sit! 
 
 ewtc.
 
 GOLD SHOD
 
 GOLD SHOD 
 
 By Newton Fuessle 
 
 Author of "The FlaU" 
 
 BONI AND LIVERIGHT 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 GOLD SHOD 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY 
 Boin & LTVEWGHT, ITXC, 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 BOOK ONE: 
 
 THE STRINGS 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK TWO: 
 
 THE BRASS ..... :. . :.: :.: :.: . . 71 
 
 BOOK THREE: 
 
 THE WOOD-WIND . . . : . : . . . 193 
 
 2135S01
 
 Dedicated variously to my friends and publishers, 
 Horace B. Liveright and Clarence Britten, who have 
 advised with me tirelessly; to the late Frank G. 
 Hancock, who moves through some of these pages; 
 to Cvrus Lauron Hooper, who wanted me to write 
 a story of divided aims; to George Wm. Sweney 
 and to Milton Fuessle.
 
 His steed it is gold shod and crested with silver. 
 His cloak it is long and its lining is silken. 
 
 Oh ay, 'tis the guiltless must smart, said the devil. 
 
 PEER GYNT.
 
 BOOK ONE 
 THE STRINGS
 
 GOLD SHOD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 TOWARD the close of a cool afternoon of March, a 
 travel-stained top-buggy drawn by a smartly step- 
 ping black mare, rolled with an air of importance into 
 the outskirts of Elyria, Ohio. The driver was a man of 
 about fifty, and there were pinches of gray in his pointed 
 brown beard and moustache. On the seat beside him was 
 a black leather valise containing his obstetrical instru- 
 ments and medicines. An air of melancholy brooded 
 over his strong features; he nodded gravely in reply 
 to the greetings of several passers-by; the whole town 
 knew Dr. Anton Glinden. 
 
 The country doctor listened vaguely to the drumming 
 of the mare's hoof-beats, cushioned by the damp road. 
 He gazed moodily at the streaks of soiled snow that lay 
 alongside the road, sullen souvenirs of the Ohio winter. 
 He scanned the hickories and beech-trees in vain for signs 
 of spring. His glance ascended to the slate-hued clouds 
 that crossed the path of the sun and gave the skies the 
 appearance of tarnished silver. 
 
 A stream of somber musing bore him back over the life 
 he had lived. He thought of his harsh boyhood on a 
 Pennsylvania farm, with the ignorant peasant uncle who 
 had brought him up, and the nest of ill-remembered 
 aunts. He clenched a mental hand and shook a mental 
 fist at the memory of those dead. The farm from which 
 he had just come and something about the sordid child- 
 birth which he had attended lugged these disturbing mem- 
 ories nearer. 
 
 As he drove past Elyria's familiar opera house, hotel, 
 
 15
 
 16 GOLD SHOD 
 
 bank, stores and hitching-posts, Anton was thinking 
 thoughts that would have surprised his townspeople. 
 
 His life had never seemed to him more meaningless than 
 it seemed today. He groped for comfort in the thought 
 of the hundreds of lives he had ushered into evidence, of 
 the hundreds of times he had arrested death, of the many 
 skulls he had lifted, the feet and hands and arms he had 
 amputated, the lacerations he had stitched, the medicines 
 he had administered. But he found no comfort in these 
 reflections. What of it that he had managed a few child- 
 births and prolonged a few lives, that he had quieted pains 
 and reduced fevers? He seemed almost a stranger to 
 himself in these labors of the physician. 
 
 Anton's mare, catching a sniff of the smell of burnt 
 hoofs from the blacksmith shop, sprang into a troubled 
 run. 
 
 "Steady there !" commanded Anton, laying tighter hold 
 of the reins. "There's something about all you beasts 
 that's pretty much alike." 
 
 It angered him to reflect that he was still driving over 
 these roads and doctoring these people. Its irony im- 
 bedded itself heavily in his thoughts. In the spring of 
 every year, he felt the same remorse that medicine instead 
 of music was his calling. He had discovered too late that 
 what he wanted most was his piano, his composing. The 
 old dream of going to Munich presented itself again. Why 
 had he treated so lightly this hunger for music? Of all 
 the drugs he had prescribed, he had administered to him- 
 self the bitterest pill of all. 
 
 Fritz, his house-and-stable-man, heard the buggy roll 
 through the porte-cochere, and came limping from the 
 barn. 
 
 "You can unhitch the mare," said Anton in German. 
 
 "It looks for rain,*' ventured the hired man. 
 
 "Whenever there's a cloud in sight, you're sure to see 
 it," answered Dr. Glinden critically. He picked up his 
 satchel and entered the house. 
 
 With a rustle of satin, Sarah, his wife, came out of
 
 GOLD SHOD IT 
 
 the library to meet him. She was rather tall and carried 
 herself with a kindly dignity that befitted the wife of 
 Elyria's leading physician. There was an air of studied 
 elegance about her, a superiority that looked down with 
 tolerance upon people who, lacking the intelligence to 
 remain well, required the professional services of her hus- 
 band. Sarah took a personal interest in each call her 
 husband made, mourned each fatality, and ascribed every 
 death, with staunch Presbyterian assurance, to God's will. 
 
 "Well, Doctor?" she inquired, moving a Japanese 
 wicker vase to the center of the marble-top center-table* 
 
 "It was a bov," said Anton. 
 
 "How's the mother?" 
 
 "I'm afraid she can't live." 
 
 "Is it that serious?" 
 
 "There were complications." 
 
 "It's too bad, Anton. Surely you can do something." 
 
 The doctor shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 "But that family, those children need her. It doesn't 
 seem right." 
 
 "She had no business having another baby. I told her 
 that the last time. It's disgusting the way this trash 
 breeds." 
 
 "Don't talk so brutally !" 
 
 "My little saint," replied the doctor in honeyed tones. 
 
 "You are exasperating!" 
 
 The syllables slid like icicles between Mrs. Glinden's 
 even teeth and thin lips. She swept from the room, and 
 might presently have been heard in the kitchen, address- 
 ing Ernestine, her cook, in crisp sentences. 
 
 The home of the Glindens, like its master, was distin- 
 guished with an air that would have been sought in vain 
 in most of the Elyria abodes of the 1880's. On the walls 
 were some excellent etchings and French prints ; figures 
 and landscapes in oil had made their appearance among 
 the portraits of Sarah Glinden's parents and grand- 
 parents which stared upon this changing household of 
 their descendants. Beside the brick fireplace stood a spin-
 
 18 GOLD SHOD 
 
 ning wheel of elder days. Carefully selected titles 
 ranged upon the shelves of the tall bookcases of walnut, 
 mainly Elizabethan in character, when not medical. The 
 riff-raff of the ordinary bookcases was absent. Bound 
 volumes of The Ladies' Repository, tall and prim upon 
 the bottom shelves, were the only indications of the read- 
 ing taste of Sarah Glinden. In the broad hallway, ad- 
 joining the sitting room, stood a square piano. On a little 
 shelf at the half-way landing of the stairs beyond, was a 
 bust of Dante. 
 
 After the evening meal, Anton retired to his consulta- 
 tion office, a little room off the sitting room, closed the 
 door, and began pacing to and fro. Years of thoughtful 
 footsteps, first his father-in-law's and now his, had worn 
 a path diagonally across the successive carpets of the 
 room. He was deep in thought. But his mind was not 
 on his professional cares, his sick, his dying. He was 
 thinking of a young woman, Ida Dunseath by name, who 
 had an appointment to call this evening to consult him 
 about her invalid father, He was glad that she was 
 coming ; he found her remarkably refreshing. 
 
 Pacing quietly up and down the lamp-lit room, Dr. 
 Glinden was thinking of what a fine appearance Miss Dun- 
 seath made on horseback. He remembered the pleasure 
 with which he always lifted his brown felt hat upon 
 passing her on the road ; he thought of her chirpy greet- 
 ing; of the richness of color with which riding had 
 adorned her slender face. His thoughts leaned hungrily 
 toward her warm young body and delightful personality. 
 
 He could not help thinking what a wife she would have 
 made him. Sarah Glinden was all right, of course; she 
 was a good woman ; a good mother to Ames, their son ; 
 an admirable housekeeper; an estimable hostess. He had 
 had his reasons for marrying her. But she did not know 
 how to love a man. They couldn't put him in a strait- 
 jacket. 
 
 The doctor paused in front of the little desk at which 
 he wrote his prescriptions. He gazed wearily at the
 
 GOLD SHOD 19 
 
 pigeon-holes, stuffed with old letters, and at the row of 
 medical volumes on the shelf above. How would it be, 
 he wondered, to write a romantic letter some day at this 
 desk ? Gallant phrases crossed his mind. He drifted into 
 a charming reverie. 
 
 Hearing voices outside his door, his manner changed. 
 He assumed his habitual air of professional decorum. 
 There was a knock at the door. 
 
 "Yes," he replied. 
 
 "Ida is here," said Mrs. Glinden, opening the door. 
 
 "I will see her," answered the doctor. "Ah, Miss Dun- 
 seath ! You look well." 
 
 "Oh, there's never anything the matter with me," she 
 said with a laugh. 
 
 The doctor closed the door. He questioned her thought- 
 fully about her father, listened gratefully to her pleasing 
 voice, made occasional suggestions, complimented her 
 upon the care with which she had carried out his previous 
 instructions. 
 
 "Your father is doing as well as can be expected," he 
 said. "Keep him on a strict diet. Guard against ex- 
 citement. We'll change his medicine," he added, writing 
 a new .prescription. "I'll run in and see him in a few 
 days." 
 
 And now, as Anton sat regarding his visitor, her glow 
 of youth and strength seemed to cross the room to him 
 like tangible currents. All of a sudden Ida meant every- 
 thing to him that the studied, orderly trend of his dull 
 and stodgy life here in Elyria had withheld. Nearness 
 to this woman of twenty-five made him feel young and 
 intrepid. His eyes caressed the passive white hands that 
 lay in her gray velvet lap. An impulse took abrupt 
 possession of him. 
 
 "You are charming," he said to her. 
 
 She gave an excited little laugh. 
 
 "Do you say that to all of your patients?" she asked. 
 
 "Decidedly not. You are very different. You make 
 me forget myself."
 
 20 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "Why, Doctor !" she said, with a look of agitated chal- 
 lenge in her eyes. 
 
 "I want to forget myself," he continued in low tones. 
 "I've been unable to get you off ray mind. But what an 
 absurd thing to say at my age." 
 
 "You seem to be no older than a man ought to be," 
 said the other, flirting. 
 
 Anton was flattered. It filled him with a delightful 
 trepidation, with restlessness. It made him aware of new 
 needs and desires. It made him realize how empty his 
 life had been these late years, how stupid and old-mannish. 
 
 "You are a splendid horsewoman," he observed. "Some- 
 time we must go for a canter together." 
 
 "Oh, I'd like nothing better !" 
 
 "I shall have every young man in town green with 
 envy of me," said Anton with satisfaction. 
 
 "Flatterer." 
 
 "I should have suggested it long ago." 
 
 "Why didn't you?" 
 
 "Because I am a solemn old family doctor." 
 
 "You don't seem at all solemn to me." 
 
 "I don't feel solemn when I look at you. I feel young. 
 Even romantic," said Anton, lowering his voice and look- 
 ing intensely at his companion. "I'm going to kiss you." 
 
 Other women had figured in his life both before and 
 since his marriage. During his medical college days in 
 Chicago, and later in Cleveland and Cincinnati, there had 
 been occasional unimportant intrigues, furtive and soon 
 forgotten. But now, for the first time, he had allowed 
 himself any latitude with women in Elyria. Already the 
 brief conversation with Ida hung like trophies in his 
 mind, like forerunners of chase and conquest. 
 
 Sarah, far from being deceived, stood outside the door 
 listening. Acting upon a suspicious intuition, she had 
 gone to the closed door of the consultation room, and 
 heard the entire dialogue. She could hardly believe it. 
 It was her first intimation that Anton was capable of this
 
 GOLD SHOD 21 
 
 sort of thing. She was unprepared for it, unschooled as 
 to how to act. The more she thought of it, the more in- 
 furiated she was that Anton should conduct himself like 
 this under her very nose. 
 
 The heat of her startled resentment cooled down in 
 time, and she kept her knowledge clothed in emphatic 
 reserve., But, with disillusionment came distrust, and 
 with distrust came an exaggerated dignity, a haughty 
 scorn, and the stiff pretence that she no longer cared. 
 The discovery made her watchful, afraid of what else 
 Anton might do. It made her feel intensely alone in the 
 world. The words she had overheard cast shadows back 
 into the past and on into the future. The whole past 
 of her married life became peopled with misgivings ; the 
 future filled with forebodings. A sense of tragedy occu- 
 pied her. She felt herself the object of a great injustice. 
 It was that terror that comes to a woman of middle-age 
 when she perceives for the first time that youth has 
 invaded her rights in the contest for hold upon a man. 
 She began thinking of revenge, began speculating as to 
 what manoeuvers might prove the most effective. 
 
 Anton had never loved her; but Sarah did not have 
 the temperament to perceive that. At thirty Anton had 
 made his first visit to Elyria; he came as a teacher of 
 music at a little Pennsylvania seminary for girls, on 
 tour with his glee club. He was a momentous figure to 
 Sarah, who sat with her parents in one of the front pews 
 of the Presbyterian church where the concert was given. 
 It was the first time she had ever gazed upon a man 
 and deemed him romantic. Sarah was a serious creature, 
 somewhat mannish in demeanor, the only child and the 
 heir of Dr. and Mrs. Fennell. 
 
 After the concert, Sarah and her parents had conducted 
 Anton to their carriage and driven him home as their 
 guest for the night. The imaginative Anton had been 
 impressed with the doctor's carriage and home, his library, 
 his professional standing. He had recalled that it was
 
 22 GOLD SHOD 
 
 the custom for country doctors, upon retiring from serv- 
 ice, to confer their practice upon a chosen successor. 
 
 "Why couldn't I step in here in time?'* Anton had 
 asked himself. 
 
 Ever since his boyhood, divided aims had troubled him ; 
 his desire to be a musician had been balanced against a 
 desire to be a physician. "This is my chance," he thought. 
 "Why not? What a fine thing it would be to possess this 
 practice. How would it be to marry Sarah and study 
 medicine?" That night, he lay awake for hours in the 
 four-poster bed of the guest chamber, and appraised 
 the situation. It engrossed him. 
 
 Anton's decision to woo Sarah issued from a romance 
 of career, rather than any romance of sex. Where others 
 toiled on into careers for the sake of justifying them- 
 selves before their women, Anton made love to this woman 
 for the sake of making his way into a more attractive 
 career. 
 
 Sarah yielded contentedly to Anton's abrupt atten- 
 tions. They were as unexpected to her as they were 
 flattering. Her parents were pleased. From the first 
 they had viewed with provincial respect the artistic ac- 
 complishments of this newcomer into their narrow world. 
 
 Anton and Sarah were soon married, and Anton hurried 
 to Chicago to begin the study of medicine. But there 
 were hours of forebodings at finding himself entering 
 deeper and deeper into the thicket of this pursuit, so 
 alien to his temperament. After the toil of the labora- 
 tories, after the ghastly strain of the dissecting-room, 
 he would wander fatigued through the Chicago streets, 
 while smoky twilights cast the walls of red and brown into 
 deeper hues, thinking of the piano in his rented room. 
 And presently, when he struck the beloved keys and lashed 
 favorite passages from the instrument, its flood of music 
 sang to him in reproachful voices of the dreams he had 
 abandoned. 
 
 Sarah did not care for Chicago. She would sit for 
 hours at her mending or embroidering, longing for Elyria,
 
 GOLD SHOD 23 
 
 dreaming of the pleasant past. After that first autumn 
 and winter in Chicago, she spent almost all of the re- 
 mainder of her husband's student years at home with 
 her people, musing on the time when he should be the 
 leading doctor of Elyria. 
 
 "A fine man," thought the town-folk when their new 
 family doctor made his appearance among them and 
 began taking over the practice of his father-in-law. "A 
 fine doctor," they assured each other. 
 
 And until the moment of her discovery of Anton's 
 gestures in the direction of Miss Dunseath, twenty years 
 after their marriage, Sarah had never had serious cause 
 not to share fully and unquestioningly the town's esteem 
 of her husband. Prior to her discovery, Mrs. Glinden 
 heard her share of the gossip that infests small town 
 society, but always with the satisfied consciousness that 
 there was an inferior streak somewhere in the people 
 talked about, something common and detestable about 
 people who could engage in or even incur suspicion of 
 adulterous intrigues. That Anton, her husband, or Ames, 
 their son, might ever develop such unspeakable pro- 
 pensities, had never entered her fancies. 
 
 One consequence of her discovery was the development 
 of a subtle change in her conception of the future of 
 Ames, who was at that time in his senior year at Oberlin. 
 He was a shy and sensitive fellow, a dreamer and a 
 bookworm. The development in his son of these artistic 
 impulses Anton had watched with pleasure, and had 
 encouraged Ames in his aspiration to fit himself for a 
 chair of literature in some college. A career in one of the 
 arts having been denied him, Anton was delighted with 
 the prospect of such a career for his son. 
 
 The mother had perceived all this with secret disap- 
 pointment. Her idea of art was the framed exhibit of 
 butterflies and grasses on the wall of her sitting-room. 
 Her ambition for Ames was to see him one of the man- 
 agers of the Elyria Lounge Works. Once she broached 
 the idea to Anton.
 
 24 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "What?" he demanded, "you would shove the boy into 
 a factory? It's the last place for him. I'm surprised 
 at you." 
 
 Resentment against her husband for that episode with 
 Miss Dunseath, however, made it a fixed object with her 
 to upset Anton's plans for Ames, and to accomplish her 
 own. The brick walls of the lounge factory became the 
 symbol of her determination. She had made up her 
 mind to undo the plan for Ames' proposed graduate 
 studies, and to force him into something practical. But 
 she was shrewd enough to know that she could hardly 
 attain this object unaided. She cast about her for rein- 
 forcements, inspecting the problem on every side. And 
 in the midst of her reflections there occurred to her an 
 idea that left her breathless. She wondered if she dared 
 carry it out? Why not? It would prove a good thing, 
 she felt convinced, for Ames. And it would serve Anton 
 right. 
 
 June came. 
 
 Instead of going to Oberlin for his son's graduation 
 from college, the doctor decided to go to Columbus to 
 attend an important meeting of his state medical society. 
 Returning to Elyria, he found only the servants at home. 
 Mrs. Glinden and Ames had not yet returned. 
 
 He ate his dinner, and began roaming meditatively 
 about the yard. Pictorial shadows lay upon the lawn. A 
 blue bank of larkspur grew alongside the dwelling's vines ; 
 the lilac-bushes had already bloomed themselves out. 
 Fritz was watering the pansies and candy-tuft ; Ernestine 
 was picking rambler-roses, dolefully humming hymns. 
 
 "Stop it a while," said the doctor irritably. 
 
 Ernestine drew back from the trellis. 
 
 "I meant your idiotic humming," added Anton. 
 
 "It was only a church song," whined the cook. 
 
 "That's just what's the matter. It's getting so that I 
 hear church songs wherever I turn, around here. You 
 ought to learn some good dance tunes, Ernestine." 
 
 "Oh, Doctor !" exclaimed the cook.
 
 GOLD SHOD 25 
 
 "You're too pious." 
 
 Anton strolled to the back of the house and dropped 
 into one of the rustic benches. From the turf rose the 
 moist, fresh odor of June grass and earth. A humming- 
 bird paused at the wisteria, swerved, and darted passion- 
 ately off into the evening. A rope swing, hanging from 
 the chestnut tree near the back of the yard, reminded 
 Anton of the time when Ames, as a small boy, had fallen 
 from the swing, bruising his nose and setting up a great 
 howl. It seemed only yesterday. Yet to-day Ames was 
 taking his degree cum laude at Oberlin. Anton reflected 
 that he should have driven down to the station to meet 
 the train. He pulled his beard gravely. By hardly per- 
 ceptible degrees he had been letting himself drift too far 
 away from Ames. 
 
 "What's the matter with me?" thought Anton. "The 
 boy's all right." 
 
 His plans for Ames swept strongly to his mind. The 
 old anxiety for the boy's future came back, the old 
 determination that Ames should experience none of that 
 hapless drifting, that division of aims that had oppressed 
 his own youth, that lonely struggle to achieve a place 
 for himself without intelligent sympathy or understanding 
 to lean upon. His face darkened as he thought of his 
 own boyhood on the farm, laboring barefoot in the 
 fields, his muscles and spirit sore with tasks beyond his 
 years, peoned to those aunts and uncle, fanatics for work, 
 fanatics for their primitive religion. 
 
 He thought of his loveless marriage. What had it 
 profited him to become an unhappy, fettered country 
 doctor in exchange for the brave pictures of life that 
 had illuminated his soul in the yearning years of young 
 manhood? He longed for solitude at the keys of his 
 piano. And he longed for Ida Dunseath's return to 
 Elyria. She had been away on a visit for nearly a 
 month. His thoughts clung to her in a romantic reverie. 
 
 "There they are!" cried Ernestine, tears welling into 
 her sentimental eyes.
 
 26 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "My boy !" said Anton, wringing the young man's hand. 
 
 "Hello, father. Sorry you were unable to be with us.'* 
 
 "Come in and eat your dinner. Mother, how did you 
 stand the trip? Ames, how does it feel to have your 
 degree? Now for your Ph. D." 
 
 Anton drank a cup of coffee while his wife and son ate 
 their belated meal. He was beginning to sense an air of 
 constraint about them. It came to him with almost a 
 shock that Ames was no longer a boy, but a man. Half 
 an hour later found Anton and his son seated together 
 in the moonlit yard. There was much that the father 
 wished to say. 
 
 "I'm glad you are back home again," he began. "Now 
 you and I can get re-acquainted. We'll do a little hunt- 
 ing and fishing. We might spend a week or so on a cross- 
 country tramp." 
 
 "I'd like nothing better," said Ames. "Mother says 
 you haven't had a rest in an age. It will do you good to 
 get away." 
 
 "It's a thankless work. When they're well, they've got 
 no use for a doctor. But the moment they get a pain 
 somewhere, oh how they want him ! You can be thank- 
 ful that you are not going to follow in my footsteps." 
 
 "I've never felt any inclination that way," said Ames, 
 smoking reflectively. 
 
 "Don't go against your inclinations. It is always 
 foolish. It doesn't pay. I'm going to see to it that you 
 don't make a botch of your life. Your mother has a 
 notion that you should become a manufacturer," added 
 Anton derisively. 
 
 "She has mentioned it, yes." 
 
