOPLE AND ADULT TOPIC —Paul’s Aim and Methods. The Gospel having broken the .con fines of the Jewish city and country, the middle wall of partition being abolished, the time came for It to leap across the Aegean sea and begin its conquest of another continent. Chris tianity thus ceased to be an oriental religion and through the centuries has been mainly occidental. I. Call to Macedonia (Acts 10:9-11). 1. The Vision (v. 9). Being hemmed in on all sides, a vision was given to Paul of a man of Macedonia pleading for help. This made plain to him the closed doors about him. The Spirit as definitely leads in the closing of some doors as in the opening of oth- - ers. In finding the divine will wo should look both ways. Before tliere can be any great forward movement there must be a vision. The great achievements of men are the products of visions. 2. The Advnnce (vv. 10, 11). As soon as the divine way was known they moved forward therein. Visions must be quickly translated Into ag gressive actions or else they are blot ted from our skies. They neither questioned the wisdom of God nor de layed action. This is characteristic of all of God’s true servants. With a straight course Pnul moved out of his own country to the strategic center of a new continent. II. The First Convert In Europe (Acts 10:12-15). The missionaries first went to Philip pi and spent several days in studying conditions there. The Jewish element In this city wns comparatively Insig nificant, so much so that they could not have a synagogue. Therefore, the devout people were accustomed to wor ship by the riverside. To this humble gathering Paul came and preached to the women assembled there. A certain woman from Tliyatlra, a proselyte, believed his message and was bap tized. The work of the Lord thus had a very humble beginning, but It was destined to transform all Europe and the world. The steps In Lydia’s conversion are worthy of note for they are typical. 1. Attendance at the Place of Wor ship (v. 13). Usually those whom God Is calling are found at the place of -prayer. Lydia was seeking the heav enly light. God sends many an in quirer to the prayer meeting. 2. Listening to the Preaching of the Word of God (w . 13, 14). It is highly important that at every prayer meet ing the Word of God shall be spoken, so thnt the Inquirer after God may find the light. 3. Her Heart Was Opened by the Lord (v. 14). Only the Lord can con vert a soul. It Is our business to preach the Word of God and it Is God’s business to open the heart of the Inquirer. No one is ever converted against his will. 4. She Was Baptized (v. 15). Every one whose heart the Lord has opened desires to confess Him in baptism. 5. Her Household Believed Also (v. 15). This was as it should be. Real conversion cannot be concealed. C. Practiced Hospitality (v. 15). Those who have experienced God’s saving grace are at once disposed to have part In His work by rendering aid to His ministers. III. Paul Preaching in Rome (Acts 28:30, 31). Paul continued his labors in widen ing hls-testimony to the world amongst thrilling experiences. In spite of beat ings, shipwrecks and imprisonments, we find him near the close of his life In the imperial capitol city. Though a prisoner he continues to preach the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. In the providence of God, he had liberty to preach the Gospel to all who came to him. IV. Paul’s Aim in Preaching the - Gospel Was World-Wide (Rom. 15: 16-21). His heart’s transcendent desire was to so preach the Gospel that the Gen-' tiles might become obedient to the^ faith. In order that this might be ac complished he pushed cut Into unex plored regions, so that the light of the Gospel might shine Into the dark; ness of the heathen world. May we follow his example, for there Is much work to be done. Prayer. Bring your plans, your purposes to God’s throne. Test them by praying - about them. Do nothing large or new - —nothing small nor old, either—for that, matter—till you have asked there. In the silence of the secret place, “Lord, what wouldest Thou have me to do?”—Alexander Maclaren. Worry Is Not Faith. Worry is not faith. It is doubting God, who has promised to supply all - our need ln Christ Jesus.—Record of Christian Work.