 "That's all nonsense. You haven't the instincts for it. 
 You're not a bargainer. You're not a pusher. You are 
 neither mechanical nor commercial. It would kill you. 
 Your tendency is to moon over a book. You have a 
 sense of art. Perhaps you'll write. I would like nothing 
 better. Do you know what a father wants most of all 
 to see in a son?"
 
 GOLD SHOD 27 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "To see himself prolonged; to see his own tempera- 
 mental longings carried out. Do you suppose this putter- 
 ing away as a country doctor in this one-horse town has 
 meant anything to me? I should have stuck to my music ; 
 that's where I belonged." Anton paused, reviewing the 
 lost years in disconsolate silence. "The important thing," 
 he continued, "is to avoid these compromises. Not to be 
 lured on by expedience, or by any momentary impulse. 
 You can't trust them. The first thing you know, you 
 are trapped. Don't try to please someone else. There 
 is always the inward word." 
 
 "I know what you mean," said Ames seriously. "Still, 
 one has to shoulder his responsibilities." 
 
 "What responsibilities do you have to shoulder? You 
 talk like an old married man." 
 
 "That's precisely it. I am soon to be married." 
 
 "You are soon to be what?" demanded Anton. 
 
 "Married." 
 
 "That's ridiculous. Get it out of your head. You have 
 plenty of time for that. I had no idea of anything like 
 this." 
 
 "But when the lightning strikes " 
 
 "Before that kind of lightning strikes at your age, 
 run!" said Anton impatiently. 
 
 "It's too late. I've made up my mind." 
 
 Anton looked at Ames in silence. He had grown too 
 far away from his son. It had never even occurred to 
 him that this shy young fellow might be having his 
 romances. A sense of loss came over him. He began 
 rummaging about in his mind for recollections of what 
 girls Ames might know. He could think of only a few. 
 
 "You are making a great mistake, Ames," spoke Anton 
 at length. 
 
 "I hope not, father." 
 
 "You are making the mistake of your life." 
 
 "Mother assures me that I am doing a very wise thing." 
 
 "Your mother is in no position to know. She lacks
 
 28 GOLD SHOD 
 
 judgment in these matters. Why, she even wants you to 
 go into the Elyria Lounge Works." 
 
 "I expect to." 
 
 "You shall do nothing of the kind. You are going to 
 take your Ph. D." 
 
 "I can't father. It's too late." 
 
 "What are you talking about? I beg of you not 
 to talk nonsense!" exclaimed Anton sternly. 
 
 "I'm sorry you regard it as nonsense," replied the 
 younger man soberly. 
 
 "I regard it as absolute nonsense. You have plenty of 
 time yet to think of getting married. Get it out of 
 your mind." 
 
 "That would be rather difficult," said Ames with a 
 faint smile. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I am already married." 
 
 "You are what?" demanded Anton. 
 
 "I was married this afternoon at Oberlin. Mother was 
 there with us." 
 
 "Whom did you marry?" asked the doctor. 
 
 "Ida Dunseath." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Ida Dunseath," repeated Ames. 
 
 "They're nice people," replied Dr. Glinden faintly.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE haze of a September morning entered the open 
 door and surrounded the sturdy figure of Dr. Anton 
 Glinden. He was seated at his piano, clad in an old brown 
 dressing-gown. Past dropping eyelids he gazed out into 
 the yard at a bed of early asters, glistening in the creamy 
 glow of early morning. 
 
 He firmly struck a series of sonorous chords, then wan- 
 dered off into an adagio from Mozart. He tried some 
 of his favorite runs, and stopped abruptly, frowning at 
 the stiffness in his fingers. He rubbed his hands briskly 
 for a moment, and began a passage from John Sebastian 
 Bach, which flowed more fluently. 
 
 Every morning at six found him at the piano, rousing 
 the entire household with his playing. His daily contact 
 with music had grown necessary to him. It set his nerves 
 for his operating, for the visits to his sick, his dying. 
 
 Anton was now improvising reflectively, dwelling upon 
 the patchwork of a theme that had troubled him for years. 
 It held yearning and it held defeat. Some day he hoped 
 to score it ; but it was still too fragmentary and fugitive, 
 like certain phases of his life. 
 
 In the midst of Anton's playing, a small boy appeared 
 at the head of the stairs in his night-gown. His brown 
 hair was tousled from sleep. He rubbed his eyes, and 
 stood gazing with breathless delight at the figure at the 
 piano. 
 
 "Play some more, gran'pa," called the child. 
 
 The doctor looked up in surprise at the white figure 
 on the stairs. It was always a pleasant surprise to 
 discover this attentive audience of one. 
 
 "Come, Fielding," replied Anton. 
 
 29
 
 30 GOLD SHOD 
 
 The child ran down to its grandsire, climbed to his lap, 
 and kissed the bearded face. 
 
 "Now play," commanded the youngster with impatience. 
 
 "What shall I play?" 
 
 "You know." 
 
 The doctor held the warm young body tightly for a 
 moment, directing a kindly gaze at the well-constructed, 
 sensitive face. It had its grandfather's broad forehead 
 and serious eyes. It had the pretty mouth and glowing 
 skin of its mother, and the diffident air of Ames, its 
 father. 
 
 The player bounded into the tempo of a little jig- tune 
 while his small companion beamed with glee. Then the 
 music veered into a meditation and the face of the boy 
 grew grave. Finally, Anton played a brief and ringing 
 passage from Die Walkiire. 
 
 "Our time is up," declared Anton. The hall-clock was 
 sounding seven. 
 
 Morning after morning Fielding was awakened by his 
 grandfather's playing, stole to the stairs, and presently 
 ran down into the player's arms. A singular intimacy? 
 a peculiar intuition joined Anton and the boy together 
 during these unforgettable morning sessions at the piano. 
 A strain of temperament, bridging the years between them, 
 seemed to unite them in emotional understanding. These 
 were great moments in Fielding's life; it was almost as 
 though portions of unlived lives, of longings to be and 
 to do, of fiery yearnings for achievements that life had 
 denied him, were transmitted to the boy from the passion- 
 ,te fibers of his grandfather. 
 
 These played lamentations over his divided life issued 
 from the piano every time Anton Glinden sat down to 
 play. They entered Fielding during these moments with 
 Anton at the piano, flooding him with intangible restless- 
 ness, with hunger for beauty, and applied a lasting brush- 
 work to the canvas of his being. 
 
 "Come, Fielding," often said the grandfather to the 
 other on sunny days, and then he would lift the boy into
 
 GOLD SHOD 31 
 
 the buggy, take his place beside him, and drive to town 
 or out over the country roads. These drives were almost 
 as fascinating to the child as the episodes at the piano. 
 For Fielding there was always the delightful sense of 
 alarm when the mare started forward against her creak- 
 ing harness, and the buggy rolled away on its journey. 
 He never grew tired of watching the big muscular animal 
 in motion. The horsey odor of the harness, the switching 
 tail and blowing mane, the pull of the reins in Anton's 
 hand, made lasting places for themselves in Fielding's 
 memory. There were exciting moments when Anton placed 
 the reins in the small hands beside him, and then Fielding 
 would raise his fragile voice and address the mare im- 
 portantly, repeating the commands he had heard his 
 grandfather speak. 
 
 Anton was sometimes silent and meditative for miles at 
 a time as they drove along fragrant meadows in spring 
 or along fields of russet stubble in the fall. Again, the 
 country doctor would meditate aloud, addressing the 
 three-year-old boy, but never in patronizing juvenile 
 patter. 
 
 "You know, Fielding," Anton said to him once, "you 
 are a peculiar accident. I wonder what's going to become 
 of you. I don't know what it is, but I feel myself in 
 you. I wonder what you're going to do with that part 
 of yourself. What serious old eyes you've got in that 
 head of yours," he added, inspecting his companion 
 gravely. 
 
 Another time he said : "Life isn't going to be easy for 
 you. Don't let women manage you. They don't under- 
 stand it." 
 
 Ames Glinden, the boy's father, lacked vitality. Half 
 an hour's play with the youngster usually left the father 
 near exhaustion. It often irritated him to be called 
 upon to play with Fielding. The factory was draining 
 his strength; it afforded him no bracing consciousness 
 that he was getting things done; he sat at his desk with-
 
 32 GOLD SHOD 
 
 out interest. He was happiest when evening came and 
 he had his nose in a book. 
 
 "Don't annoy your father. He's reading," became one 
 of the household injunctions. 
 
 It was far from a happy home. Ames's wife was vastly 
 disappointed in him. She found him in no wise the im- 
 pressive figure that she saw in his father. She did not 
 share his taste for books; and Ames did not share Ida's 
 taste for executive achievement in his business. The ro- 
 mantic tremor that had traversed her during her unfor- 
 gettable consultation with Dr. Glinden previous to any 
 thought of marrying Ames, still persisted in the back- 
 ground of her emotions. What had Anton Glinden meant? 
 Unable to speak of the singular episode, he kept it a cher- 
 ished secret. At times the unnatural fancy that she 
 cared more for Anton than for her husband made devas- 
 tating inroads upon her. She hated herself for allowing 
 any such terrible idea to enter her head; she resented 
 it and repulsed it; and in time she managed to transfer 
 this hatred of herself into hatred of Anton. 
 
 Aware of the coolness that had occupied Ida, Anton 
 adopted a bantering attitude toward her. In one of 
 these moods, one day at the dinner table he began : 
 
 "And how is my pretty little daughter-in-law to-day?" 
 
 "What are you doing, making fun of me?" demanded 
 Ida. 
 
 "Decidedly not." 
 
 "I was never pretty, and I'm too fat to be called 
 little," answered Ida irritably. 
 
 "Doctor, I wish you would stop pestering Ida. I know 
 just how she feels." 
 
 "My little saint," replied the doctor. 
 
 "Doctor, please stop it!" exclaimed the elder Mrs. 
 Glinden. "You seem to take a fiendish delight in aggra- 
 vating a person." ' 
 
 "Not at all. But it was as quiet as a Quaker meeting 
 at this table, and I decided to hear a little conversation.
 
 GOLD SHOD 33 
 
 I seem to have succeeded admirably. Ida, permit me to 
 help you to a chop." 
 
 "I haven't a bit of appetite," said Ida shortly. 
 
 "Then you should consult a doctor," said Anton 
 pleasantly. 
 
 "I wonder what keeps Ames," put in Sarah, glancing 
 at the clock. 
 
 "It's his directors' meeting," returned Anton. 
 
 "I wish his work weren't so confining," sighed Sarah. 
 
 "I warned him against it. He should have become a 
 teacher," declared Anton. 
 
 . "I suppose it's all my fault that he didn't," challenged 
 Ida, beginning to bristle. 
 
 "It was the fault of circumstance, my dear," said 
 Anton. 
 
 "You know you blame me," said Ida. 
 
 "If you two people are going to sit here and quarrel, 
 I shall leave the table," spoke Sarah sharply. 
 
 "We are the best of friends," replied Anton, patting 
 Ida's hand. 
 
 "Let me be. You know you don't mean a word you 
 say!" exclaimed Ida, near tears. She rose and left the 
 table. 
 
 "What a household !" lamented Sarah. "I should think 
 you'd know enough by this time not to get Ida into these 
 ill humors. It always reacts upon Ames, and he's in no 
 condition to put up with any of her bad moods. She's 
 hard enough to get along with at best !" 
 
 "Two women can't get along together under the same 
 roof," answered Anton. 
 
 "Ida and I could get on perfectly together. Why is 
 it that you and she seem to antagonize each other so? 
 You used to like her quite well," replied Sarah, directing 
 a searching look at her husband. 
 
 Ida, having repressed her earlier attitude toward the 
 man whom circumstances had made her father-in-law, and 
 having set up in its place a growing hostility toward 
 him, had now introduced an element of strain and tension
 
 34 GOLD SHOD 
 
 into the household that affected all of its members. An- 
 ton, by degrees, began to feel like an intruder in his own 
 home. His separation from Sarah on the one hand, and 
 from Ames on the other, widened. He often remained 
 away from the family meal at evening, and rather than 
 come in late for dinner and confront the lugubrious face 
 of Ernestine, the cook, he would dine alone at the hotel 
 and spend the evening at his down-town office in moody 
 meditation or scoring fragments of musical composi- 
 tion. 
 
 He felt nearer to Fielding than to anybody else at 
 home. He felt joined to this boy by temperamental ties 
 that gratified him deeply. Their congenial drives over 
 the country roads occurred oftener. They wandered 
 about the yard together like old cronies; they explored 
 the barn and hay-loft ; they rarely missed their morning 
 recitals at the piano. 
 
 "Fielding, you're a curious fellow, to be satisfied to 
 play with an old duffer like me," said Anton. "Some 
 day I'm going to hitch up and drive away on a long 
 journey and let you play with some of the youngsters. 
 What do you say to that?" 
 
 Fielding's lips quivered and his eyes filled with tears. 
 
 Anton gathered the child into his arms. 
 
 "You sentimental little rascal," he said. "It's too bad 
 you're so sensitive. It's no way to be, my boy." 
 
 The winter set in early. The white Thanksgiving found 
 Anton driving miles in his cutter to look after his sick, 
 and found Fielding going often to the frosty bay-window, 
 and listening for the jingle of the returning sleigh-bells. 
 
 Once, when the early twilight of a winter day thickened 
 among the objects in Anton's library, Ida came into the 
 room to return a volume to one of the bookcases, unaware 
 for the moment that Anton was there. The sight of her 
 graceful figure against the ruddy lamp-light of the hall- 
 way beyond gave the doctor a feeling of wistful pleas- 
 ure. After all, through the instrumentality of Ames, his 
 son, had he not won his way to possession of this woman?
 
 GOLD SHOD 35 
 
 Why could they not all have been good friends in this 
 house? 
 
 "Oh, I didn't see you, Doctor," said Ida, discovering 
 him. 
 
 "I was lost in meditation," he replied. 
 
 "Pardon my disturbing you," she returned with cool 
 formality, starting away. At the door, she encountered 
 Fielding. "Come, dear," she said, taking the boy's 
 hand, "it's high time for your supper and your 
 bed." 
 
 "Gran'pa, play animals," begged Fielding, trying to 
 pull away from his mother toward Anton. 
 
 . "Why don't you let him come for a minute?" said 
 Anton. 
 
 "It's past his bed-time already. I'm trying my best to 
 train him, but you people insist upon interfering." 
 
 "There is plenty of time for him to sleep. Have 
 Ernestine light the lamp and I'll show him a few animals. 
 Come, Fielding. Is that you out there, Ernestine? Light 
 the lamp." 
 
 The cook struck a "parlor" match on the broad sole of 
 her shoe, and lit and adjusted the wick of the hanging 
 lamp. 
 
 "A little higher," commanded Anton. "We need some 
 light on the subject." 
 
 Fielding stood expectantly between the knees of his 
 grandfather, his eyes intent upon the flood of light 
 against the wall. 
 
 "What shall I make?" inquired Anton. 
 
 "A bunny." 
 
 Anton locked his little fingers, raised his hands to a 
 proper point between the lamp and the wall, and began 
 the old German trick of casting shadows in the form of 
 an animated rabbit, now moving its ears, now nibbling 
 its food, now hopping to and fro, while Fielding stood by, 
 lost in wonder and delight. 
 
 "Not so bad, eh, Ida?" observed Anton, pleased with 
 the result.
 
 36 GOLD SHOD 
 
 Ida watched her father-in-law's antics, half amused in 
 spite of herself. 
 
 Anton went through his course of tricks for the boy, 
 casting silhouettes of alligators, bears, kittens, and dogs 
 upon the lighted wall. 
 
 "That's enough now. It's your bed-time." 
 
 "You make some," begged Fielding, turning to his 
 mother. 
 
 "Mother doesn't know how," said Ida. "Say good 
 night to your grandfather." 
 
 "I'll teach you," said Anton. And before Ida could 
 resist he had taken her hands and was showing her how. 
 "Wonderful!" he cried, regarding the grotesque results 
 of her efforts. "Draw these two fingers back a little 
 farther so. Raise the tips of these two fingers a little 
 higher bravo ! See, Fielding, how clever mamma is." 
 
 "Oh, I can't," objected Ida. 
 
 "Nonsense. You are a fine pupil," insisted Anton, 
 moving her fingers into the correct positions. "A little 
 more practice and you will be perfect. Now, try it alone." 
 
 Ida attempted the feat laughingly, while Fielding 
 looked on, hugely delighted, and with Anton pleased 
 beyond words at Ida's first display of cordiality toward 
 him in months. For a moment Anton did not trust him- 
 self to speak. Then he said: 
 
 "Your animals are more charming than mine." 
 
 "Thank you," said Ida, growing suddenly aware, and 
 not displeased, that a family reconciliation had begun. 
 
 Day and night Anton was kept on the go by summons 
 from many sick-beds. Late one December night he 
 reached home after a bitter drive through the sleet. 
 
 Fritz, the stable man, took one look at his master, 
 and said with concern: 
 
 "You look bad, Doctor." 
 
 "I feel bad," said Anton through chattering teeth. 
 
 Sarah looked with alarm at the gray face and trembling 
 frame, and hurried him to bed.
 
 GOLD SHOD 37 
 
 "You shouldn't have gone. You weren't well," she 
 protested. 
 
 "I couldn't refuse. It was a childbirth," he explained. 
 "You can fix me a poultice." 
 
 Anton suspected, because of his chills, high fever, and 
 rapid, shallow breathing, that he had acute pneumonia. 
 The lung-pains which soon developed supported his diag- 
 nosis, and he sent for one of his medical colleagues. 
 
 Delirium set in: he thought he was in Munich and 
 talked of his music to his attendants whom he imagined to 
 be concertmeistern and conductors: he addressed snatches 
 of grave philosophic discourses to Fielding, whom he imag- 
 ined to be in the room. 
 
 On the eighth day the career of Dr. Anton Glinden came 
 to an end, and again the solemn parlor heard hymns and 
 sobbing.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE death of the forefather left a singular void in the 
 life of Fielding. He was now four years old. He had 
 been spared the knowledge of what had happened ; and 
 had been kept for three days and nights at a neighbor's 
 home. He remembered Anton's remark that some day he 
 might play with some of the youngsters. But he had no 
 heart to play. A tragic sense of aloneness settled upon 
 him. He stood at dusk at the bay window, watching for 
 the return of the familiar figure of his comprehending 
 friend. He ceased at length to inquire about his grand- 
 father, because it was disturbing to him to look into eyes 
 that grew wet and to listen to vague and unsatisfying 
 remarks about the angels. He felt nearest to Anton at 
 night when he was in bed and repeated under his breath 
 the words of the German prayer the other had taught him : 
 
 Ich bin klem, 
 
 Mein Hertz ist rein 
 
 The piano in the spacious front hall became a symbol 
 to Fielding of his vanished kinsman. The absence of the 
 playing in the morning hurt him. When the others 
 played, there was something missing in the music. It 
 lacked the romantic yearning, the mystery, the reaching 
 out for strength which had characterized those early- 
 morning recitals of his grandsire. 
 
 At times, Fielding might have been seen hovering near 
 the head of the stairs, looking fixedly at the dark instru- 
 ment, all attention, almost as though he heard notes 
 that no one else heard. Sometimes, while at play, he 
 would pause suddenly near the piano and stand very still 
 
 38
 
 GOLD SHOD 39 
 
 for a moment. He was never boisterous in the vicinity 
 of the piano. 
 
 "What makes you so quiet all of a sudden?" his mother 
 would sometimes ask. 
 
 But the boy never had an answer. 
 
 Ida was growing more and more disturbed over Ames' 
 failure to display any enterprise in his business. She 
 perceived with misgivings his temperamental unfitness for 
 the factory. She wished she were a man. Her high 
 hopes for Ames had shrunk and receded. He was little 
 more than a bookkeeper within the long gray walls that 
 once had stirred her imagination and lifted her hopes. 
 Young fellows with idea, with push, with vision, were shoot- 
 ing ahead of him. One of these was already in Europe 
 establishing export outlets for finer grades of Elyria 
 lounges. Another had devised a way to cut certain uphol- 
 stery costs almost in half. A third had argued the board 
 of directors into opening salesrooms in Chicago. 
 
 As Ames labored over his columns of figures his 
 thoughts were at home in the library among his books. 
 The factory was too much for him. His pulse was visible 
 through his pallid skin. The doctors called it pernicious 
 anaemia, and sent him to Colorado for treatment. 
 
 As the familiar Ohio farmlands gave way to the broad 
 sweep of the prairies, as the prairies reared and roughened 
 into the Rocky Mountains, Ames felt that he had seen 
 Elyria for the last time. 
 
 Once, divining his wife's reflections, he said remorse- 
 fully: "It's too bad I couldn't do something to make 
 you proud of me." 
 
 "You haven't been well," replied his wife. 
 
 "I've been fool enough to stick to something I wasn't 
 fitted for. I should have had more sense. My father 
 warned me. We mustn't let Fielding get started wrong." 
 
 Fielding's mother pressed her husband's bony hand 
 reassuringly. 
 
 "Don't urge Fielding to go against his inclinations," 
 added Ames thoughtfully.
 
 40 GOLD SHOD 
 
 The following months saw Ida's hopes for Ames* re- 
 covery rising and falling. He was too weak and wasted 
 even to read his treasured books. The dusky pallor of his 
 drawn face deepened. His shortness of breath and palpi- 
 tation of the heart became more marked. 
 
 The first week in October, Ida took the train for Ohio. 
 In the baggage car ahead traveled all that remained of 
 the wasted body of Fielding's father. 
 
 Ida Glinden was a woman of intense ambitions for her 
 men. These she now transferred to Fielding. She sold 
 her property in Ohio, and bought a modest place in the 
 genteel Wicker Park saction of Chicago, hoping that the 
 spirit and push of Chicago would fire Fielding with zeal 
 to become a man of affairs. 
 
 Wicker Park was a little open space of grass and 
 poplar trees, gray walks, and green benches. There was a 
 substantial dignity about the houses that faced it. Most 
 of them had their iron fences, front lawns, flower-beds, 
 and vines. Some of them had their servants, stables, 
 horses and carriages. Cast-iron fountains, lions and 
 Newfoundland dogs, bestowed their notes of modest afflu- 
 ence upon some of these yards. 
 
 As a girl, Ida had looked with anxious eyes upon the 
 smoke-stacks of the lounge works, imagining herself the 
 wife of its master. In Chicago, she looked upon the drive 
 and turmoil of traction systems, railroad terminals, and 
 the Loop, and imagined herself the mother of one of their 
 future masters. She adored men of action and of con- 
 sequence. 
 
 For Fielding, those first few years in Chicago were filled 
 with homesickness for Elyria ; for the long creaking ropes 
 of the swing beneath the hickory tree; for the familiar 
 smell of harnesses in the barn ; for the horses ; for old 
 Fritz, the stableman ; for the great brown crocks of apple- 
 butter in the cellar. But his homesickness centered chiefly 
 around his memories of Anton at the piano and the notes 
 that flowed, now in pensive meditation, now in sparkling
 
 GOLD SHOD 41 
 
 rapids. Fielding's heart ached with the remembered 
 beauty of those awakenings, of the command "Come, 
 Fielding !"|and the embrace of the player. 
 
 Once, when he was about twelve, while a visitor played 
 with a certain skill and feeling, Fielding's mother saw 
 him look fixedly at the portrait of his grandfather, and 
 then burst suddenly into tears. 
 
 "Why, Field, what's the matter?" demanded his mother. 
 Don't you like her playing?" 
 
 There was a peal of ignorant laughter from the guests, 
 and Fielding jerked away from his mother and ran up- 
 stairs, furious and ashamed. 
 
 As the years went on, Fielding never gazed at the 
 portrait without feelings blent strangely of sorrow and 
 elation. He felt at times as if the kindly eyes and coun- 
 tenance were talking to him. It was as though all the 
 sentimental interest in Anton Glinden which once had 
 moved Fielding's mother but had been suppressed, had 
 streamed into the boy, drawing him nearer to his grand- 
 father than ever he had been to his father, whose pictures 
 left him unmoved and almost indifferent. 
 
 One of his boyhood pastimes was to clip the pictures of 
 distinguished men from newspapers and magazines and 
 paste them in a scrapbook. His fancy ran to writers, 
 painters, musicians, actors and statesmen. These faces 
 fascinated him. They made him feel nearer to his grand- 
 father. 
 
 "Here's a nice picture for your book," said his mother 
 once, handing him a paper containing the picture of a 
 Chicago traction man. 
 
 Fielding looked at it critically. 
 
 "I don't want it," he replied. 
 
 "What makes you take only pictures like this?" in- 
 quired Mrs. Glinden with a glance at his collection. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Field, what are you going to be when you grow up? 
 A doctor, like your grandfather?"
 
 42 GOLD SHOD 
 
 Fielding shook his head. He recalled the many inter- 
 ruptions of play with his grandfather, due to hurry-calls 
 from patients, that made him feel hostile toward the med- 
 ical profession. 
 
 "You're a queer fellow," remarked his mother. 
 
 Fielding was vaguely aware that his mother did not 
 quite approve of his selection of pictures for his scrap- 
 book, and from now on he pursued his collecting less 
 openly. 
 
 Fielding disliked high school. He had read Tom 
 Brown's School Days, had fallen quite in love with the 
 traditions of Rugby, and longed for more refined academic 
 surroundings than those of Chicago's Northwest Side. 
 He attended his classes with a sense of detachment and 
 superiority. 
 
 It was the gymnasium that first excited his interest. 
 The crash and strain of its competition were stimulating. 
 Seeing ungainly fellows developing ease and skill, gave 
 him renewed confidence in himself. He saw an unpromis- 
 ing young Dane jog around the running track week after 
 week, month after month, until he thought that the 
 runner's heart must beat itself to pieces. But there was a 
 flame in the other's eyes that never vanished, a courage 
 that seemed unquenchable. 
 
 He watched with interest the development of an anaemic, 
 pale-faced fellow who had resolved to become a jumper. 
 An amazing din rose in the gymnasium, as this deter- 
 mined young man leaped up and down on the springboard, 
 hundreds of times every day. This raw tumult of 
 desire, this longing to excel, this deafening turmoil, this 
 combustion of effort, had a bracing effect upon Field- 
 ing. 
 
 He found brave hearts beating beneath shabby vests, 
 and virility where he had looked only for manners among 
 the Poles, Swedes, Germans and Russians into whose 
 midst he had been thrust, sensitive and unsympathetic. 
 He received his share of drubbings at boxing, and these
 
 GOLD SHOD 43 
 
 taught him new facts of life, bore him into a more prac- 
 tical and less fastidious world. 
 
 But at times, he revolted against the life of the gym- 
 nasium and locker-room, and their smells of perspiring 
 bodies, rubber soles, stale towels, and witch-hazel, and he 
 would go moodily to the library or to the drawing room 
 under the rafters where the art classes met. 
 
 Late one winter afternoon, Fielding lingered reflectively 
 in this deserted room. He liked the companionship of its 
 easels and drawing-boards, its plaster casts and prints. 
 It was a relief to him after the din of athletics. He had 
 no skill in drawing; but he was growing to care deeply 
 for the thing to which even his awkward pencilings bore 
 faint but definite relation. He could feel this mysterious 
 thing called art laying its hand upon him. It made him 
 look more for beauty and care more about beauty. He 
 was aware of a growing impulse to arrange and express, a 
 longing to create. But as yet, this inner turning had 
 found no gears to engage. He only knew that he felt 
 more at ease up here away from the rest of the school. 
 
 During his musing, he saw the door open and saw a 
 girl enter the room. He recognized one of his class- 
 mates, an Adelaide Bain. She sat a few desks from him 
 in his Latin class ; and his eyes had often strayed from 
 his text of Ca?sar's Commentaries to dwell upon the fair- 
 ness of her skin and the brownish cloud of her hair. All 
 of a sudden, upon finding himself alone with her, his 
 blood began to thump. 
 
 "Oh," she said, breathlessly. "I didn't know there was 
 anybody here." 
 
 "Are you going to draw?" he asked, embarrassed. 
 
 "No. You drawing?" 
 
 "No, just fooling around.'* 
 
 "I left my Latin book up here," she said, hunting it. 
 
 "I'll help' you find it," offered Fielding, hoping that the 
 book might not readily be discovered. 
 
 "I was half way home before I missed it. Here it is," 
 announced Adelaide.
 
 44 GOLD SHOD 
 
 It was Fielding's first conversation with her. 
 
 "Do you like Latin?" he inquired, regarding her fragile- 
 looking face and her brown fur neck-piece. 
 
 "Hate it," she said, screwing up her small nose. 
 
 "Hate what?" 
 
 "Caesar!" she exclaimed, laughing at him. "Papa says 
 Latin isn't a particle of use. Do you think it helps one? 
 Well, I've got to be going, Mr. Glinden," the young miss 
 rattled on. 
 
 Her mode of address gave him a satisfying feeling of 
 importance. 
 
 "It's nearly dark," he replied. "I'll walk your way 
 with you." 
 
 "A bear might grab me," she returned melodiously. 
 
 Fielding hurried to the dressing room for his coat and 
 cap. It seemed the greatest moment of his life. The 
 school had suddenly grown important to him. The smell 
 of books and blackboards and chalk-dust, the faint odor 
 of alcohol from the biological laboratory and of chlorine 
 from the chemical laboratory, became romantic. Draw- 
 ing on his coat, he went in search of Adelaide, afraid that 
 she had run away and left him, but found her waiting 
 on the lower landing. 
 
 They started up Potomac Avenue, Fielding tingling 
 with pleasure as he scanned the gratifying, slender form 
 at his side. 
 
 "You seem good at drawing," he remarked lamely. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. But I love it." 
 
 Every remark of Adelaide's traversed Fielding like 
 notes of music. Her voice had always impressed him in 
 class. To hear it now, talking only to him, seemed almost 
 incredible. He learned that her father was a building 
 contractor; he had formerly been in politics; had held 
 some county office. One of her brothers was an interne 
 at the Cook County Hospital. 
 
 "My grandfather was a doctor," said Fielding, grasp- 
 ing the opportunity to strengthen the structure of their 
 friendship.
 
 GOLD SHOD 45 
 
 "I s'pose you're going to study medicine," she returned. 
 
 "What makes you think so?" 
 
 "You're always so quiet. You seem so kinda solemn, 
 like a doctor." 
 
 They had reached her home on North Avenue, a sub- 
 stantial frame house, with an ample yard surrounded by 
 an iron fence. 
 
 "Thanks for coming out of your way. Good night," 
 she said. 
 
 "Good night," he replied, extending his hand. 
 
 Adelaide drew her hand from her muff, and offered it. 
 Then she opened the gate and ran to the house. He 
 stood watching her figure recede through the snowy dusk, 
 arrested by the change that had taken place in him. 
 The last twenty minutes had altered his whole relation 
 to the world. A marvelous tranquillity filled him; the 
 vague loneliness of previous days was gone; his mood 
 was luminous. 
 
 He sat staring at her the next day in class, preparing 
 phrases to address to her, carrying on courtly imaginary 
 conversations. He was amazed that in the many hours 
 he had spent in the same class-room with her, he had 
 never fully perceived her beauty. He fancied himself 
 seated at the same desk with her, reading Latin from the 
 same book. His tongue ran silently over the syllables of 
 her name. 
 
 Out of doors a steady snow was falling, and whisperers 
 in the rear of the room began arranging a sleighing party. 
 When the news reached Fielding, Le was seized with alarm 
 lest some one else should ask Adelaide before he could. A 
 sense of enterprise and daring entered him. He tore a 
 slip of paper from the fly-leaf of his text-book and wrote 
 her a note: "There's going to be a sleighing party to- 
 night. Will you go with me?" 
 
 He attracted her attention cautiously, and passed her 
 the note. 
 
 "Impossible," was her reply. "Some people are visit- 
 ing us."
 
 46 GOLD SHOD 
 
 As Fielding's eyes ran over her delicate, even handwrit- 
 ing, the pang caused by her refusal was softened by his 
 possession of this fragment of her writing. He had 
 something that was hers. He folded the treasured slip 
 and put it in his pocket. As he did so, a disturbing 
 suspicion occurred to him. Perhaps Adelaide meant to 
 go to the party with some one else. 
 
 "Glinden," said the instructor. "If you and Miss Bain 
 are through writing notes to each other, you may 
 translate." 
 
 With a flush of defiant anger, Fielding rose. He waited 
 for the giggle of the class to subside before starting to 
 recite. Mingled with his anger was a feeling of pride, to 
 have had Adelaide's name and his mentioned together. It 
 seemed to have drawn them closer together. He felt a 
 victorious sense of compact with her. 
 
 Fielding trudged home through the deepening snow 
 that evening, proceeding by way of Adelaide's home. It 
 seemed a lifetime since the day before when they had 
 come this way together. Currents of longing drew him 
 on. His tender gaze rested upon the lamp-lit window- 
 panes and the little drifts of snow upon their sills. He 
 imagined himself going to the door, ringing, and waiting 
 for her to appear. 
 
 "H'lo, Field!" called some one. "What's the matter? 
 You lost?" 
 
 "No, I'm going to a store," lied Fielding, recognizing 
 a gymnasium acquaintance 
 
 He stood musing that night at home before the crusted 
 diamonds of the frost that caked the window. The wind 
 moaned through the trees of Wicker Park. He could 
 hear the rattle of sleighbells. He was brooding over his 
 lost opportunity to be with Adelaide this evening but 
 it gave him a feeling of peculiar satisfaction to reflect that 
 he was in love. 
 
 That Saturday he skated all afternoon on the pond in 
 Humboldt Park, hunting among the flaming cheeks and 
 streaming scarves of the skaters for a glimpse of Adelaide,
 
 GOLD SHOD 47 
 
 but vainly. He had been reading Tlie First Violin, and 
 pretended that he was skating on German lagoons amid 
 students and musicians. 
 
 He had no opportunity to speak to Adelaide again 
 until the following week. He found her one afternoon in a 
 secluded corner of the library at school. 
 
 "Oh, hello," she said, seeing him. "That was a funny 
 thing for you to do," she added reproachfully. 
 
 "What was?" 
 
 "Writing me that note." 
 
 "The prof, had no business saying what he did." 
 
 "He's the freshest thing," admitted Adelaide. 
 
 "Did you mind?" asked Fielding. 
 
 "Yes. Didn't you?" 
 
 "No. I don't give a care who knows." 
 
 Fielding looked at the girl beside him and all at once 
 Adelaide seemed to him marvelous and irresistible. His 
 eyes fed upon her straight, boyish figure. Her dress was 
 the hue of wine, and like wine it went to his head. Pre- 
 tending to be looking at the books in the case, he drew 
 nearer. Then his hand closed over hers. 
 
 The girl's slim face grew scarlet. She did not know 
 whether to say "This is so sudden," or "How dare you?" 
 Her lips were about to speak, but she was at a loss what 
 to say. Taking her silence for consent, Fielding directed 
 an adoring look at her eyes. 
 
 "Some of the girls are waiting for me. Good night," 
 Adelaide now managed to say. 
 
 As Fielding left the building, the fantastic yell of the 
 Silent "M" reached his ears. But he felt no impulse to 
 take part in the initiation. Thoughts of Adelaide crowded 
 all other interests out of his mind. Fragments of songs 
 rose to his lips in nervous whistling. The snowy side- 
 walks, the wooden houses, the roofs, the faces at the 
 windows, the whole world looked different. He walked 
 enveloped in a nimbus of brightness. He felt a new 
 sense of direction, of quiet strength, felt able to achieve 
 high deeds. He felt fathoms above the sweaty effort of
 
 48 GOLD SHOD 
 
 the gymnasium. All of that seemed coarse and intolerable. 
 The initiation seemed idiotic. He saw the crests and shin- 
 ing summits of a different world. 
 
 That night, when he had put his books away, he went 
 to the basement to look after the furnace. The smells of 
 coal dust, ashes, kindling wood, and soaking wash crowded 
 pungently to his nostrils realistic invaders of the ro- 
 mance that occupied him. He paused in the kitchen for a 
 glance at the range. He stood staring into the bed of 
 ruddy coals, thinking of Adelaide. He spoke her name. 
 He was filled with a delicious fever. 
 
 He set out for school the next morning, buoyant with 
 hope. Adelaide passed him in the hall and ignored him. 
 
 Later in the morning, one of Adelaide's friends handed 
 Fielding a sealed envelope. He opened it and found this 
 note from Adelaide: 
 
 "Mr. Glinden: It was very inconsiderate of you to 
 take that liberty with me yesterday. I was very much 
 surprised and offended. Adelaide Bain." 
 
 Fielding was crushed beneath a load of humiliation. 
 He imagined that all the girls of the school were making 
 fun of him behind his back. He contemplated suicide. 
 He swore he would never look at another girl. On lonely 
 rambles through the park, he grieved over the loss of 
 Adelaide ; he composed melancholy verses ; he wept ; he 
 exalted her into an unattainable ideal.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AT college, Fielding nibbled aimlessly among books 
 and at life. Unlike the roaring young leaders in 
 sports and other campus activities, he was doing nothing 
 to make his presence especially felt. He went his way, 
 apathetic and negative. As yet nothing had happened to 
 rouse him. 
 
 He was somewhat above medium height, erect, and dis- 
 tinguished by an air of remoteness that kept most of his 
 fellows at a distance. His gray eyes were meditative 
 rather than alert; they were set well apart; there was 
 weight to his eye-brows. His dark-hued skin was clear; 
 his hair of darkish brown was worn short and lacked the 
 discipline of careful parting. His solid nose seemed a 
 trifle off-center. The expression of his rather wide mouth 
 was grave; it might variously have connoted determina- 
 tion, or restraint, or perhaps a non-commital waiting 
 attitude toward the world one could hardly have been 
 sure. 
 
 "Quiet cuss, but our kind," was the judgment of his 
 snobbish chapter house. 
 
 The incident with Adelaide had imbedded a deeper 
 strain of shyness in Fielding, and had left an undercurrent 
 of moodiness. Other youths might have laughed it off 
 and forgotten it ; but it had greatly dampened his social 
 instincts, making him even more sensitive than he had 
 been as a young boy. These repressions found their fore- 
 most outlet in a renewed impulse for expression in writ- 
 ing, and Fielding applied himself at times with passion 
 to the composition of themes. He would hunt with fervor 
 for the words and phrases that recorded his impressions 
 of the campus at dusk, the gray buildings on a wintry 
 
 49
 
 50 GOLD SHOD 
 
 day, the benches and trees, the football bleachers blossom- 
 ing with maize and blue. 
 
 But the pleasure of even this pursuit was mitigated by 
 his dislike for his instructor in English, a young dean, 
 supercilious, a dilettant, a poseur, who was constantly 
 endeavoring to break into print in the local newspapers 
 with flippant remarks in class. He had no understanding 
 of Fielding's longing to express himself, no ability to 
 stimulate a student's labors, no gift to discover talent. 
 
 There were times when Fielding considered it useless 
 to remain in college. He felt lost and out of place; his 
 fraternity life was meaningless ; he had made no friends ; 
 had discovered neither direction nor objective. Novels 
 and poetry occupied much of his time, but tantalized him 
 with his own inactivity. His craving to write was accom- 
 panied by no knowledge of what to say ; his inner world 
 was still vague and formless. 
 
 Toward the close of his freshman year, Fielding sud- 
 denly discovered that he was in love with a Miss Harring- 
 ton, one of the co-eds. The mild spring air filled him with 
 lassitude and melancholy; he wandered about the campus 
 and about town uneasily. One afternoon he met Miss 
 Harrington by accident on the campus and began to 
 realize what ailed him. There was a singular vitality 
 about her, a robust vigor that had previously never at- 
 tracted him in girls. Her coloring was deep; her hair 
 gold ; her eyes a cloudy brown. As he walked at her side, 
 all the suppressed romanticism in him pressed forward. 
 Her hands, her teeth, the swing of her arm all these 
 had a rousing effect on him. Her laughter moved through 
 him like a swallow of strong drink. 
 
 "You are by all odds the most charming sight on the 
 campus. Where are you bound for?" he asked. 
 
 "No place. It's a shame to stay indoors on a day like 
 this. I hate to go back to the dorm." 
 
 "I have no intention of letting you. Consider yourself 
 my captive."
 
 GOLD SHOD 51 
 
 The hour that followed was altogether the happiest 
 Fielding had spent on the campus. New color streamed 
 into his thoughtful face. His eyes, dull with habitual 
 loneliness, borrowed animation from the brilliant eyes 
 of his companion, and kindled with the glow of anxious 
 desire. As they talked of college trivialities, he felt a 
 renewal of buried impulses. A new ardor for life seized 
 him. It was a pleasure to be seen with this girl ; it re- 
 vived something of the same defiant joy he had felt at 
 high school when the bantering instructor had spoken of 
 his exchange of notes with Adelaide. 
 
 "We're having a dance at the chapter house Friday 
 night," he said to Miss Harrington. "I wish you'd come." 
 
 "Friday? Let me see. I have something else on for 
 Friday, but I'd a lot rather dance." 
 
 "Good. Then I'll call for you at eight." 
 
 The intervening days found him occupied by a pleas- 
 ing agitation. He looked back over his freshman year as 
 upon a sandy waste; but now, all at once, life had be- 
 come fertile. A marvelous fragrance seemed to encircle 
 him in enchanting currents. 
 
 When he called for Miss Harrington on the night of 
 the party, he found her looking exquisite. The red roses 
 he had sent her seemed sprung from the rich young soil 
 of her body. He walked proudly with her through the 
 emerald gloaming. 
 
 "Nice work, Glinden ; you're a good picker," remarked 
 one of the fraternity men. 
 
 "She's a good sort," replied Fielding. 
 
 "Didn't know you and she were friends. Don't hog 
 her up, old man. Put me down for a dance." 
 
 The unforgettable dancing began. Fielding, set on fire 
 by the nearness of this girl, experienced the exultation 
 that rarely occurs after the sudden loves of one's youth. 
 The scherzo of her feet, the rustle and glisten of her gown, 
 the contact with her body obediently following his leading, 
 the warm dampness of her hand, saturated his nerves. 
 
 "We should have danced together long ago," he said.
 
 52 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "I love it." 
 
 "I love more than it," he told her impulsively. 
 
 She gave a reckless little laugh. 
 
 "Am I holding you too close?" he asked. 
 
 "No." 
 
 They danced on. 
 
 "Now you are," she said. 
 
 When thrown with others, Fielding felt no interest, 
 endeavoring to imagine himself still dancing with her 
 whenever the build of his partners made the illusion 
 possible. 
 
 "Enjoying yourself?'* he asked when they were again 
 together. 
 
 "Immensely." 
 
 "I haven't been," he complained. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "You ought to know." 
 
 "I'm the worst guesser," she replied, intoxicating him 
 with her waltzing. 
 
 "They are stealing too many of my dances." 
 
 "You've kept most of them." 
 
 "I wish I'd kept them all." Fielding led her to the 
 punch-bowl. His eyes clung to her moist lips as she 
 sipped the f rappee. Then he took her out into the yard. 
 
 "I don't even know your first name," he began. 
 
 "Blanche. But don't call me that." 
 
 "I can think it." 
 
 The orchestra again began with a flourish, and another 
 youth appeared. "Cheaters ! My dance. Come on, Miss 
 Harrington," he commanded, taking her away. 
 
 After Fielding's next dance with her, he once more took 
 her out of doors for a breath of air. They were thirty 
 yards away from the house when the music was resumed. 
 
 "Don't go in," he begged, glancing at his dance- 
 program, lit by the moon. "Your next partner can't 
 dance. Let's ditch it. Please! There's something I've 
 got to tell you. Blanche, I'm crazy about you. Don't 
 go. You might as well know that I love you."
 
 GOLD SHOD 53 
 
 "Why did you have to spoil everything?" asked Miss 
 Harrington, drawing back. 
 
 "You're marvelous," he exclaimed, and kissed her. 
 
 "Please don't be foolish. I thought I could trust you. 
 Don't do that again. I wouldn't have had that happen 
 for anything." 
 
 "Don't you like me at all?" 
 
 "Yes, of course. But not that way." 
 
 A woman's voice was calling: "Miss Harrington, 
 dear! What on earth are you people doing out there?" 
 One of the chaperons was coming toward them. 
 
 "Mr. Glinden, I'm surprised," she said, recognizing 
 Fielding. "Come into the house at once, both of you." 
 
 When the dancing was over, Fielding found it impossible 
 to detach Miss Harrington from the crowd returning to 
 the women's dormitories. She entered the door after a 
 cool "good night," and was gone. 
 
 A few days later, Wayland Emmett, an upper classman, 
 said to Fielding: 
 
 "Miss Harrington seems to be doing some tall 
 blabbing." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "About your kissing her the other night and being 
 called for it by that damn chaperone. I thought you 
 ought to know. Darn pretty girl, and I don't blame you 
 a bit. Too bad she's doing all this talking." 
 
 Wayland Emmett's brief announcement left Fielding 
 disgusted with himself and disappointed with Miss Har- 
 rington. 
 
 "Girls make me sick," he answered. 
 
 This fleeting interest in campus life having vanished, 
 Fielding lapsed into his former state of apathy and 
 detachment. 
 
 Early in his second year he went to the dean for per- 
 mission to withdraw from a course in Livy. 
 
 "What for?" demanded the dean, blinking at Fielding 
 with weak eyes.
 
 54 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "I don't like it." 
 
 "That's no excuse." 
 
 "I can't stand the instructor." 
 
 "Why not? He's an able man." 
 
 "He's dead like the language," replied Fielding. 
 
 "What do you want, a dancing dervish to teach you 
 Latin?" 
 
 "Might be an improvement." 
 
 "What the devil did you come to college for? May I 
 ask?" inquired the dean, lighting a cigarette with a 
 flourish. 
 
 "I often wonder." 
 
 "It seems to me you attended one of my courses in 
 English, didn't you, Glidden?" 
 
 "Glinden," corrected Fielding. 
 
 "Did I pass you?" 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 "That was a mistake. You should have been con- 
 ditioned. You didn't do any work." 
 
 "Is that so? Well, neither did you," said Fielding. 
 
 "That retort will cost you something, young man!" 
 exclaimed the dean angrily. "You are suspended for the 
 balance of the year." 
 
 Fielding left the campus without regrets, returned to 
 Chicago, and recounted the episode to his mother. 
 
 "It was bound to happen sooner or later," he explained. 
 "It suits me. I'm done with college." 
 
 "It's an awful start for you to make in life," complained 
 his mother. "What are you going to do?" 
 
 "Get a job of some sort," said Fielding vaguely. 
 
 Mrs. Glinden's hopes revived. After all, perhaps it 
 was for the best. The old ambition to see Fielding sub- 
 stantially placed in business renewed itself. 
 
 Fielding's serious personality and air of breeding 
 readily opened business doors to him. His first work was 
 for the publisher of a magazine of salesmanship. It 
 seethed with so-called ginger-talks ; the proprietor was a
 
 GOLD SHOD 55 
 
 glib phrase-maker, a wholesale dealer in platitudes. Sales 
 managers pasted his sayings on their walls and baa'ed 
 the stuff in unison. He was the author of numerous 
 books on business, and it was his custom, once an idea 
 presented itself, to tramp the floor of his office for sixteen 
 or eighteen hours at a stretch and dictate to relays of 
 stenographers. Before writing and publishing a book, 
 he sent "fliers'* to a selected mailing-list; these announce- 
 ments flashed a list of subjects the book would contain. 
 The person addressed was asked to check the ones he 
 was interested in, and to sign a coupon ordering the book 
 when ready. Upon receipt of enough orders to warrant 
 publication, the crafty author would swiftly lick the text 
 into shape, writing only chapters on the subjects indi- 
 cated by the subscribers. 
 
 "Most publishers are old women," he told Fielding. 
 "They don't know the first principles of the business. 
 They print up a lot of truck and then try to find the 
 people who want to read it. It's like making a suit of 
 clothes according to definite measurements, and then 
 trying to find someone it will fit. I get my dimensions 
 first and then cut my cloth accordingly. Never write a 
 book before I shoot out a flier. Salesmanship first and 
 production later." 
 
 Fielding viewed his employer without admiration. So 
 this was what an author looked like? Fielding had held 
 books in peculiar respect, had stood in awe of their 
 authors. It grew irritating to him to be engaged in the 
 promotion of this "literature." He felt like a cheap 
 conspirator. 
 
 "Ever sell goods behind a counter?" demanded his em- 
 ployer briskly one day. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "That's too bad. Nothing like a job behind a counter 
 to knock practical sense into a man. Ever do any house- 
 to-house canvassing?" 
 
 "No," replied Fielding with a shudder. 
 
 The other shook his head painfully. "I'm going to
 
 56 GOLD SHOD 
 
 chase you out of here one of these days, and have you 
 peddle some books. Greatest thing in the world for 
 you," he said. 
 
 But before he could carry out this threat, some one 
 came along and bought the business at a price that enabled 
 the seller to abandon his labors long enough to go to New 
 York and drink himself to death. 
 
 In Fielding's career, job now followed job; none were 
 of consequence; none took hold of his interest or snapped 
 a switch in him that might have sent the current of 
 Chicago streaming through him. The roar of the Loop 
 pounded at him, but he did not respond. He was sensi- 
 tive only to its overtones, which came to him in disturbing 
 cadences. The Chicago of warehouses, of distribution, of 
 traction, of building construction, of railroads, of ship- 
 ping and of trucking, of banking and finance, did not in- 
 terest him. But names of theaters, titles of plays, and 
 names of players laid enticing hands upon him. Orchestra 
 Hall gave him a sense of seductive kinship. The public 
 library, the Art Institute, the musical instrument concern 
 in Wabash Avenue, the book-shops all seemed to follow 
 him with their eyes when he passed, disturbing him with 
 vague reproaches. 
 
 He liked to drop into a chair in the lobby of one of 
 the large hotels, watch the changing pictures of people, 
 and listen to bits of conversation. Here his roving eyes 
 would feed upon attractive women who lit subtle fires in 
 him, leaving beds of coal that warmed him strangely. 
 He perceived men making the acquaintance of women 
 obviously strangers to them, and pictured himself making 
 similar approaches. He compared different women, spec- 
 ulating as to whether they were "straight," wondering 
 how they would react to advances. The perfumed lob- 
 bies, with their divans of satin and velour, brocades, chairs 
 and hangings of gold, their music and silk lampshades, 
 their men and women of ease and fashion, made distracting 
 overtures to his imagination. 
 
 One evening an attractive girl caught his eye, as he
 
 GOLD SHOD 57 
 
 walked along Michigan Boulevard. He followed her for a 
 block, drawn by the animalism in her gait, the rhythm of 
 her carriage. Her narrow shoulders and hips were well- 
 tailored ; her hands were gloved in suede. Drawing nearer, 
 he noticed the deep coloring of her skin. He fastened his 
 eyes upon her, interested mightily. 
 
 "Hello, kid," she said, looking at him. 
 
 "Hello." 
 
 "What's your hurry?" 
 
 "I'm in no hurry." 
 
 "Where you goin'?" she asked. 
 
 "No place in particular," he said, regarding her curi- 
 ously. Her face now seemed commoner; her illiteracy 
 annoyed him. 
 
 "Come on, kid. Buy me a drink," she urged, taking his 
 arm. 
 
 "Thirsty ? Where do you want to go ?" he asked. 
 
 "Weber's on Wabash Avenoo." 
 
 "That's no good," he replied, feeling ridiculous with 
 this street-walker dangling from his arm. 
 
 "Where you wanta go, sweetheart?" 
 
 "No place." 
 
 "Ah, come on." 
 
 "Not to-night," he said, indifferent to her charms. 
 
 "What's the matter? Don't you like me?" 
 
 "Oh, you're all right," he replied without enthusiasm. 
 
 "I'll show you a good time. Honest I will." 
 
 Fielding shook his head. 
 
 "Ain't I purty enough fer you?" 
 
 "You're pretty enough, but you talk too much." 
 
 "Say, what's the matter? Sore because I gave you the 
 high-sign? I'm considered a good-looker, take it from 
 me." 
 
 "It isn't the way you look. It's the way you talk." 
 
 "Gee, but you're a funny guy. Gimme a quarter fer 
 luck." 
 
 Fielding handed her a coin, and started up the stairs 
 of the Adams Street elevated station. Fairly attractive,
 
 58 GOLD SHOD 
 
 but as ignorant as a cow, he reflected. Had she been less 
 common, he might gladly have gone with her to Weber's. 
 On occasional visits to Kohl & Middleton's dime 
 museum, Fielding witnessed the performance of a dancer 
 known as "Little Egypt," an. exponent of the "hootchy- 
 coochy." He watched this dark little creature with fever- 
 ish amazement. The contortions of the supple and 
 comely little alley-rat streamed through these audiences 
 of men and sent many of them in hot pursuit of the harlots 
 of Custom House Place. 
 
 To the shelves of the tall walnut bookcases that shel- 
 tered what was left of his father's library, Fielding 
 turned often as to a refuge during this period of uncer- 
 tainty and of groping. In these books Fielding dis- 
 covered his father, something of the dreams that must 
 have stirred in him as he sat at his unhappy desk in the 
 factory, something of the world of imagined glamour in 
 which he moved, of the passions that tugged at that frame 
 and flesh which had never known the strength to follow. 
 
 Fielding's father was not the kind of reader to race 
 with fleet eyes through a book, impatient to seize upon the 
 story. These volumes bore subtle evidence of having been 
 read with lingering care, searching for passages peculiarly 
 for him. Nor was he the kind of reader who boldly sets 
 his penciled marks against the passages for which he 
 cares and reveals himself in a loud confessional. 
 
 Fielding found no such revelations of his father. 
 But he did discover faint dots set here and there in the 
 margins, so lightly that hardly a reader would have 
 noticed them the cautious, unobtrusive land-marks and 
 mood-marks of the realms in which Fielding's father had 
 moved. 
 
 The discovery gave Fielding a start of pleasure. In 
 volume after volume he explored the faint little markings ; 
 they gave him the first real picture of his father, gave it 
 character and reality. These dots in the margins of old 
 books charted and plotted a life now grown suddenly
 
 GOLD SHOD 59 
 
 more important and more dear to him. He read on with 
 all the fascination of finding an amazing story within 
 other stories, a continuous unfolding. 
 
 It was thus that Fielding came to love the rich mel- 
 ancholy and heraldic splendor of IvanJwe. His quest to 
 know more about his father led him into Vanity Fair and 
 Daniel Deronda, through Dumas and Balzac and the 
 brooding Turgenev. 
 
 Reading these books, Fielding came to view his father 
 with new interest, new respect, new nearness and devotion. 
 The father's character emerged from distant obscurity 
 into vividness and vitality. His love of color and ex- 
 quisite wording dawned and grew upon the son, stealing 
 upon him out of the past like radiant visitors to his world 
 of business routine. He grew more and more discontented 
 with himself. He thought there must be something more 
 in life for him. At times, he went to his work with a sense 
 of guilt, feeling that he was betraying the memory of his 
 father and was false to currents that ran through Anton. 
 
 Floods of creative desire went through him at times, 
 but failing to find a channel, merely left him limp. He 
 felt an impulse to enroll for evening studies at the Art 
 Institute, but realized that he was wholly without talent 
 for drawing. Yet he continued to gaze at the classic 
 structure which rose against the mists of Lake Michigan 
 with a sense of reverence, as if it were some temple to 
 gods which he ought to serve had he only known how to 
 draw nearer to them.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN a room of almost countless desks in the general offices 
 of a shoe manufacturing concern in Randolph Street 
 sat Fielding laboring at an article for the house organ. 
 It was dreary work. He had now been at it, grinding out 
 copy for Foot-Notes, for six months. 
 
 Nearby a group of men in the sales department listened 
 to one of their number, a recent addition to the advertis- 
 ing staff, telling a story. The speaker had a breezy air 
 and the accent of Georgia. He looked like an actor, told 
 a story with feverish animation; his pictorial profanity 
 had won him the name of the Blasphemer. 
 
 There was a gale of laughter at the end of his yarn, 
 and he started back to his desk with a swinging gait. 
 
 "I am braying again to all and sundry," he said to 
 Fielding. "You do well to stick to your labors. Your 
 industry puts me to shame. Keep on, and you will attain 
 the presidency of this worthy house.'* 
 
 "God forbid," replied Fielding. 
 
 "What?" demanded the other. "You scoff at com- 
 mercial preferment?'* 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Your words are manna to mine ears. And yet you 
 write with a swing and dash that makes the damned sheet 
 glisten. Since when this indifference toward shoemaking?" 
 
 "Ever since I hired out here." 
 
 "Good! We have much in common. Will you dine 
 with me to-night ?" 
 
 "Gladly." 
 
 "We will employ well-chosen curses wherewith to curse 
 our employers." 
 
 They went that evening to an Italian eating-house on 
 
 60
 
 GOLD SHOD 61 
 
 the South Side. The Blasphemer was greeted familiarly 
 by the signora in charge. The table d'hote dinner was 
 excellent ; the Chianti evoked confidences. 
 
 "Why do you stick on the job?" demanded Fielding. 
 
 "Because I'm a blithering weakling. I am pounding 
 myself to pieces ballyhooing the trade-message of a crowd 
 of fat-heads. So are you." 
 
 "Yes," replied Fielding unhappily. 
 
 "The drivel known as advertising is for those to write 
 who have nothing to say themselves," pursued the Blas- 
 phemer with a fluent gesture. "It's a wonder to me that a 
 pious land like this should stand for advertising at all. 
 Advertising is a fundamental violation of the command- 
 ment 'Thou shalt not covet.* ' 
 
 Fielding's amiable companion rambled on, sneering at 
 the concern which employed them, lampooning their office 
 associates, ridiculing their work. Fielding was drawn by 
 the other's vivacious charm, by his pictorial eloquence. 
 
 "There are more pompous asses in that organization," 
 observed Fielding. "It's a relief to hear them called by 
 their right names." 
 
 They left the Italian cafe and wandered down Wabash 
 Avenue toward Twenty-second Street. Fielding was fas- 
 cinated by the warmth of his companion's sophomoric 
 personality. 
 
 They were strolling, arm in arm, through Chicago's 
 tenderloin. A group of roysterers, full of cheap wit and 
 expensive wine, swayed past. Street-walkers patrolled 
 their beats, endeavoring to look seductive. A hag sat 
 shivering in a doorway. A bareheaded woman clad in a 
 green wrapper came out of a lunchroom carrying a bucket 
 of steaming coffee. From a little red doorway stepped a 
 boy; he was filled with a hot glow after his first fearful 
 embrace. 
 
 "Come again, sweetheart," said a woman to him softly 
 from the doorway. 
 
 "The great sexual unrest," remarked the Blasphemer.
 
 62 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "What is your pleasure? Shall I lead you to a choice 
 and carefully-selected bunch of harlots? Or do you 
 prefer to talk?" 
 
 "I much prefer to talk," answered Fielding. 
 
 "Thank you. Lust has its place in the scheme of life. 
 There are times when only a woman will suffice. But de- 
 liver me from the constant quest of lingerie. It makes me 
 sick," said the Blasphemer, leading the way into a bar- 
 room. "Two tankards of ale," he ordered. 
 
 At one o'clock the Blasphemer was reciting Kipling's 
 Sestina of the Tramp Royal, declaiming the lines with a 
 love and understanding. 
 
 At one-thirty, Fielding was telling the Blasphemer of 
 his aspirations. 
 
 It was a nocturne of confidences. In the waste and arid 
 womb of Chicago's tenderloin a great friendship had been 
 conceived. Fielding made his way home, repeating to 
 himself, like Jean-Christophe, "I have a friend." 
 
 The Blasphemer lived in a narrow room up three flights 
 of stairs in a rooming-house in North Clark Street. Its 
 furniture was of no importance. The window-shade was 
 broken in numerous places ; it had been yanked up and 
 down by the impatient hands of many nervous lodgers. 
 Its rug had lost its nap ; in spots it was worn to the woof 
 like the wasted body of a fabric that had passed away. 
 The hues of the wall-paper had faded as if unwilling to 
 occupy any of the meager space. Thus far the room 
 was unlike its master, reflecting none of his vivacity, his 
 fever to live. The creamy skin and russet hair of a 
 Henner print, however, revealed something of the taste of 
 the occupant. So did two excellent etchings, and the 
 Utter of books on the table and on the floor. 
 
 It was Fielding's introduction to the novels of Frank 
 Norris, the tales of Ambrose Bierce and H. C. Bunner, 
 and the editorials of William Marion Reedy. The Blas- 
 phemer turned to favorite passages in battered Tauch-
 
 GOLD SHOD 63 
 
 nitz edition copies of English plays and novels that his 
 guest had never heard of. 
 
 "What are you going to do, stick to advertising?'* de- 
 manded the Blasphemer suddenly. 
 
 "I don't know. Are you?" 
 
 "Not by a damn sight. It happens to be the straight- 
 est line to the meal ticket just at this time. If it weren't 
 for the insistent belly-need, I'd kick my job to hell and 
 gone. Do you suppose I'm turning out advertising slop 
 about footgear because it affords me any pleasure? Nay. 
 Aw diable with the filthy feet of the masses." 
 
 "It does me good to hear you rave," answered Field- 
 ing. "Continue." 
 
 "It's what you need. You're too complacent. You're 
 the salt of the earth, dear fellow, but you need more red 
 pepper in your composition." 
 
 He crossed to the closet shelf, took down a quart flask, 
 and began to prepare some old-fashioned toddies. 
 
 "You want to write," continued the host. "Well, why 
 the devil don't you? For God's sake don't let that job 
 of yours fry it all out of you." 
 
 "I'll write," said Fielding confidently. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "When I'm ready for it." 
 
 "Rot! Dear boy, I've heard that statement before. 
 But they never do it. They get fat and contented. They 
 marry and breed yowling brats. They go to church on 
 Sundays, mow the lawn, sprinkle the garden, join a lodge, 
 pay their taxes, read the Literary Digest, and imagine 
 themselves to be getting on. Write? Good heavens, they 
 can't even write a letter. Take heed. Don't put your 
 soul on a shelf with a lot of shoe boxes and kid yourself 
 that some day you're going to take it down and burnish 
 it up." 
 
 "Don't be afraid. I'm not so old yet," answered Field- 
 ing, looking uncomfortably into the searching eyes of his 
 companion. "What about yourself?" 
 
 The Blasphemer pulled a drawer out of the table.
 
 64 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "The point is not that you're not old. The point is that 
 you are still young. These are our great, fine, lyric 
 years. Ch rist ! I'm going to twang away at the harp- 
 strings while there's youth in my fingers and fire in my 
 veins. Maybe this manuscript," he continued, indicating 
 the papers in the drawer, "is mainly gibberish. I don't 
 know, and I don't give a damn. But I keep on cracking 
 it out. Damn me, it's at least genuine. It's me. God 
 help me, it's me. It's what I see, and what I feel, and 
 what I know. The magazines won't print it ; it isn't pious 
 enough for their church-going subscribers ; it would leave 
 a bad odor in the nostrils of their advertisers ; it's too 
 sour for the bon-bon-eating, cake-devouring gullets of 
 the public. One editor writes me that if I keep on, I'll 
 be doing worse things than Brann, the Iconoclast. 
 Brann!" sneered the Blasphemer. "A tawdry sensation- 
 alist, a word-mouther, a teetering show-off. At that, he 
 did a brave job of dying. You've got to hand it to him 
 for the way he went out. But I hold no brief for his 
 wild swing at letters." 
 
 "Let me see some of that," urged Fielding, looking 
 enviously at the contents of the table-drawer. 
 
 "What is your opinion of this?" demanded the other. 
 "I call it 'The Garbage Can.' " He read the brief sketch 
 to Fielding. "Is it too sordid for your fastidious taste?" 
 
 "No. I like it. I wish I could hang words together 
 the way you do. Read me some more." 
 
 "Here's something fantastic. 'The Green Halo.' See 
 if you get the symbolism." 
 
 Fielding listened to the reading of a dozen varied 
 efforts. He was fascinated, and bewildered, and almost 
 silenced by this man's product. Grotesque and unmarket- 
 able stuff it was, often incoherent. But in these tense 
 fragments were fire and rebellion and the groping reach 
 for realities. The texture was unfinished and ragged. 
 But here was raw might, lashing right and left, a tumult 
 of graphic impressions set down with unrelinquished 
 candor.
 
 GOLD SHOD 65 
 
 I 
 
 The listener carried away with him pictures that clung 
 tenaciously to his memory of a harlot weeping beside a 
 lamp-post, a baby dying in a mansion on Lake Shore 
 Drive, truck horses philosophizing in their pungent stalls, 
 grave-stones conversing in Graceland Cemetery.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ONE morning the Blasphemer's desk was unoccupied ; 
 acting upon a sudden impulse, he had resigned and 
 gone to New York. His departure left an important void 
 in the life of Fielding. 
 
 Soon afterward, Fielding went to a dance at the Calu- 
 met Club; his mother had insisted that he go. It was the 
 first dance he had attended since the one at his chapter 
 house at college during his infatuation with Miss Harring- 
 ton. As he swung over the shining floor with attractive 
 young women, their bodies close to his, the romantic im- 
 pulse permeated him once more, feeding his imagination 
 with its pleasing presence. It was a satisfaction to feel 
 again this contact with smooth hands and arms, and to 
 lay hold of refined, corseted figures. Some of these crea- 
 tures were like expensive human candies. Even their 
 dance-talk had the melting composition of confectionery. 
 
 But when he was introduced to Beth Early, he per- 
 ceived a different quality in her. He found her more 
 arresting mentally, and less of an impingement upon the 
 sense of sex. Her air was one of thoughtful gravity; 
 it gave more importance to her smiles when they appeared. 
 Her commanding stature made him straighten up. 
 
 "Then you don't live in Chicago," he was remarking. 
 
 "No, in Detroit." 
 
 "I could curse Detroit for laying claim to you. Do 
 you like Detroit?" 
 
 "Detroit knows what it's doing. It has a definite 
 object." 
 
 "The automobile," said Fielding. 
 
 "The motor factories fascinate me. Mother says I 
 should have been a man." 
 
 166
 
 GOLD SHOD 67 
 
 "I'm glad she didn't have her way," said Fielding 
 surveying the pleasing structure of Miss Early's face, 
 her straight nose, the eyes of grayish blue, the perfected 
 lines of her dark eye-brows and long lashes, the slender 
 lips and calm chin. 
 
 "You're crazy about Chicago, of course," she said. 
 "Men always are." 
 
 "I am rapidly transferring my devotion from the state 
 of Illinois to the state of Michigan." 
 
 Fielding was aware of a quiet strength in Miss Early. 
 Beneath her soft exteriors, there seemed to be a feeling 
 for large goals. He compared her with other women he 
 had known; they seemed to him trivial in contrast with 
 her; her beauty grew upon him. 
 
 "I'm sorry I don't dance any better," he said apolo- 
 getically. 
 
 "You dance very well ; you're only out of practice." 
 
 "I've been a barbarian of late." 
 
 "That's a mistake." 
 
 Miss Early was growing more interested in her com- 
 panion. She suspected that he had possibilities, and 
 might amount to something. There was an angularity 
 about him ; his sharp corners had not yet all been rounded 
 off into burnished social graces. But she did not object 
 to this ; it was an evidence of strength. 
 
 Fielding found her remarkably refreshing after the 
 meaningless chatter of other companions. Here was a 
 companionship that was novel to him. She had dignity 
 without being a priss. Her manner indicated that she 
 was neither flirting for dances nor dancing to flirt, and 
 she did not keep him on edge with awareness that she 
 was of the opposite sex. That was a relief; it heightened 
 his respect for her, whetted his desire to know her better. 
 
 "How long are you going to be in town?" he asked. 
 
 "Another week." 
 
 "I want to see you again." 
 
 "Come and see me." 
 
 She was attracted by Fielding's remote air, his quiet
 
 68 GOLD SHOD 
 
 good humor, his mixture of sensitiveness and strength, 
 his undercurrent of seriousness. She knew many men of 
 affairs, and recognized elements in Fielding Glinden that 
 she knew would carry him along in business; she found 
 herself speculating as to how far. 
 
 After her return to Detroit, there began a frequent 
 exchange of letters. Fielding's disclosed an engaging 
 style and color; he could write about himself without 
 being a bore ; he could write to her about herself without 
 being impertinent. She recognized balance, restraint, and 
 respect. Always brief, his letters left her wishing that 
 he had written more. Thus began that delightful period 
 of exploration and discovery, of revelation and disclosure, 
 when two people are half-strangers, half-lovers, when their 
 hold upon each other has not yet tightened into a grasp. 
 Intimacy had not yet brought its train of demand and 
 rebuke, of high expectations and painful disillusionment, 
 of wearing each other out with promises, requirements, 
 explanations, doubts, cross-purposes, and quarrels. 
 
 Fielding's discovery that he was in love with Beth Early 
 was accompanied by a surprised feeling of responsibility. 
 
 He knew that if he aspired to marry a girl like this, 
 it was time that he was making some money, doing some- 
 thing to command admiration. He wondered how to 
 proceed, and begrudged the wasted years. He was merely 
 marking time in his present employment. He was too 
 indifferent about the connection to suppose that it would 
 ever lead to anything more important. But as yet he had 
 not made up his mind which way to turn. 
 
 At this point his course was decided for him by cir- 
 cumstance. 
 
 "Glinden," said his superior to him one morning, "you 
 don't seem to fit in here. We all like you. We think 
 you're bright and that you've got all kinds of promise. 
 But you haven't woke up. If you ever do wake up, you'll 
 be a whirl-wind. But you can see yourself that we can't 
 keep a man on the pay-roll who doesn't give us the best 
 he's got. I don't know whether it's your fault or our
 
 GOLD SHOD 69 
 
 fault. I never hated so to let out a man before in my 
 life, but we've got to retrench and we've got to let you go." 
 
 A frank admission of his past indifference and a spirited 
 promise of mended ways would have saved Fielding in 
 this crisis, but he was too uninterested to make the 
 effort. 
 
 "Did anything go wrong?" demanded his mother that 
 evening, with one look at Fielding's face. 
 
 "I've been fired," he answered. 
 
 "Oh, Fielding!" cried the mother. In her eyes was a 
 look of terror. 
 
 "There's nothing so tragic about having to change 
 jobs," began Fielding, regretting his brutal announce- 
 ment, and endeavoring to smooth it over. 
 
 "It's tragic to me," returned his mother. 
 
 Fielding put his arm about her. 
 
 "I've been an awful disappointment to you, haven't I, 
 little mother?" he asked. 
 
 "It isn't myself I'm thinking of. It's you. Unless you 
 settle down, and take a serious interest in things, and 
 amount to something, it's you who will suffer. I can't 
 bear to think of you as just drifting from job to job. 
 I hate that word 'job.' It goes through me like a knife. 
 I don't even want to think of you in that way. You're 
 above it, Fielding. You have blood and breeding, you 
 have a good education, you have charm, you have every- 
 thing. There's nothing you can't accomplish, if you will 
 only put your mind on your work." 
 
 "Would you feel very badly if I didn't make a go of it 
 in business?" he inquired. 
 
 "It would break my heart. You don't know what a 
 comfort it is to a woman to see her men-folks well estab- 
 lished. Please, Fielding, don't disappoint me. Don't 
 embarrass me before our neighbors. Do something and 
 be something and make me proud of you !" 
 
 It was an uneasy dinner for Fielding that evening. 
 His mother had rarely spoken as pointedly to him as in 
 to-night's brief outburst.
 
 70 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "Haven't you any plans?" resumed Mrs. Glinden, at 
 the table. 
 
 "Nothing definite.** 
 
 "This is much too irresponsible a way to go through 
 life. What can you be thinking of?" she demanded im- 
 patiently. 
 
 "I have thought at times of going in for writing of 
 some kind," he began. "I have thought of taking a course 
 at the Art Institute. I've even thought of taking a shot 
 at music." 
 
 Mrs. Glinden looked at Fielding incredulously. 
 
 "But, my boy, you're an American !" she protested. 
 
 "Have no fear," laughed the son. "I am without talent 
 for any of the arts." Fielding paused. The look in his 
 mother's eyes made him feel very sorry for her. 
 
 "I don't know what it is that makes me so afraid," 
 answered his mother. "Sometimes I can't help thinking 
 that we should never have come to Chicago. I thought it 
 would help you to be here. But I don't know. My whole 
 ambition has been to have you succeed. Perhaps I'm to 
 blame." 
 
 "If I had half the ambition that you have for me, I'd 
 be at least another Yerkes by this time," answered Field- 
 ing. "I've been lazy, worthless, good-for-nothing. From 
 now on, I'm going to get busy."
 
 BOOK TWO 
 THE BRASS
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 LIKE the voice of destiny, came an unexpected letter 
 from Detroit. It was from Wayland Emmett, whom 
 Fielding had known at college ; it broached the possibility 
 of a connection with the Bennett Motor Company, of 
 which Emmett was sales manager. 
 
 Three hours after its receipt, Fielding boarded a train 
 for Detroit, the city of promise, the home of Beth Early. 
 
 A service car met him the next morning at the station 
 and bore, him to the Bennett factory. The clean, sunny 
 streets, gleaming with rolling cars, were romantic sights 
 to the newcomer. They filled him with an exhilarating 
 tension. Thoughts of Beth and thoughts of the future 
 glowed and blossomed in his brain. 
 
 Glinden felt as if he had been abruptly drawn into a 
 different world. An acceleration had taken place in him. 
 His childhood in Elyria, his boyhood in Wicker Park 
 seemed to belong to the horse-drawn period of his life; 
 and he felt sure that that period was definitely behind 
 him. Already his thoughts were moving with a click. His 
 tempo had changed curiously with his surroundings. The 
 sparkle of fast-moving cars had an effect the like of 
 which he had never experienced in Chicago. 
 
 The factories that Fielding had seen in Chicago were 
 dingy, depressing establishments. The word "factory" 
 connoted the dreariest of toil. It was a pleasant shock 
 to discover the sort of place this Bennett establishment 
 was. It was surrounded by lawns, decorated with flower- 
 beds and carefully-cropped hedgerows. The palatial 
 reception room was carpeted with buff chenille. Through 
 broad windows poured the morning sun, illuminating their 
 hangings of silk and tapestry. The room's tall Jacobean 
 
 73
 
 74 GOLD SHOD 
 
 chairs seemed fit for cardinals. In the center of the room 
 stood a Bennett touring car; its wheelbase looked enor- 
 mous; it was one of the dolled-up cars that had been 
 exhibited at the last annual show in New York. On a 
 bronze pedestal stood a huge silver cup, a trophy won in a 
 recent tour. 
 
 "How they do things here !" thought Fielding, awed by 
 his surroundings. 
 
 A uniformed attendant telephoned Fielding's name to 
 Wayland Emmett's office. 
 
 "Mr. Emmett will see you in a few minutes," reported 
 the clerk. 
 
 Fielding examined some of the Bennett catalogues; he 
 was mystified by the tables of specifications, by the 
 elaborate charts of chassis construction, the cross-sections 
 of power plants. He knew nothing about motor cars. 
 
 "Hello, Glinden, old man," exclaimed Wayland Emmett, 
 wringing his hand. "Come on in." 
 
 Emmett led the way through a long corridor, flanked 
 by rows of glass in front of columns of great, flat-top 
 desks. 
 
 "So that the general manager can see everything that's 
 going on," observed Emmett, indicating the glass par- 
 titions. "Still, it has its drawbacks. One of the ac- 
 countants estimates that every time a pretty stenographer 
 walks the length of this hall, it costs the company sixty- 
 five dollars in time lost while all the men quit working to 
 look at her." 
 
 Fielding surveyed Wayland Emmett's roomy office with 
 interest. Its furniture, its deep brown carpet, its im- 
 pressive pictures of speedway crowds, race drivers, and 
 Bennett models, its blackboard list of "the ten most im- 
 portant things to do to-day," smacked of efficiency and 
 achieving drive. 
 
 Emmett was slim, blonde, studious-looking, still under 
 thirty. In an older business he would have appeared 
 out of place at this post. But here youth flourished con- 
 fidently, arrogantly. Emmett had the pleasant person-
 
 GOLD SHOD 75 
 
 ality, controlled energy, nervous strength that the masters 
 of this business knew how to use. 
 
 "What have } T ou been doing, Glinden?" demanded the 
 sales manager. 
 
 Fielding summarized briefly. 
 
 "Didn't like it with that crowd, eh?" smiled Emmett. 
 
 "Hated it." 
 
 "Don't blame you. The shoe business would drive me 
 mad. Too slow. You'd like it better here. We're all of 
 us right on our toes. Things hum!" 
 
 "I know I'd like it," said Fielding excitedly. 
 
 "The job contains a real opportunity for a man who 
 can take advantage of it," spoke Wayland Emmett, 
 signing letters as he talked. 
 
 Fielding was thinking of Beth. 
 
 "There's a chance here for some one to go like hell," 
 continued Emmett. "This company has grown too fast. 
 There's a tremendous job to be done. We have dealers 
 who ought to be dealing nothing but cards, and distribu- 
 tors who ought to be peddling handbills. Some of them 
 don't know rear axles from ignition. We're cleaning 
 house. We're separating the business men from the chair- 
 warmers, and giving the latter a swift kick. 
 
 "We're going to have a real organization. We're 
 tightening up on credits, insisting on service to owners, 
 establishing stiff quotas, pulling off sales contests, and 
 trying to make merchants out of every man who handles 
 the Bennett car. It's no holiday pastime. It's work." 
 
 Emmett, warming to his discussion, talked for nearly 
 an hour. His sentences flowed in crisp, incisive terms. 
 He explained the kind of men he wanted to assist him in 
 his task, what they would have to be and do, what ob- 
 stacles they would encounter. 
 
 "There's plenty of grief to the job, plenty of nasty 
 customers to face, a lot of mistakes to iron out, a raft 
 of bad effects from mistaken company policies to over- 
 come," he talked on. "But from what I know of you, 
 and from the way I size you up, you seem to have the
 
 76 GOLD SHOD 
 
 stuff that I could use. You have breeding and bearing 
 and the right front. You may and may not have the 
 punch. You may develop it and you may not. But I'll 
 stand back of you. The job pays thirty a week to start. 
 If you show any form in six months, you get fifty. After 
 that the sky's the limit. We've just taken a chief engi- 
 neer away from one of the oldest companies in the busi- 
 ness and we're paying him twenty-five thousand a year. 
 What do you say?" 
 
 "I accept," said Fielding without hesitation. 
 
 "How soon can you start?" 
 
 "Now." 
 
 "Fine work!" 
 
 Emmett pressed a buzzer. A stenographer entered. 
 
 "Wire your folks that you're going to stay," said 
 Emmett. 
 
 Within the hour, Fielding had been introduced to a 
 dozen of the leading members of the organization. 
 
 "I like you," said Bennett, the president, after a few 
 moments' conversation with Fielding in the throne-room, 
 gleaming with silver trophies. "You'll make good." 
 
 Bennett was hardly thirty-five. Back of his placid, 
 pampered-looking pink-cheeked exterior, back of his 
 ready smile and boyish laugh, was a gusty temper, an 
 astonishing capacity to drive, a passion for results. He 
 never smoked; it would have interfered with his work. 
 He never drank ; he craved other intoxicants gallops at 
 dawn, fast driving, fast money-making, fast women. His 
 personality was disarming: he kept his sharp points cov- 
 ered, his shrewdness concealed. 
 
 "Don't ever let a customer get the idea that you're 
 smarter than he is," was one of his maxims. It had made 
 him millions. 
 
 Kram, the chief engineer, had a tawny face, a haggard 
 speed-face. His deep-set eyes had a savage look in them. 
 They seemed to have been jammed back into their face by 
 the hammering of the air during driving. His office was 
 littered with road maps, wooden models, blue prints, sam-
 
 GOLD SHOD 77 
 
 pies of metal, vials of brownish oil. He seemed morose, 
 hardly conscious of Fielding's presence. 
 
 "Hardly human," remarked Emmett as they came out. 
 "Kram's a whizz. He bangs a test car from Detroit to 
 San Francisco and back in ten days. He once hung a 
 mattress against a stone wall and battered a car against 
 it for half an hour to see what she'd stand." 
 
 Newendyke, the general manager, was a pompous 
 personage. He had formerly been a patent attorney in 
 Chicago. He had a hard, fleshy hand, a hearty, rotund 
 laugh, and shone in "inspirational" talks before sales 
 conventions and meetings of manufacturers. 
 
 "Be sure you sell yourself to Newendyke," said Way- 
 land Emmett. "He's a likable slob when you get to know 
 him. You've got to have him on your side, if you want 
 to get on. Ask his advice about something every few 
 days. He loves it. Compliment him on his speeches ; ask 
 where you can get printed copies of them. He eats it up. 
 Don't let him think you're neglecting him." 
 
 A guide conveyed Fielding through the plant. He had 
 never visited a factory before. He had always thought 
 of motor cars in terms of flight over fragrant country 
 roads. He saw them now in terms of enormous presses 
 smashing steel plates into fenders, of a tangle of re- 
 volving belting in the machine shops, of painting, wood- 
 working, upholstering, and the final assembly. He 
 proceeded in a stupor. He had crossed new thresholds. 
 Through the smells of oils, and leathers, and wood- and 
 metal-filings, came perfumed memories of Beth Early. 
 He felt nearer to her in this crash of attainments. 
 
 Here was a business that gave him something to get 
 his eyes on, something to get his hands on. It was stimu- 
 lating to see the product being made, to see big men at 
 work. Already it had quickened his pace and his mind. 
 He was emerging from the dreamy apathy with which 
 he had viewed the world of realities. Always in the past, 
 he had gone to his tasks indifferently, often with con- 
 tempt for the concerns that employed him, with his sense
 
 78 GOLD SHOD 
 
 of beauty ever setting up its interference. But this was 
 different. This business moved with a flash that picked 
 him up and carried him along. He respected these men. 
 He was fascinated with the sullen Kram, brooding over 
 strange documents, a recluse in his world of engines and 
 specifications. 
 
 That evening, Fielding went to see Beth Early. She 
 lived with her mother and her stepfather on a pleasant 
 street of spacious residences. Clean breezes rustled in the 
 masses of young elm leaves overhead. It was a street of 
 shrubs and leisure, of trellises and sloping lawns. Yellow 
 eyes smouldered in front of shadowy cars at the curbs. 
 He sighed romantically. Some day such a car must stand 
 outside a home of his own. 
 
 He stepped to the door and rang. A smartly attired 
 maid answered and showed him into the living-room. 
 There he was greeted by a plump, good-looking woman 
 of about forty-five. 
 
 "Come in," Mr. Glinden," she began. "I'm Beth's 
 mother, Mrs. Ellis. I'm so happy to meet you." 
 
 "I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Ellis," replied 
 Fielding. 
 
 "I should have known you from Beth's description," 
 said the other, surveying him. "Won't you be seated. 
 Beth will be down in a moment." 
 
 So this was Beth's mother? thought Fielding with 
 disappointment. Mrs. Ellis sat primly in a satin chair; 
 her small, plump hands glittered with heavy rings; her 
 trim little finger nails gleamed with careful manicuring. 
 She conversed chirpily about the weather, her servants, 
 her ailments. 
 
 "My neuritis drives me almost mad at times," she 
 informed him. "I've consulted enough doctors to cure a 
 regiment, but it seems to be perfectly useless," she said 
 with a breathy, self-pitying sigh. 
 
 "It must be very painful," said Fielding, conscious of 
 his lack of social graces, and searching for soothing small- 
 talk.
 
 GOLD SHOD 79 
 
 A chesty little man of about fifty entered. 
 
 "Mr. Ellis, I want you to meet Mr. Glinden," spoke 
 Mrs. Ellis. 
 
 The two men took each other's measure. A light-weight, 
 concluded Fielding. A promising young fellow, surmised 
 Ellis. Fielding remembered that Beth had said that her 
 stepfather was a lawyer; but to the younger man, this 
 affable, dapper individual seemed anything but able to 
 wage legal battles. A lock of graying hair was flattened 
 painstakingly out over a bald spot on his crown. He 
 took a seat on the divan, folded his small hands and con- 
 versed in a high-pitched voice about Chicago, Detroit, and 
 business conditions. 
 
 Fielding wondered what Beth talked about to these 
 people. He felt complimented at their interest in him, 
 but was not drawn to them. He considered Beth superior 
 to them both, and resented their claims of kinship upon 
 her. These two people had a disturbing effect upon his 
 established impressions of Beth Early. There was a 
 nervous tension in this household ; he did not like it ; he 
 felt ill at ease. He could not escape the impression that 
 Beth's mother viewed him with suspicion and that her 
 graciousness was all feigned. 
 
 Beth appeared in the doorway, her hand extended. 
 
 "Nice of you to run in," she said. 
 
 "Thanks," replied Fielding. "It's delightful to see you 
 again." 
 
 His first impression was of her commanding height and 
 melodious voice. She was paler than on the night of the 
 dance in Chicago. She seemed to be appraising him 
 thoughtfully, and Fielding found himself going anxiously 
 back over his letters to her, wondering if *he had written 
 too freely. 
 
 The Ellises excused themselves to make a neighborhood 
 call, leaving Beth and Fielding together. 
 
 "Shall you be in town long?" asked Beth. 
 
 "I hope so. I've gone to work for the Bennett Com- 
 pany. Sales department."
 
 80 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "You interest me," said Beth enthusiastically. In her 
 eyes was almost the same look that had lighted the eyes 
 of Fielding's mother when he had stated his decision to 
 look into the position in Detroit. 
 
 "Not that I consider myself cut out for anything like 
 this, but the Bennett people seem to think I can get away 
 with it," replied Fielding apologetically. 
 
 "There's no reason why you can't." 
 
 "There's every reason," laughed Fielding. "The idea 
 of selling anything has always grated on me, somehow. 
 I'd rather make a thing than peddle it," he added, unable 
 to express himself any better. 
 
 "Then you must watch your chance to get into the pro- 
 duction end of the business, and become a manufacturer." 
 
 "Yes, I might do that," returned Fielding, but without 
 much interest. "Do you know, when I was a youngster, 
 I had a notion that I should like to be a piano-tuner." 
 
 "Fancy," smiled Beth. 
 
 "Do you play?" He glanced at the baby-grand. 
 
 Beth shook her head. 
 
 "Who does?" 
 
 "Only visitors. Mother tried to drive me to it when 
 I was a child, but I never cared for it. I seemed to realize 
 that I should never be able to play as I wanted to. I 
 hate anything unfinished or amateurish." 
 
 Fielding learned that Beth's father, Carter Early, had 
 once owned and operated one of the largest fleet of ore- 
 carrying freighters on the Great Lakes. The collapse 
 of his business and the loss of his fortune were soon fol- 
 lowed by his death. Beth's father had been her idol. 
 The impulse of the* builder and the executive had flowed 
 from him into her and fired her dreams. She adored that 
 kind of man. Fielding fancied that it was hard for her 
 at times to conceal her contempt for this softling who 
 had become her stepfather. She had none of the flighty 
 emotionalism of her mother, who had never taken much 
 interest in her first husband's undertakings, had always 
 resented his work which kept him out of society, which
 
 GOLD SHOD 81 
 
 she adored and for which she lived. She had been afraid 
 of him, afraid of his strength, his hardness, his willfulness, 
 his concentration for prolonged periods upon his labors. 
 And Beth's lymphatic grace sheathed a sword of ambition 
 bequeathed to her by her father. 
 
 As Fielding sat talking to her, it began dawning upon 
 him that with the aid of such a woman as this, there were 
 no limits to the lengths he might go. He suspected if he 
 could ever pierce her shell of lovely indifference, he would 
 discover a reservoir of power. Beneath her soft, fine 
 textures, there seemed to be the strong potential stroke 
 of a steady driving-force. 
 
 Having left her, Fielding could hardly recall the color 
 of her eyes, or the hue of her dress. He recalled most 
 vividly her proud air and splendid neck. He could not 
 dissociate her from his new connection with the Bennett 
 organization. He thought of her as an ally, as a source 
 of power he himself did not possess.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 DO you know anything about a motor car?'* demanded 
 Wayland Emmett the following day. 
 
 "Nothing," answered Fielding. 
 
 "Then your first job here is to get acquainted with the 
 product we're manufacturing. Out to the shops for you. 
 Don't report again until you know how we build this car. 
 I don't want you around me until you know the machine 
 we're selling." 
 
 "What are you going to do put me in a pair of 
 overalls?" asked Fielding uncomfortably. 
 
 "I would if there were time. It would be worth money 
 to you, and money to me. But teaching the men in my 
 department this business from the bottom up is a luxury 
 I can't afford. I've got to get quicker action than that." 
 
 Fielding breathed more easily. 
 
 "Take a week, take two weeks if necessary to get 
 familiar with the product." 
 
 "I imagine making a car is a complicated job," observed 
 Fielding. 
 
 "From now on, quit imagining," returned Emmett. 
 "What I'm interested in is facts. Cut out the guesswork. 
 What you want to do from now on is to know." 
 
 Emmett's voice was pleasant, but his eyes were stern. 
 
 "Another thing to remember," he continued, "is to make 
 friends around here. Your success or failure with this 
 organization will be determined by your ability to make 
 friends. Every man you meet is going to be either for 
 you or against you. Get 'em to like you, down to the 
 porters and the scrubwomen. It's a democratic bunch, 
 and they're quick to size a new man up. Some hard- 
 looking Wop down in the engine-room may be the chief 
 
 82
 
 GOLD SHOD 83 
 
 engineer of this establishment in a few years from now. 
 Don't let them get thet idea that there's anything up-stage 
 about you." 
 
 More than once during the next fortnight, as Fielding 
 continued his progress through acre after acre of the 
 factory's floorspace, his instincts rebelled. The din of 
 manufacturing did not thrill him. The machining of 
 cylinders down to one one-thousandth of an inch in ac- 
 curacy ; three thousand revolutions per minute of the 
 motors on the testing block ; the roar of mass-production 
 did not thrill him. Only the will to become a part of 
 this mechanical inferno enabled him to center his attention 
 upon it* 
 
 He permitted a decent amount of time to elapse before 
 going to see Beth again. He found her looking remark- 
 ably charming. 
 
 "You look stunning to-night," he said, surveying her 
 tall white-clad figure with admiring eyes. 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "I marvel that some fellow hasn't stolen you." 
 
 "I'm not the kind that gets stolen." 
 
 "Don't be too sure." 
 
 Fielding's mood to-night was one of peculiar loneliness. 
 Again and again during the evening he found himself 
 reacting strongly to Beth's magnetism. Her gracious 
 air captivated him. 
 
 "You've been deucedly decent to me since I've been in 
 town," he said finally. "At times it encourages me to 
 imagine that you don't resent my caring for you. You've 
 noticed, of course that I do. You're the most stimulating 
 girl I ever had the good fortune to discover." 
 
 Beth met his look with smiling self-possession. 
 
 "I suppose you've listened to a lot of men make love to 
 you. I wish I could do it more gracefully. It seems 
 almost ridiculous for me to be talking to you like this, 
 without a thing to offer you. But I will have one of 
 these days. I never knew I could work up such an interest 
 in business, but your encouragement has meant every-
 
 84 GOLD SHOD 
 
 thing to me, and I'll soon be in a position to tell you how- 
 much I really love you. For I have sense enough to know 
 that Mid- Victorian love in a cottage would never interest 
 you." 
 
 "No, indeed," laughed Beth lightly. 
 
 "I shouldn't want it to. You're queenly and belong in 
 a palace." 
 
 "Cease, Sir Knight," said Beth banteringly, with a 
 courtly wave of her slender hand. 
 
 Highly satisfied with his call, Fielding strode toward 
 his lodgings through the summer night. He felt that an 
 understanding had been established, and was exhilarated. 
 Detroit had been good to him; the pleasing homes and 
 ruddy window-panes brought gracious visions of do- 
 mesticity. 
 
 He turned briskly into Woodward Avenue, watching 
 its trolley cars and fast-moving motors. From the latter 
 rang the laughter of their occupants. On the sidewalks 
 were the strolling figures of hatless young fellows and 
 their girls. At the fountains of the drug-stores, the hot 
 and thirsty were cooling their throats with ice-cream 
 sodas. As he drew nearer to the down-town region, the 
 vehicles and pedestrians grew more numerous ; groups of 
 youths idled at the corners, flirting with passing girls. 
 
 Fielding's conversation with Beth recurred to him; it 
 made him feel older, brought its new sense of responsi- 
 bility, imposed a new sense of decorum. He realized that 
 he had placed himself under obligations to Beth Early, 
 that he had committed himself to a program of courtship, 
 that he was no longer free. All of a sudden he felt a 
 mild sense of panic. He remembered the freedom of older 
 days, how little he had actually used it, what a mistake 
 that had been. 
 
 From an attractive-looking bar-room came a peal of 
 laughter. Fielding went in, and ordered a gin rickey, 
 the first strong drink he had had since arriving in Detroit. 
 The cool sting of the liquid carried him back to delightful
 
 GOLD SHOD 85 
 
 sessions with the Blasphemer. What a roar of protest 
 would come from the Blasphemer if he knew that Fielding 
 was again working in a factory and in a fair way to be- 
 come engaged to be married. 
 
 "Another of the same," he said, pushing his empty glass 
 toward the bar-tender. 
 
 Fielding reentered the sultry street with the refreshing 
 taste of lime and gin in his mouth; his blood moved faster; 
 his eyes roved the street for adventure. It seemed rather 
 a pity to him that he had committed himself to this new 
 emotional responsibility; the two drinks had dampened 
 his satisfaction with the interview with Beth. He 
 found himself examining various young women who 
 passed. 
 
 As he wandered on, his eyes were arrested by the black 
 satin shoes, black dress, white skin, and salmon-colored 
 hat of a young woman who was crossing the park toward 
 the Tuller Hotel. He saw her enter and go into one of 
 the telephone booths. 
 
 "Gad, she's pretty," he thought. 
 
 He selected a chair near the booth and watched her 
 through the glass door. Her head was erect, her chin 
 was held high. Her moving lips and clean profile were 
 very seductive. She was probably telephoning some man 
 and making an appointment, he thought enviously. His 
 blood began to drum. 
 
 When she came out of the booth, he saw her look at 
 him ; he thought that a faint smile swept her face, but 
 was not sure. She looked a little more common to him 
 now but he rose with a sudden impulse, and crossed to 
 where she was standing irresolutely. 
 
 "Alone?" he asked. 
 
 She looked him over questioningly, then nodded. 
 
 "What do you say to coming up to the roof garden and 
 having something to eat?" he suggested. 
 
 "Not here," she said quickly. 
 
 "Some other place then," he answered, pleased with 
 her acquiescence.
 
 86 GOLD SHOD 
 
 As they left the hotel together, he took her arm. Sud- 
 denly he thought of Beth. 
 
 "I must be crazy," he reflected. 
 
 He studied the face of the girl at his side, comparing 
 her youthful nose, penciled eyes, red lips, and delightful 
 little chin with the more mature and less sensuous features 
 of Beth Early. 
 
 "I saw you looking at me when I was phoning,'* said 
 his companion. 
 
 "Guilty." 
 
 "Cutie," she laughed. 
 
 "Any special place you'd like to go?" 
 
 She named a nearby restaurant. 
 
 "Wherever you say," he replied. 
 
 "You seem to like me." 
 
 "I'm growing fonder of you every minute I'm with you." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because you're so delightful." 
 
 "So are you." 
 
 "It's too bad I've been in Detroit for a month without 
 discovering you before," said Fielding. 
 
 "Isn't it a shame? Well, what is to be, will be." 
 
 "You're a fatalist." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "One who believes in the inevitability of circumstance." 
 
 "What's all that?" 
 
 Fielding solemnly repeated the statement. 
 
 "Teach me how to rattle that off. It listens good," 
 said the other, screwing up her nose and saying the words 
 after him. 
 
 "Bravo. You're an apt pupil." 
 
 They were soon seated at one of the tables of a lively 
 cafe. A pianist was pounding out countless repetitions 
 of "Truly Rural," the song-hit of the day ; a droll-faced 
 youth, drunk enough to be amusing, swaggered to and 
 fro among the tables, chanting the words. 
 
 Fielding and his companion pecked at rarebits and 
 sipped ginger ale highballs. The whiskey, joining the gin
 
 GOLD SHOD 87 
 
 he had already consumed, penetrated his nerves and made 
 them hum with desire. He surveyed the girl at his table 
 with caresses in his eyes. It seemed ridiculous to have 
 to be at his desk at the factory at eight o'clock the next 
 morning. The Blasphemer's words recurred to him 
 "There are times when only a woman will suffice." 
 
 "It's awfully hot in here," said the girl, looking at him 
 with tired eyes. "Let's go." 
 
 Fielding called a taxi; the girl gave the driver her 
 street number. Fielding helped her into the open car 
 with a sense of defiant pleasure, and took his seat beside 
 her. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. 
 
 "The air feels good," said the girl, taking off her hat 
 and letting the wind stream through her ash-blonde hair. 
 
 Fielding was flushed with his adventure; he felt that 
 he was in great luck ; it was his first relaxation of the kind 
 since his arrival in Detroit. 
 
 The car swung around a corner and stopped in front 
 of a brick residence in a street of rooming houses. 
 
 "Let's drive some more," he proposed. "The air will 
 do you good." 
 
 "Not to-night. I'm all tuckered out." 
 
 The girl unlocked the outer door and entered the dark 
 hallway, Fielding following. 
 
 "Good night," she said. 
 
 "Not yet. Let me go in with you," he urged. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Please." 
 
 "No, I couldn't do that." 
 
 "Please," he begged. 
 
 "Honestly, I couldn't." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I never take any men in here." 
 
 "Then let's go to a hotel." 
 
 "Not to-night." 
 
 "Some other time?" 
 
 "Maybe. You run along now." 
 
 "Not before I kiss you.
 
 88 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "Just once." 
 
 Fielding took her in his arms and planted kiss after kiss 
 upon her lips and face. 
 
 "Some one's liable to come in," she said, drawing away. 
 
 "No one's coming," he panted. "You're irresistible. 
 What makes you so sweet?" 
 
 "Men are all alike," she said, looking at him with 
 tolerant cynicism. 
 
 "Women aren't. If women were all as enticing as you, 
 I'd be reeling through life like a madman." 
 
 "That's what you say now. But I've heard fellas rave 
 before." 
 
 As Fielding strode toward his lodgings, he wondered 
 what sort of tangles of sex the rest of the Bennett men 
 were mixed up in. Unacquainted with the private lives 
 of other men, he had often thought that his recurrent 
 weaknesses for women did not exist in others, but betrayed 
 a perversity of his own that had to be watched and curbed. 
 He had never had it brought home to him that a strain 
 of the libertine courses in seductive currents through even 
 the most conventional. He had considered it a peculiarity 
 of his own to covet strange and beautiful women and to 
 follow them with his desires. Thoughts of Beth Early 
 marched reproachfully through him. He must have been 
 crazy to do what he had done in the hallway,
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE misty brightness of a crisp November morning 
 covered Detroit; the sidewalks were powdered with 
 frost ; the trolley-cars were black with loads of workers 
 bound for various factories. Fielding avoided the street- 
 cars; they made him feel common; he preferred to start 
 earlier and walk to the factory. He watched the shining 
 touring cars as they rolled past, bearing officials to their 
 desks, and envied them this luxury of transportation. 
 
 He was outlining a memorandum in his mind. With 
 observing eyes and critical mind, he had been watching 
 the affairs of the sales department and studying its con- 
 tact with branches, distributors, and dealers. He had 
 read and replied to hundreds of letters from Bennett 
 representatives, had noted and summarized their com- 
 plaints and suggestions, their various excuses for poor 
 business, their reasons why motorists were buying other 
 cars. By degrees, he was growing familiar with weak- 
 nesses of the department. 
 
 Having cleared his desk of the morning's correspond- 
 ence, Fielding attacked the memorandum. He had been 
 planning it for weeks; his data were assembled; his 
 arguments were carefully considered ; even finished phrases 
 were ready to leap into their sentences. He let his 
 imagination play to and fro over the situation, punched 
 holes through the texture of the department where it was 
 too thin, and endeavored to make repairs with construc- 
 tive suggestions. 
 
 But later in the day, when the typewritten pages were 
 laid before him, he wondered if he was making a mistake. 
 He made cuts, corrections, and numerous revisions. Then 
 he took the communication to Wayland Emmett. 
 
 89
 
 90 GOLD SHOD 
 
 For two days, he heard nothing from Emmett. On the 
 third day, the other called him into his office. 
 
 "I've been going over your memorandum, Glinden," 
 began the sales manager. "There's a wallop to it that I 
 like. It shows that you've got your ear to the ground 
 and your mind on the job. Some of your suggestions 
 are visionary and impractical. But there's enough sound 
 common sense here to keep us busy for six months, carry- 
 ing out some of your ideas. I'm glad you let out this 
 roar. It shows that my judgment was right when I hired 
 you, and that you didn't make a mistake to come here. 
 I've had this up with Mr. Bennett." 
 
 "You have! What did he say?" 
 
 "He told me to give you a raise, and to make you an 
 assistant sales manager." 
 
 "He did?" exclaimed Fielding. 
 
 "Right. I'm glad to confer the title on you. Sign it 
 to your letters, and more power to them. Your idea to 
 shoot form letters out of this office to doctors, dentists, 
 bank presidents, chamber of commerce men, and the like, 
 telling them why they ought to be driving Bennett cars, 
 is fine. How long will it take you to get your lists?" 
 
 "I already have them." 
 
 "Good. And your hunch to keep hammering away at 
 mayors of cities until we can say in our advertising that 
 such and such a high percentage of all the mayors in 
 America ride in Bennetts, is a bird. Get after it." 
 
 On Fielding's next call upon Beth, he said: 
 
 "I wrote that memorandum we talked about ; I included 
 all of the ideas you suggested ; it made quite a hit." 
 
 "I'm glad. What did they say?" 
 
 "Raised my salary and made me assistant sales man- 
 ager." 
 
 "Splendid!" 
 
 "You did this for me. I should probably never have 
 thought of it myself." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Beth impatiently. "The only trouble
 
 GOLD SHOD 91 
 
 with you is that you haven't enough confidence in your- 
 self." 
 
 Fielding sat looking at the charming droop of one of 
 her eyelids. He reached for her passive hand and pressed 
 it fervently to his lips. 
 
 "I adore you," he said with a sudden intensity. 
 "You've got to care for me. I'm going to make you care 
 for me, whether you want to or not. You've taught me 
 how to go after what I want, and there's nothing that I 
 want more than you. You care for me a little, don't you, 
 Beth?" 
 
 Beth nodded. 
 
 "That's all I want to know." He drew her impulsively 
 to him, and kissed her. 
 
 Mrs. Ellis cleared her throat in the adjoining room, 
 and Beth drew quickly away just as her mother entered. 
 
 Fielding now felt a new tenderness toward Beth and her 
 mother; this evening had vastly altered his relations 
 towards this household. He surveyed Beth with new eyes ; 
 a gleam of the possessive had entered into them. He 
 studied the bearing, the address, the urbanity of this 
 excellent young woman ; he was pleased with her ease and 
 charm; she would make him a wife to be proud of. She 
 would be more than a wife to him ; she would be his coun- 
 sellor, a reliable and steadying influence. 
 
 The impetuous approach-shots that had carried him to 
 the acquiescent nod of her head differed curiously from 
 the language with which he had wooed others. He realized 
 that he did net feel quite the electric desire that had 
 drawn him to others whom he had wanted as mistresses. 
 In earlier reflections upon the subject of marriage, he 
 had pictured himself being drawn to a woman, potentially 
 both ally and mistress. But after all, what an absurd and 
 juvenile theory* He had grown more sophisticated since 
 then. What he now considered to be of most importance 
 in a wife was not the drag-net of the flesh, but the subtler 
 summons of a mind that moved in unison with his, of re- 
 sourceful generalship, an intuition that would lay its
 
 92 GOLD SHOD 
 
 guiding hand upon the driving power that he was de- 
 veloping. 
 
 "Good night," said Beth in mellow contralto when he 
 was taking his leave. 
 
 "Good night," he returned, taking her hand. "You've 
 given me a new lease on life." 
 
 In the many-ringed circus of American business, be- 
 trothal is a potent force. Marriage often lays its de- 
 taining hands upon an able fellow who might otherwise 
 have performed effectively, for he must share his vitality 
 with his wife, not in strengthening moments of emotional 
 exchange, but in daily, and incessant giving. A man of 
 more abundant vitality can keep going when his com- 
 panions are tired out with this draining taxation of the 
 home, and can labor ten, twelve, or fourteen hours against 
 another's eight. But the exhilarating effects of betrothal 
 are different. It builds roaring fires beneath the boilers. 
 
 During this period of Fielding's engagement to Beth 
 Early, his initiative and enterprise were a delight to Way- 
 land Emmett. He was often at his desk long after the 
 others had gone, laboring at sales promotion, devising 
 new ways to interest successful merchants who were 
 handling other lines or selling rival cars, contriving 
 methods to hold present dealers in line, inventing new 
 tactics for their salesmen to use in their fight for pros- 
 pects. 
 
 "There's a delegation here from a New York advertising 
 agency," said Emmett one day; "they're trying to land 
 our account ; I want you to hear their solicitation." 
 
 It was Fielding's first glimpse of a group of glib adver- 
 tising men displaying their bag of tricks in an effort to 
 secure an attractive contract. A pompous veteran led 
 off with a speech on the achievements of his organization, 
 its prestige, clients, and record of results. A solemn 
 copy man delivered a discourse on the quality of their 
 writers. A lean-faced solicitor produced a portfolio of 
 exhibits intended to illustrate their method of planting a
 
 GOLD SHOD 93 
 
 product in a position of so-called dominance. Fielding 
 was a silent, thoughtful listener. 
 
 "How does this crowd strike you ?" asked Emmett after 
 the conference. 
 
 "They're very entertaining. I've learned a lot about 
 advertising." 
 
 "There's another bunch coming to-morrow." 
 
 Again Fielding Glinden sat in on the session, hearing 
 but little that was new; it was mainly a rehash of what 
 the others had set forth. Six more agencies had their 
 say during the following week. Some came with elaborate 
 presentations and copy campaigns. Their spell-binders 
 talked service, quality, dominance, and business insurance. 
 Emmett, Glinden, and Bessick, the advertising manager, 
 listened patiently. 
 
 "Now what do you think?" demanded Emmett. 
 
 "None of them have proved to us that they can sell 
 next year's production of Bennett cars," said Fielding. 
 
 "That can't be done." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "All we know is that we've got to advertise. It builds 
 up the good name of a product, but it doesn't often close 
 sales on a product like ours. We're after the best agency 
 service we can find, and the rest is in the lap of the gods." 
 
 "Not necessarily," said Fielding. "That's too one- 
 sided. These fellows have absolute assurance in advance 
 that they're going to get a definite sum per year in com- 
 missions for handling our advertising. Yet we have no 
 assurance that they're going to sell cars for us." 
 
 "It can't be given," said Emmett impatiently. 
 
 "Yes it can." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "By making the agency that gets our account, agree 
 to sell a fixed number of cars for us each year." 
 
 "The idea is ingenious but not unique," replied Emmett 
 drily. "Lots of advertisers put that in their contracts." 
 
 Glinden was disconcerted but not floored. 
 
 The next evening he called on Beth, and talked to her
 
 94 GOLD SHOD 
 
 about it. Beth knew little about advertising methods, 
 but began asking questions that delighted Fielding with 
 their directness and grasp. 
 
 "Some of these agency heads must have a large ac- 
 quaintance among business men," she said. 
 
 "Some of them have as many as fifty to a hundred 
 clients whose advertising they handle," rejoined Fielding. 
 
 "In addition to their clients, they must have a pretty 
 big general acquaintance." 
 
 "Enormous. They are professional hand-shakers." 
 
 "Why can't the Bennett Company give its account to 
 the agency whose president will personally obligate him- 
 self to sell the largest number of Bennett cars to his 
 friends ?" 
 
 "You mean in addition to the cars the advertising itself 
 would sell?" 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 Fielding was impressed by the straight thinking of 
 Beth's proposal. 
 
 "I'll put it up to Emmett. I'll tell him you made the 
 suggestion," he returned. 
 
 "No, I wouldn't do that. A woman isn't supposed to 
 know much about business. I'm just an outsider. Be- 
 sides, we've worked it out together." 
 
 Glinden promptly suggested the idea to Emmett. 
 
 "It's worth trying," replied Emmett with undisguised 
 interest. "I'll talk to Bessick about it. If we can get 
 these brigands to bid against each other I wouldn't be 
 surprised if we could make one of them guarantee to sell 
 two or three hundred cars. It will make them get up and 
 dust. I can't see any objection to your plan. If you 
 can spring ideas like this, you'll never have to worry about 
 a job." 
 
 A week later there was much fervent cursing in agency 
 circles. 
 
 In another fortnight, a telegram arrived from an 
 agency head in Chicago, binding himself personally, on 
 penalty of losing the Bennett account three months from
 
 GOLD SHOD 95 
 
 date, to secure orders for two hundred and fifty Bennett 
 cars. He was the highest bidder and secured the ac- 
 count. 
 
 Fielding recounted to Beth the outcome of her sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 "I feel hugely indebted to you," he said. "This is a 
 fine feather in my cap. But it isn't fair of me to pretend 
 that the idea originated with me." 
 
 She looked at him fondly. "Do you know, men are like 
 a lot of boys playing marbles. Some one comes along 
 with a new shiny marble, and immediately they all crowd 
 around and want to play with him. If you want to get 
 on in business, you must roll new kinds of marbles into 
 the ring." 
 
 The last thing on earth that Fielding had aspired to in 
 his youthful dreams was the kind of life he was now lead- 
 ing. He had recoiled from the idea of selling anything, 
 yet here he was in the midst of the most furious selling 
 effort ever developed in American industries, and was 
 acquitting himself with distinction. The fetters of a 
 factory had killed his father; but Fielding grew strong 
 in his chains. He traveled for weeks at a time, cultivating 
 dealers, adjusting their complaints, removing their 
 grievances, harnessing them together into closer team- 
 work with the factory. He drank with them at their 
 clubs and at bars, listened to their stories, visited with 
 their families. 
 
 He did not like the work. But it fascinated him be- 
 cause he was making a success of it. It was interesting 
 to get a defiant dealer to agree with him. He soon de- 
 veloped the knack of knowing how to talk to all sorts 
 of men. 
 
 "I wish we had more chaps like that man Glinden," said 
 Bennett one day to Wayland Emmett. "He's got an easy, 
 confidence-inspiring way about him. Our dealers all like 
 him. He's got the drive of a bullet, but he's level-headed. 
 Give him more money. Keep him satisfied."
 
 96 GOLD SHOD 
 
 Fielding had now been with the company for nearly 
 three years. He was earning five thousand dollars a year, 
 drove a Bennett touring car, and lived in bachelor apart- 
 ments on Jefferson Avenue. 
 
 He had discovered the real Bennett to be an amazing 
 composite of blandness and fiery temper, of bursts of 
 generosity and headstrong tyranny, of impatience and 
 farsighted cunning, of ability to build and passion to dis- 
 rupt. Of the original organization that Fielding had 
 joined, there now remained only Bennett, Newendyke, 
 and Wayland Emmett of the executives. Two chief 
 engineers had quit. One vice-president had leaped out of 
 a ten-story window of a Detroit hotel to his death on 
 the sidewalk. Another had started a company of his 
 own. A third had been expelled like a school-boy after a 
 row with Bennett. Kram had run himself to pieces after 
 women. The new vice-president was a fawning, efficient 
 little fellow, the son of a Toledo saloon-keeper. Adver- 
 tising managers had come and gone like streaks. An 
 angry agency head had come to Detroit with his lawyer 
 and attached the whole plant to recover damages for a 
 cancelled contract. 
 
 One year the Bennett car was an excellent product; 
 the next year the high-speed engine beat itself to pieces 
 and a hundred dealers quit in disgust; the present year's 
 car was again a sound piece of machinery. During the 
 year of the bad engine, Fielding's good work among the 
 dealers had delighted Bennett so that he presented Field- 
 ing with a block of the Company's stock. 
 
 Fielding had seen much of Beth Early during this time. 
 Her steadying influence had kept him moving forward at 
 times when he felt an impulse to rush screaming out of 
 the tense organization and turn his back forever upon the 
 straining life of this business. Beth had watched his 
 advancement with satisfaction. Her mother had chirped 
 delightedly about it. Fielding had grown to be a familiar 
 figure about their home. His car swung often into their 
 street. But the date of their marriage still remained un-
 
 GOLD SHOD 97 
 
 determined. This opened sinister doors of desire, and led 
 to occasional brief, impetuous intrigues. He found him- 
 self hotly attracted to certain women because they were 
 primarily fine young animals. These desires 'would burst 
 suddenly into flame, rage briefly, and then go out. They 
 did not usually require a high degree of culture, refine- 
 ment, or mentality in a woman. Social background acted 
 as an inhibitive force. But he confined most of his furtive 
 affairs to single episodes.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE damp sidewalks had a look of spring. The 
 January drizzle soon stopped, leaving a melting 
 challenge in the air. Through the New York streets 
 moved faint breezes borrowed from the Gulf Stream, 
 adding a salty fragrance to the smell of gasoline that 
 poured from the exhausts of innumerable motors. The 
 streets were banked with beaming cliffs of lights. A 
 billion electric globes blossomed in theater-entrances, 
 shops, and gargantuan signs vertical acres of amber, 
 rivers of blue, gulleys of green, and ridges of rose. At 
 the base of these glowing cliffs and hollows were yellow 
 lights moving forward in pairs and ruby lights receding 
 singly the lights of the cars. 
 
 The titles of plays and names of players shone in points 
 of fire along Broadway and its tributaries, looming in 
 crests of romance above the levels of reality. Into the 
 doors of the theaters had streamed the nightly crowds, 
 seeking revelations of themselves, seeking to forget them- 
 selves in dramatic flashes from other lives. 
 
 Long before the final curtain of one of the perform- 
 ances, Fielding Glinden left the theater. The romantic 
 comedy had made him painfully aware of abandoned 
 tendencies, of brave impulses left unpursued. Plays often 
 affected him thus, disclosing debts to himself that re- 
 mained unpaid. The mild spring-like air added to his 
 restlessness and discontent, carried him back to moments 
 in past springs when he had taken account of himself 
 and always found himself wanting. 
 
 The elasticity of twenty-eight was in his stride. In his 
 gray eyes was a look of troubled questioning and inde- 
 cision. He was wishing to God that he had not gone to 
 the theater to-night, or else that he had not gone alone. 
 
 98
 
 GOLD SHOD 99 
 
 A companion to talk to might have kept these unwelcome 
 impulses from leaping at him out of the ambush of sup- 
 pression. 
 
 New York was vastly seductive to him to-night. The 
 streets seemed charged with the consolidated desires of 
 their crowds. The loves and hates and quests of its 
 multitudes streamed through him in a rousing rhythm. 
 Its bouquets of lights floated before him like rekindled 
 apparitions of longings that he had thrust away from 
 him, and forgotten reveries revived. He felt as he had 
 felt before pledging himself to marry Beth Early. 
 
 An entirely different life was calling out to him in dis- 
 turbing cadences. He cast searching backward glances 
 into his life ; it seemed that he had always been on the 
 verge of important decisions and on the point of flank 
 movements that would have carried him into quiet worlds 
 of reflection, into longed-for quests, but he had never 
 quite been ready to heed the inward word or to embark 
 upon the voyage. 
 
 He wondered if even his persistent thirst for sexual 
 adventure was not a symbol of the hunger of a spirit 
 walled in and repressed. He remembered feeling cast 
 down rather than elated when promotion had carried him 
 deeper into the life of the factory ; he was accomplishing 
 what he did not want and was moving in directions foreign 
 to the insistent voices that spoke to him and sang. To- 
 night their faintness gathered strength and magic. Sud- 
 denly he felt like a harp that might be played if he could 
 only set himself free. 
 
 He realized with a startled sense of morbid humiliation 
 that he had become a hoop in Beth's hands, rolling in the 
 single direction of her desire; he was no longer himself. 
 It was unlike him to be a shrewd executive, driving him- 
 self and his subordinates, courting the favor of his su- 
 periors, jamming a wedge into the heart of competition. 
 He sat at that desk because a woman wanted him to ; he 
 was living her life at that desk, not his own. 
 
 Many times during the week's automobile show, he had
 
 100 GOLD SHOD 
 
 felt lost and out of place at Grand Central Palace, with 
 its bazaar of glistening exhibits, its displays of new makes 
 of cars and accessories, the swarms of dealers, sales con- 
 ferences, and watchful strategies. He was glad the thing 
 was over for another year. He hoped he would never 
 have to attend it again. He was sick of these crowds of 
 automobile men, this handshaking, this boasting and 
 bragging, this incessant enterprise. 
 
 It seemed to him that he ought to be hunting other 
 streets and abodes places more plain and friendly than 
 his imposing hotel, places of books and poets. Thoughts 
 of his old scrapbooks came back to him, of the wise and 
 kindly faces that filled them. He was comparing those 
 remembered faces with those of the men who surrounded 
 him in business crafty, willful faces ; hard, solemn coun- 
 tenances; puffy faces of prospering distributors and 
 dealers. 
 
 Was it right to let Beth usurp his strength and youth 
 and make him dart forward like a hoop every time she 
 tapped? A volley of longings besieged him. His face 
 grew stern with daring and desire. His body glowed. 
 
 He was seized by an almost over-powering impulse to 
 flee from this life and this woman and their grasps. Other 
 voices whispered and sang and called to him, voices of 
 gold and velvet. His restlessness expanded into a great 
 distraction. Worlds of beauty hovered near him, com- 
 pounded of remembered harmonies improvised by the fore- 
 father and of blinding yearnings of his own. The 
 elasticity of his youth yielded to the pressure of the mood, 
 as if developing the sudden power to project him bodily 
 into these worlds that called. His brain burned with a 
 glorious fever. 
 
 He had reached the lobby of the hotel. Habit took 
 him to the desk for his mail. 
 
 A telegram was handed him. It ran: 
 
 THINGS IN MESS HERE CAN WE BE MARRIED AT 
 ONCE WIRE ANSWER. YOURS ENDLESSLY BETH
 
 GOLD SHOD 101 
 
 As Fielding read the terse intelligence, his daring and 
 desire ebbed away. Detroit loomed once more like an 
 ambush surrounding him, cutting off flight or retreat. 
 He had gone too far. It was too late to change his course. 
 
 He crossed to the telegraph desk and sent the following 
 reply: 
 
 ARRIVE DETROIT THREE TO-MORROW AFTERNOON 
 BE READY FOR CEREMONY A WORLD OF LOVE 
 
 FIELDING 
 
 During Fielding's return to Detroit, he felt that what 
 was about to happen was inevitable; he was in the grasp 
 of circumstances stronger than any will or impulse of his 
 own. It seemed ages ago since he had stood poised upon 
 the verge of other pursuits and other worlds at the mo- 
 ment when the summons from Beth had reached him. 
 
 He wondered what had happened to Beth to cause this 
 abrupt and peremptory call. It was unlike her to send 
 for him like this. But he had seen enough of her mother 
 and of Ellis, her step-father, to know that they had their 
 periods of wrangling. 
 
 On his arrival in Detroit, Fielding drove at once to the 
 Pontchartrain through streets gray with slush. Thick 
 mists blew off the river. He went to a telephone booth 
 and called up Beth. 
 
 "Hello, Fielding," began Beth with relief. "I'm so glad 
 you came." 
 
 "What's been the trouble?" 
 
 "I'll tell \ T ou when I see you." 
 
 "I'll run right up to the house." 
 
 "No, I'd rather you wouldn't," she replied. "I'll go 
 down-town." 
 
 "Then I'll send my car for you." 
 
 "If you please, dear." 
 
 "At what time?" 
 
 "At once, please. " 
 
 Beth reached the hotel, apparently calm, but her
 
 102 GOLD SHOD 
 
 grayish-blue eyes had trouble in them. She wore a new- 
 tailored suit of blue, trimmed with squirrel, and a close- 
 fitting hat to match. She was nearly as tall as Fielding. 
 Looking at the pale beauty of her face, Fielding recalled 
 almost with a sense of shock that beneath these sensitive, 
 exquisite surfaces lay coiled calculating ambitions that 
 would rather beat themselves to pieces than yield to 
 opposition. 
 
 "I never saw you look so beautiful,'* said Fielding. 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 "One would take you for a bride," he added, kissing her. 
 
 The wintry touch of her lips, and the faint April 
 fragrance of her body revived his trepidation at their 
 first meeting. 
 
 "I hated to send for you in this unceremonious way," 
 Beth said. 
 
 "I'm glad you did. What happened at home?" 
 
 "Mother is having one of her periodic emotional out- 
 bursts. She can't make up her mind whether to remain 
 with Mr. Ellis, or divorce him." 
 
 "Is it as bad as that?" 
 
 "It's largely mother's fault. She is terribly touchy, 
 hysterical, and unreasonable. She ought to control her- 
 self. She isn't very well. But I can't stand it to live 
 in that atmosphere. I wish to Heaven her husband had 
 character enough to manage her. I'm sick and tired. 
 I simply had to wire you." 
 
 "You were quite right. We have waited too long al- 
 ready. Come, we'll get a license," said Fielding decisively. 
 
 "I'm ready," said Beth. 
 
 It was a shock to her to enter marriage like this. 
 She had dreamed of more formal, unhurried preparations, 
 a carefully selected trousseau, a church wedding. The 
 reality was a jolt to her expectations. 
 
 It gave Fielding pleasure to reflect that he was doing 
 Beth a service by now marrying her quickly. Hitherto 
 it had seemed that she was doing more for him than he for 
 her.
 
 GOLD SHOD 103 
 
 After obtaining their license, they went to a jeweler 
 and selected a narrow circle of diamonds, imbedded in 
 platinum. And an hour later, in the rectory of the ca- 
 thedral, in the presence of Wayland Emmett and his wife, 
 they were married. 
 
 "Do you think we've made a mistake?" demanded Beth 
 when they were driving away. 
 
 "We certainly have not," said Fielding with decision. 
 
 It was the first time that he had known her to look to 
 him for decisions and support. 
 
 They went to Atlantic City, expecting to spend their 
 honeymoon there. But the seashore was somber at that 
 time of year. The roll of the smoky waves was depress- 
 ing. The sea brought back to Beth the impact of memories 
 of her father's vanquished hopes and beaten efforts. This 
 ocean that rolled before her had been the goal of his striv- 
 ing: his ships that sailed the Great Lakes had only 
 whetted his hunger to build ships for the ocean. He had 
 wanted to live to see his ships encircle the whole world. 
 Over his charts, and atlases, his globes and models of 
 full-rigged schooners, Beth had pored with him as a 
 little girl. 
 
 There persisted in her an unwaning impression of what 
 ambitions, horizons, and longings for achievement had 
 obsessed Carter Early. She comprehended now what a 
 solitary figure he had been, how remote from the wife 
 who had neither cared enough nor had mental stature 
 enough to go with him on his long sea-ways of aspira- 
 tion, and what a comfort she herself must have been to 
 him both in the days of his rise and in the hours of his 
 fall. 
 
 "Thinking of your father?" asked Fielding, as they 
 stepped briskly along the Boardwalk. 
 
 "Yes. How did you know?" 
 
 "The ocean." 
 
 "A hundred times he must have traced for me on his 
 charts the course of his first voyage around the world
 
 104 GOLD SHOD 
 
 when he was a boy," said Beth. A mystic look smoul- 
 dered in her eyes for a moment. "Maybe he's sailing his 
 beloved seas. Do you believe in that sort of thing?" 
 
 "It's possible." 
 
 "Mother never understood him," continued Beth. "She 
 couldn't understand his contempt for society. She was 
 afraid of him he was so strong and hard." 
 
 In a few days they went to New York for the remain- 
 der of their honeymoon. New York's tremendous vitality, 
 its impatient go, its finish, its force and strength and 
 multitude of efforts filled Beth with enthusiasm. Visions 
 of large affairs centering in impressive offices replaced 
 her visions of decks and roving sails, massive funnels and 
 pilot rooms, shipyards and shipbuilders. Hopes for her 
 husband's future replaced the memories of her father's 
 failure. 
 
 "Some day we shall live in New York," said Fielding. 
 
 "We must," Beth replied. 
 
 Fielding looked earnestly at his wife ; he was proud of 
 her determination to share in great deeds. He com- 
 pared her with the women all about them, the showy spend- 
 thrifts of the hotels and the Avenue, and counted himself 
 fortunate. 
 
 At the theater, at the opera, Beth continued to think 
 of New York in terms of consolidations of large activities. 
 But Fielding thought of entirely different things in the 
 presence of great music and impressive acting. These 
 carried him into another world. They brought back to 
 him the whole tantalizing realm in which lie had lived 
 before entering the world of motor cars, and he gave way 
 to the overwhelming blandishments of art. Held in the 
 spell of symphonies, he was carried away by their radiances 
 of sound. He was ensnared and transfixed by fine nuances. 
 Luminous allegros ran like melting fire through his tis- 
 sues. The grasp of Beth's influence upon him loosened; 
 he became Anton, he became Ames; he felt that nothing 
 on earth was important but beauty. 
 
 Once, when he strode through West Seventy-second
 
 GOLD SHOD 105 
 
 Street, on the way to an appointment, he was arrested 
 by scales and arpeggios rippling from the windows of 
 studios and conservatories. Suddenly he felt in the pres- 
 ence of his own people sending their cries to gods who 
 were also his gods. Other gods appeared cold and life- 
 less. He responded electrically to the language that 
 poured from these windows. It made him recall impulses 
 that had peopled his dreams, that he had driven into hid- 
 ing. Could they never be wholly dismissed? Would 
 their ghosts never cease coming back to him like lovely 
 apparitions to woo him? 
 
 In the subway, he saw young women with music rolls, 
 others engrossed in novels. He saw an actress on the way 
 to a rehearsal memorizing the "sides" of her part. He 
 observed a pale young fellow with a bundle of manuscript 
 under his arm, perhaps a play he was peddling. A young 
 foreigner clasped his violin case. Fielding felt incompar- 
 rably nearer to these people than to the manufacturers of 
 automobiles among whom he moved. 
 
 Another time when Beth stopped for a fitting at a 
 Fifth Avenue shop, Fielding wandered into an art shop 
 nearby. In it he spent a memorable half hour, admir- 
 ing the work of a minor painter. The subjects were 
 chiefly landscapes, placid tonal studies of woodland glades, 
 warm meadows, gray lanes, ancient barns wrapped in the 
 pearly glow of March mornings. There was nothing in 
 these pictures to stop the crowds, nothing to stimulate 
 high bids. The spectacular harshness of blaring mod- 
 ernism was wanting in their unobtrusive poetic intent. 
 Fielding gathered from overhead bits of conversation be- 
 tween the dealer and a shy youth, that the latter had 
 painted these things. Fielding swiftly constructed his 
 supposed background of the artist a bare studio in some 
 old building, infrequent sales, meager prices when a few 
 canvases did sell. Fielding envied him. 
 
 "What's the price of that sunset?" asked Fielding, in- 
 dicating one of the sketches. 
 
 "Only forty dollars," responded the dealer.
 
 106 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "I'll take it." 
 
 Upon the Glindens' return to their hotel, the sketch had 
 been delivered. Fielding unwrapped it. 
 
 "I have acquired a little object of art," he said. "What 
 do you think of it?" 
 
 Beth surveyed it without interest. 
 
 "It's well drawn," she remarked. "But it's so melan- 
 choly. It gives me the blues. Did someone wish it on 
 you?" 
 
 "No, I bought it." 
 
 "What did you pay for it?" 
 
 "Forty dollars." 
 
 "Forty dollars! I suppose some starving artist has 
 been preying upon your sympathies." 
 
 "Not at all. I'd give a good deal to be able to paint 
 that." 
 
 Beth looked at him for a moment with incredulous eyes.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 DETROIT had a peculiar effect upon Beth on their 
 return. As their taxi carried them away from the 
 station, past the wintry ball grounds, orange-colored trol- 
 ley cars, shabby buildings, gasoline stations, and familiar 
 sign-boards, Fielding's wife grew silent. 
 
 A furnished apartment had been placed at their disposal 
 by an officer of the Bennett Company who was away for 
 a month with his family. Breakfast was on the table 
 a few minutes after they entered. 
 
 "This is great," said Fielding. "It begins to look like 
 home at last." 
 
 Beth, attempting to smile, burst into tears. 
 
 "What's the matter? Are you ill?" exclaimed Fielding, 
 going to her side. 
 
 "Don't be cross. I can't endure it!" 
 
 Fielding stood looking at her in bewilderment. He 
 could not understand her outburst, did not know what 
 to make of it, nor how to comfort her. He sensed some- 
 thing hostile toward him in her nature; he imagined that 
 prior to this, she had been playing a part, and that this 
 was her real self. More than once he had suspected that 
 she tolerated him only for the sake of what she might 
 make of him in his business. And a sense of sudden re- 
 sentment entered him. 
 
 "Is it painful to be back in town? Is that it?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She shook her head. "There was no sense in being in 
 such a hurry. We practically eloped," she answered 
 tremulously. 
 
 "You wanted it that way." 
 
 "I knew you'd blame me." 
 
 107
 
 108 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "I'm not blaming you. For heaven's sake don't get 
 that into your head, Beth. I think it's the most sensible 
 thing that could possibly have happened. These musical 
 comedy marriages make me sick." 
 
 Beth crossed to the window and stood beside the frosty 
 pane, weeping. 
 
 Fielding looked at her gravely, his features sagging 
 under the weight of his depression. 
 
 "I'm sorry I've made you so unhappy," he said. 
 
 "It's nothing you've done." She saw the look on his 
 face. "Don't feel badly. It isn't your fault." 
 
 In his dealings with Beth, Fielding had always been 
 aware of a restraint that he did not feel in his relations 
 with other women. She did not stimulate him emotionally, 
 did not invite the sort of banter that he enjoyed. And 
 now, more than ever, he was at a loss how to address her. 
 
 "It's an awful strain you've been through," he con- 
 tinued. "Getting married must be a nightmare to a 
 girl. You'll feel better when we begin to get our own 
 things." 
 
 "Don't bother about me," she said drearily. 
 
 "I don't suppose I measure up very high in your esti- 
 mation," he said. "You're superior to me. It would 
 have been better if you had married some one who didn't 
 have his way to make. Sometimes I feel as if I had foisted 
 myself upon you." 
 
 "Don't worry about me," returned Beth, trying again 
 to smile. 
 
 The beginnings of Beth's sex life had been a shock to 
 her, an unromantic disillusionment. For all her educa- 
 tion and her modern reading, this essence of marriage was 
 nothing like what she had anticipated. Her amazing ig- 
 norance of the physical facts of marriage astounded 
 Fielding. He had approached marriage with intuitive 
 forebodings, wishing its first year might have been skipped. 
 His companionship with women sexually sophisticated had 
 left him with no desire for intimacy with women unini- 
 tiated. The so-called purity of women had never enticed
 
 GOLD SHOD 109 
 
 him. He had even wished that Beth might have come 
 to him less of a novice. 
 
 What followed had amply justified his misgivings. The 
 factor of sex had become a barrier between them instead 
 of a bond. Inhibition began its work in Fielding, and 
 abstinence had largely characterized their honeymoon. 
 But even this held its perils, since it gave Beth the idea 
 that he did not love her. To-day's hysterical outburst 
 was one of its results, but Fielding did not know enough 
 about women to perceive this. 
 
 "I won't leave you to-day," he said. "They can get 
 along without me at the factory." 
 
 "Don't be foolish," objected Beth. "Finish your break- 
 fast, and go on to work. You've got too much to accomp- 
 lish. I'll be all right. Mother and I are going shop- 
 ping." 
 
 This absence of any magnetism of sex disturbed Field- 
 ing, for he had relied upon marriage to restrain his es- 
 tablished weakness for women. 
 
 One day, while he was making a purchase at the cigar 
 and flower stand in one of the down-town office buildings, 
 a familiar voice greeted him from across the counter. 
 
 "Where have you been all this time, cutie?" asked the 
 girl behind the counter ; and then he recognized her as the 
 girl of the salmon-hued hat he had met at the Tuller. 
 
 "Greetings," answered Fielding, aware of a pleasant 
 thrill from the other's soft finger-tips as they placed his 
 change in his hand. "I lost your address and didn't 
 know where to look for you. What's your telephone num- 
 ber?" 
 
 She told him. 
 
 "And whom shall I ask for?" 
 
 "Peg Sheehan." 
 
 "I'll call you up some time, Peggie," he said.. 
 
 "Well, you'd better!" 
 
 Fielding Glinden entered his apartment soberly.
 
 110 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "How did everything go at the office to-day?" asked 
 Beth anxiously. 
 
 "Like a cyclone," he answered. 
 
 "What happened?" 
 
 "Bennett's off on another rampage. Newendyke, the 
 general manager, told Bennett to go to hell, and then 
 resigned. Emmett was discharged and expects to go to 
 Cleveland with that new motor crowd I told you about. 
 He wants me to go with him. Would you go to Cleve- 
 land?" 
 
 Beth shook her head. 
 
 "They've got a wad of money. They're going to build 
 a better light six than anything now on the market. It's 
 a real temptation." 
 
 "What would it mean for you?" 
 
 "At least the salary I'm getting here. I'd continue 
 as Emmett's first assistant." 
 
 "Have you no ambition, Fielding? What's the idea of 
 this assistant business?" 
 
 "Nobody has offered me the presidency of any large 
 and affluent corporation," he said a trifle sullenly. 
 
 "And nobody ever will. Presidencies aren't peddled 
 about that way. Do you think people ran wildly to Ben- 
 nett offering him the presidency of a company?" 
 
 "No, I don't suppose they did." 
 
 "You know they didn't." 
 
 "On the other hand, I am not exactly in a position to 
 organize a company of my own. One has to know some- 
 thing of manufacturing. And it requires rather large 
 quantities of money and credit." 
 
 "You say Newendyke has quit?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why couldn't you step in there as general manager?" 
 
 Fielding laughed. 
 
 "Is there anything funny about it?" asked Beth. 
 
 "You're not serious?" 
 
 "Quite." 
 
 "But I don't know anything about manufacturing.
 
 GOLD SHOD 111 
 
 The man who holds down that job has to make decisions 
 on all kinds of subjects. He's got to know how to handle 
 men. He's got to have a reputation and a record." 
 
 "With all these men quitting, Mr. Bennett probably 
 doesn't know which way to turn." 
 
 "No doubt." 
 
 "What he needs right now is some one he can rely on 
 and depend upon. He likes you. He likes the way you 
 do things. He can't do any more than turn you down. 
 He certainly didn't let Newendyke run the business for 
 him, did he?" 
 
 "Hardly." 
 
 "He simply expects a general manager to carry out 
 his own methods and plans. The main thing is to find 
 some one he likes and trusts," argued Beth. 
 
 Fielding had known that Beth was ambitious, that her 
 eyes were on big things. But he was unprepared for her 
 quick thinking and persuasive reasoning, in this instance. 
 
 "You are ambitious, aren't you?" he said admiringly. 
 
 "Savagely ambitious," she said. 
 
 There was a metallic gleam in her eyes. Her placid 
 beauty made a singular contrast with the force of will 
 behind it. 
 
 "You really want me to talk to Bennett ?" 
 
 "More than I've ever wanted anything else before." 
 
 "But it's foolhardy. He'd snort." 
 
 "Are you afraid?" 
 
 "I don't want to make an ass of myself." 
 
 "You won't. He'll like you all the better for making 
 the effort." 
 
 "I'll talk to him if you want me to." 
 
 "You will?" she said, embracing him. 
 
 He stood holding her in his arms, curiously aware that 
 something new had awakened in her. 
 
 "You love me, don't you, Fielding?" she asked. 
 
 "Adore you," he said, trying to feel the same thrill 
 he had felt the other day when he received his change 
 from Peggy's finger-tips.
 
 112 GOLD SHOD 
 
 Bennett was in a formidable mood when Fielding en- 
 tered his office the next morning. He barely looked up 
 from his pile of mail. 
 
 "Good-by," he said curtly. 
 
 "I didn't come in here to say good-by," returned 
 Fielding cheerfully. 
 
 "All right. You can't hurt my feelings by beating it 
 without saying good-by." 
 
 Bennett resumed his reading, ignoring the other's pres- 
 ence. 
 
 "I want to talk to you," said Fielding. 
 
 "There's not a damn thing to talk about." 
 
 "Yes, there is." 
 
 "Your friend Emmett has raised hell around here." 
 
 "I'm sorry." 
 
 "I'm not. Glad to be rid of that ingrate," said Ben- 
 nett. On his pink face was a look of boyish petulance. 
 His lips curled derisively. 
 
 "I know how you feel." 
 
 "I feel like letting out a yell of relief to see the whole 
 gang of you get out of here." 
 
 "Don't include me." 
 
 "Why not? Emmett says he's taking you along to 
 Cleveland." 
 
 "Emmett doesn't know what he's talking about. I 
 haven't the slightest intention of going to Cleveland. 
 Detroit's good enough for me. And the Bennett Motor 
 Company is good enough for me." 
 
 "Oh, is that so !" growled Bennett ungraciously. 
 
 "Mr. Bennett, you've been a mighty good friend of mine. 
 You've got what these other fellows haven't got, and 
 you're the one man in this business that I want to tie 
 to." 
 
 "Do you know what they're saying about me?" 
 
 "I don't care what they're saying about you." 
 
 "I've had it said to me for years. They've told me to 
 my face, not once, but a dozen times, that I'm not on 
 the level, that I say one thing and do another, that I run
 
 GOLD SHOD 113 
 
 wild, that I can't hold good men, that they can't get me 
 in writing, that I'm a petty egotist " 
 
 "You know how to build cars. You know how to sell 
 cars." 
 
 "You're damn right I do," exclaimed Bennett, inhaling 
 chestily. 
 
 "That's what interests me." 
 
 "And that's all that interests me. They've fought me 
 like tigers not only competition on the outside, but my 
 own organization on the inside. The hell with all of them ! 
 I build cars and I sell cars. And I'll live to spit on the 
 graves of my enemies." 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "A cyclone has hit this place. There's just one shanty 
 left standing. You're it." 
 
 "Thank you," said Fielding. "But there's only one 
 way that I want to stay here. I'll stay as Mr. Newen- 
 dyke's successor." 
 
 Bennett glared. 
 
 "You'll stay as what?" he shouted. 
 
 "As Newendyke's successor. Mr. Bennett, I came in 
 here three years ago with a single aim to get just as near 
 to the top as I could. Things have happened faster than 
 I thought they ever would. The time has come for me 
 to do some talking. I want to be your general manager." 
 
 "You've got an awful nerve to say that to me." 
 
 "A man's got to have an awful nerve to sit at a desk 
 like that under you." 
 
 "I guess you're right." 
 
 "It takes nerve, courage, and the ability to stand up 
 under punishment without wincing, whining, or weaken- 
 ing." 
 
 "I punish 'em," said Bennett. 
 
 "That suits me. Have you anybody in mind for New- 
 endyke's job?" 
 
 "Haven't had a chance to think. But the man who 
 sits at that desk is going to know more about manufac- 
 turing than I do."
 
 114 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "No man who knows more about manufacturing than 
 you do would come in here," retorted Fielding. "I doubt 
 whether he exists. And if he does exist, he couldn't work 
 with you." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because you know exactly what you want to do and 
 how you want to do it. The only possible general man- 
 ager is the kind who believes in you, respects you, and is 
 willing and able to go right along with you, carry out 
 what you want, get action. He's got to be able to grasp 
 what you're driving at and grasp it quick. He's got 
 to follow through fast and hard. If you get a stranger 
 in here, you've got to educate him, curb him, kick him 
 into submission. It would be a job. I know the ins 
 and outs of the selling methods here like a book. I've 
 originated more of them than you have any idea of. I've 
 put in the whole follow-up division. I've been poking 
 around in the service department, and I know something 
 about that, I've got a service scheme that will delight 
 every dealer. I've talked to dealers about the used car 
 situation until I know it back end to. I'm working out 
 a plan now that will make every used car on the road 
 an asset to us instead of a liability. I've forced the legal 
 department to make changes in our warranty clause that 
 have saved you a lot of money. I've been burrowing into 
 this thing from a dozen different angles. If you want 
 a general manager who can get things done around here, 
 you'd better appoint me. What do you say?" 
 
 Bennett shook his head. "I should say not," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "What do you take me for?" 
 
 "A shrewd business man." 
 
 "I like your gall," said Bennett thoughtfully. "Maybe 
 what you say about yourself is true and maybe it isn't. 
 But you're too young. I've got to get some older men in 
 here men who can command some respect." 
 
 "You're making a mistake," said Fielding.
 
 GOLD SHOD 115 
 
 "I don't care whether I am or not." 
 
 Fielding drove thoughtfully home after the interview; 
 he was glad that he had put the proposition to Bennett. 
 He felt closer to Beth as a result of the effort, and he felt 
 subtly changed; he felt that he had relinquished some 
 weakness of his own, had assimilated some strength of 
 Beth's. 
 
 Beth greeted him expectantly. 
 
 "Did you talk to Bennett?" she inquired. 
 
 "Yes, I went after him." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "He said : 'I should say not.' " 
 
 "Didn't you try to talk him into it?" 
 
 "I tried hard to sell myself. I nearly knocked him out 
 of his chair." 
 
 Fielding recounted what had been said. Beth's eyes 
 shone as she listened; this was the kind of action that 
 stirred and excited her. 
 
 "You did exactly right," she said with satisfaction. 
 
 "Still, it puts me in a sort of embarrassing position. 
 Having told Bennett that I'd stay with him only as gen- 
 eral manager, I can't very gracefully stay as anything 
 else, and certainly not in my old position," said Fielding. 
 
 "Well, we're not going to Cleveland." 
 
 "Then what do you suggest?" 
 
 "Make no move of any kind for a while. Just stay 
 where you are and go right along with your work as 
 though nothing had happened," counseled Beth reflectively. 
 
 "But I've got to be figuring on something else." 
 
 "Don't make any move right now." 
 
 "I can't let Bennett think it was a bluff. He never 
 would get through riding me." 
 
 Beth gave her husband a penetrating look. Suddenly 
 she said: 
 
 "Fielding, for God's sake, are you going to be stub- 
 born !" 
 
 "Stubborn? What do you mean?" 
 
 "It's one of the things I can't stand."
 
 116 GOLD SHOD 
 
 A week passed, and no successor to Emmett or Newen- 
 dyke had been appointed. Upon Fielding piled the work 
 of the sales department; he assumed the responsibility of 
 initiative and decisions in his department. Bennett did 
 not call him in, and Fielding made no effort to obtain an 
 audience. 
 
 Toward the close of the second week, Bennett sent for 
 Fielding. The old disarming, uncommunicative look was 
 on the president's face. 
 
 "Sit down," said Bennett. "Who's been running the 
 sales department for the last two weeks?'* 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "Who told you to go ahead and make decisions?" 
 
 "My common sense told me to go ahead. I'm the rank- 
 ing head of the department. Every decision I've made 
 has been strictly in line with the policies of this company. 
 Unless I'm in doubt, I never ask some one else to decide 
 for me." 
 
 "I'm glad to see you using your head. I hate a man 
 who runs in here every few minutes to ask me what to do. 
 I've had people running in here like lunatics for the last 
 two weeks trying to find out what the hell to do. I've 
 been keeping an eye on your work. You seem to be pretty 
 good. You seem to know how to keep your head. I'm 
 going to give you the title of sales manager of this 
 company." 
 
 Fielding was secretly pleased, but strove not to show 
 it. Instead, he shook his head. 
 
 "I had everything but the title before I walked into your 
 office, Mr. Bennett," he said. "The title isn't anything 
 to me. And the job isn't anything. The only thing 
 that interests me is the general managership of the com- 
 pany." 
 
 "Well, what of it?" 
 
 "I can't recede from that position," said Fielding. 
 
 "And I can't fall for it." 
 
 "It would save you a lot of money, a lot of experiment-
 
 GOLD SHOD 117 
 
 ing, waste of time, and grief to appoint me general man- 
 ager," returned Fielding. 
 
 The interview was over. 
 
 That afternoon Bennett issued an office memorandum, 
 notifying his organization that Fielding Glindeu was ap- 
 pointed sales manager. 
 
 "Bennett's appointed me sales manager,'* Fielding 
 told Beth. "It wasn't what I wanted. I want to be 
 general manager or nothing. What would you do?" 
 
 "It's one step anyway," said Beth reflectively. "It 
 shows that he has confidence in you. Accept the appoint- 
 ment." 
 
 "But it gives Bennett the upper hand. It doesn't leave 
 me much of a leg to stand on. He gets his way and I 
 don't get mine." 
 
 "Well, let him know that you're taking this position 
 under protest," continued Beth. "Give him to under- 
 stand that you're doing this as a favor to him." 
 
 "That's not a bad idea." 
 
 The Ellises called that evening and were delighted to 
 hear of Fielding's promotion, and fell avidly upon the 
 subject. It gave them something to get their minds on, 
 something to think about besides their ailments and mis- 
 understandings. Ellis rubbed his fat little hands enthu- 
 siastically. Beth's mother beamed with her face and 
 beamed with her heavy rings. She looked coyly at her 
 son-in-law and said: 
 
 "I'd pity you, Fielding, if you didn't make rapid 
 progress. Beth has notions of her own of what a man 
 ought to accomplish." 
 
 "She even tried to get some steam into me," said Ellis. 
 
 "No one could ever pump any steam into you," said his 
 wife. 
 
 "I'm too old and too gay a dog to fall for this modern 
 efficiency." 
 
 "You are far too gay a dog," said Mrs. Ellis with a 
 pretense of tolerance.
 
 118 GOLD SHOD 
 
 ''My boy," continued Ellis, addressing Fielding, "take 
 the advice of an older man and don't ever let yourself get 
 the reputation of being gay. It's a mistake. Marriage 
 is a very solemn matter. The ideal husband is an un- 
 smiling individual who ushers his wife as far as possible 
 into society, but who discreetly looks neither to the right 
 nor to the left." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, don't be absurd," said Mrs. Ellis. "Field- 
 ing will think I'm an old shrew." 
 
 "It is essential that a husband avoid any appearance of 
 evil," continued Ellis. "Evil itself, of course, is unthink- 
 able. It is the appearance of evil that plays havoc with 
 so many otherwise placid families." 
 
 "To hear you talk, one would think you were the most 
 perfect of men. We weren't back from our honeymoon a 
 fortnight," said Mrs. Ellis, turning to Fielding, "before 
 he was caught lunching with an old sweetheart." 
 
 "It was an unforgettable occasion," replied Ellis. "My 
 wife refuses to let me forget that unfortunate episode. 
 Ever since I have been an object of suspicion. I am 
 suspected of misdemeanors when I am utterly and dis- 
 gustingly innocent. This habit of suspicion seems to fill 
 a woman with joy and gladness.'* 
 
 "What an idea to put into Beth's head !" retorted Mrs. 
 Ellis. 
 
 "I have never known what it was to be jealous," said 
 Beth. 
 
 "Your time hasn't come yet," said her mother. "I 
 pray that it never will." 
 
 "Don't let them alarm you," said Fielding to Beth. 
 
 "If anything does happen, I don't want to know it," 
 she replied lightly. 
 
 Her mother sighed portentously., "That's exactly the 
 way I used to feel."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IT happened in Chicago. Through the open doors and 
 windows of the imposing hotel, warm June breezes were 
 flowing. At half-past ten Fielding, tired out after a day 
 of irritating work at the local Bennett branch, entered 
 the foyer. His eye fell upon a young woman so attrac- 
 tive in appearance that he fairly gasped. As he stood 
 staring at her even features and perfect coloring, his 
 nerves quivered and tightened. 
 
 Presently their eyes met, and he saw her smile. He 
 cast a quick look behind him, but saw no one, and realized 
 that the signal must have been meant for him. It im- 
 pinged upon his nerves like a sparkling hand, making him 
 tingle. 
 
 He crossed to her side. 
 
 "I couldn't tell at first whether you were waiting for 
 me, or for some one else," she said. 
 
 "I was waiting for you," he answered. 
 
 They went to the dining room and found a sequestered 
 table. He sat gazing at her ; she was artistically got up ; 
 she seemed to have culture; he found her utterly charm- 
 ing; she was unlike any woman he had ever found ap- 
 proachable in this informal manner. He was mystified and 
 delighted. Like a brush of gold, she swept his mind 
 free of all thoughts of Beth, of his business, of Detroit. 
 He forgot the past and the future. He asked nothing of 
 life but this thirst-slaking nearness to the beauty of this 
 woman. 
 
 "Stopping here?" he asked. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Are you alone?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 119
 
 120 GOLD SHOD 
 
 He looked at her white young hands, at the astonishing 
 clearness of her skin, and said: "You can't be more 
 than twenty." 
 
 "Twenty-three." 
 
 "Is it possible? I'm glad you're not as young as I 
 thought," he returned, thinking of the dangerous direc- 
 tion into which they were rushing. 
 
 "Did you think I was a child?'* 
 
 "I think of you only as adorable and perfect." 
 
 "I'm glad you like me," she said naively. 
 
 Fielding found himself wondering whether Beth could 
 have set a trap for him. He had heard of wives doing 
 that. 
 
 "You madden me," he said. "If I thought you were 
 only flirting with me, I'd " 
 
 "You'd what?" 
 
 "I might wring your marvelous neck." 
 
 "Oh, how ferocious !" she laughed. 
 
 "Are you free this evening?" 
 
 "My aunt expects me." 
 
 "You said you were alone," said Glinden. 
 
 "I'm stopping with my aunt." 
 
 "Telephone her that you have run on to some one 
 some school-girl friend." 
 
 "Not now. Some other time, maybe," she said. 
 
 "I shan't be in town more than a few days. I've got 
 to see you again. When can I?" 
 
 "I don't know. I'll see." 
 
 "To-morrow?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "You like me, don't you ?" he demanded. 
 
 "Yes, very much," she answered, looking at him steadily 
 out of dark eyes that seemed incomparable to him at that 
 agitated moment. 
 
 Fielding ordered a taxi. It bore them south in Michi- 
 gan Avenue, through the humid warmth of the summer 
 night. 
 
 "Where shall I tell him to drive to?" he asked.
 
 GOLD SHOD 121 
 
 "Down Drexel Avenue," she said. 
 
 Fielding took her moist hand and enveloped it in his. 
 
 "You're the most intoxicating creature I ever knew," 
 he declared. "I'd rather have met you to-night than any 
 one else in the world. I never knew before that it was 
 possible for any one to affect me like this." 
 
 "Don't talk to me like that ; it scares me." 
 
 "Why, because you don't like me?" 
 
 "No, because I do." 
 
 "It's fascinating of you to say that. Don't be afraid. 
 I'm not a common roue." 
 
 "I know you're not." 
 
 "I wouldn't look twice at most women. But I could 
 follow you about like a slave. You enter my eyes like 
 magic liquor. Thank God I didn't meet you before; if 
 I had, this couldn't have happened to me to-night. I've 
 got to have you." 
 
 Fielding's companion closed her eyes and trembled. 
 
 "Then why don't you take me?" she asked. 
 
 During the two nights and the day that followed 
 Fielding abandoned everything, neglected everything but 
 this amazing companion. He made no effort to control 
 or arrest the forces that bore him on; he acted without 
 misgivings or regrets. He found something pagan and 
 splendid in their spontaneous union. 
 
 "You're not going to feel sorry that this happened?" 
 she said to him once, finding him thoughtful. 
 
 "I couldn't possibly feel sorry, I never wanted anything 
 to happen more. I was thinking of something else," he 
 replied. 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 "That I can't give you up." 
 
 "This can't go on," she answered. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "You have your life to live. I have mine. You're 
 married, aren't you?" 
 
 "Are you?"
 
 122 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "I've been married ever since I was sixteen. My hus- 
 band is devoted to me. He has no idea that anything like 
 this could ever possibly happen." 
 
 "You're married?" asked Fielding incredulously. 
 "Who is your husband?" 
 
 "Let's not talk about him." 
 
 "But I can't let you go. You're asking something 
 that's impossible. No woman ever affected me as you 
 have." 
 
 "Sweet of you to say that. But I want you to forget 
 me." 
 
 "I never can. Tell me who you are?" 
 
 "It doesn't matter." 
 
 "Where can I find you again? Where can I address 
 you?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "But I want to send you a present what would you 
 like to have?" 
 
 "Nothing at all." 
 
 He pleaded with her, but she pressed her fragrant 
 palm to his lips to stop him. 
 
 "No, you've been very good to me. I think you're 
 charming," she said. 
 
 "You're the strangest woman I ever knew." 
 
 "I don't understand myself." She drew close to him. 
 "Please don't try to understand me. There are times 
 when I can't hold myself in check. And there are times 
 when I nearly die of remorse. Don't think of me any 
 more. Or think of this as just a dream." 
 
 "The most gorgeous dream I ever had." he said. "But 
 I'll find you again." 
 
 "Perhaps," she said. 
 
 For months, her vital image floated in Fielding's 
 memory, the optical center of an imperishable experience. 
 She had appeared in his path like a tropical orchid. 
 Visions of such moments as those with her had gleamed 
 through his imagination during his walk through New
 
 GOLD SHOD 123 
 
 York's wet streets that night of Beth's order to come and 
 marry her. 
 
 "What a wife she would have made me," he thought. 
 
 He did not know that the same secret words had trav- 
 eled through the mind of the forefather, who also had 
 married for the sake of a career. 
 
 On Fielding's next trip to Chicago he sought the saml 
 hotel, and found the same chairs in which he and his 
 marvelous companion had begun their acquaintance. 
 The memory of their mating rushed back to him with 
 a world of captivating detail. He wondered who she was 
 and where she was. Would he ever find her again? The 
 memory of what had happened stormed him with re- 
 awakened desire. 
 
 She had become a symbol of that pagan quest for beauty 
 which for years had tormented him.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 BENNETT'S face was pale and drawn. Fielding as- 
 sumed that another storm was brewing. 
 
 "Come in. I want to talk to you," said the manufac- 
 turer. 
 
 Fielding followed him into the executive chamber. 
 
 "How are you feeling, Mr. Bennett?" he began. 
 
 "Rotten. I've got to go to Johns Hopkins for an 
 operation." 
 
 "Is it as bad as that?" asked Fielding with concern. 
 
 Bennett nodded. 
 
 "I'll be off the job for the best part of a month, may- 
 be longer. I've got to have some one around here who 
 can take the bit between his teeth and get things done. 
 I'm going to take a long shot on you, Glinden. I think 
 you've got the stuff in you. I like your dog-gone self- 
 confidence. You're too damn young, but I've got to 
 make a quick decision, and you're it. I've gone over a 
 number of different men in my mind, and I keep coming 
 back to you. I'm going to appoint you general mana- 
 ger." 
 
 "I'm glad to hear you say that, Mr. Bennett. You're 
 not going to regret your decision." 
 
 "I hope not." 
 
 "When do you leave?" 
 
 "To-night. Now about salary. I'll have you put on 
 the payroll at ten thousand a year. If you show any 
 form, I'll make it fifteen thousand." 
 
 As Fielding drove homeward through the September 
 haze, it did not seem possible to him that Bennett's words 
 could have opened this magnificent door to him and Beth. 
 Little by little, he began to comprehend that he now fig- 
 ured among the big fellows of the automobile industry. 
 
 124
 
 GOLD SHOD 125 
 
 And yet it seemed only a day or two ago that he had 
 arrived in Detroit to talk to Wayland Emmett about a 
 job. He remembered how strange, complicated, glitter- 
 ing, and remote the factory had seemed. And he was now 
 the general manager and second in executive command. 
 He felt but vaguely different to-day. He felt no bigger, 
 stronger, or abler. He grew suddenly conscious that in 
 the back of his mind floated the old impractical, 
 unbusiness-like, obstructing and interfering sense of 
 beauty. 
 
 "Bennett's got to go to Johns Hopkins for an opera- 
 tion," Fielding told Beth. "He appointed me general 
 manager." 
 
 "Oh, Fielding! How splendid! And at your age!'* 
 
 "Bennett said I was too damn young, but that he had to 
 make a quick decision." 
 
 "The biggest men in the motor car business are young," 
 said Beth. 
 
 "Certainly they are. Bennett himself was under thirty 
 when he organized his own company. How patronizing 
 these fellows become when once they get some power!" 
 
 "Don't let him patronize you. You don't have to. He's 
 very lucky to have you as his right-hand man. Did he 
 say anything about salary?" 
 
 "He raised me to ten thousand." 
 
 "Ten thousand? Is that all!" 
 
 "If I make good, he said he'd make it fifteen. I thought 
 it best not to argue the subject of money right now." 
 
 "Right now was the time to. You might just as well 
 have talked him into making it fifteen thousand at once. 
 The idea of his daring to pay his general manager only 
 ten thousand ! It's ridiculous. You've got to look out for 
 your own interests if you expect to get what's coming to 
 you. What were you thinking of ?" 
 
 "The man is sick," retorted Fielding impatiently. "Un- 
 der the circumstances it would have been brutal to haggle 
 over terms. You must remember that it's a big jump for 
 me as it is."
 
 126 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "You've got to be brutal in business," said Beth sternly. 
 "You've got to be hard. You've got to fight. For 
 heaven's sake, don't let them get the idea that you're 
 easy." 
 
 Fielding flushed under the attack. 
 
 "Don't be angry. I didn't mean to hurt you," she 
 added. 
 
 "I'm glad to have your views. But you understand, of 
 course, that I can't always run home to you to get your 
 ideas every time I have to make a decision." 
 
 "You've done a very splendid thing," she answered. 
 "I'm proud of you. There is no longer any question as to 
 whether you can go right on straight to the top. But you 
 need just a little steadying, just a little pushing. Some- 
 times I think there's an element of weakness in you that 
 needs watching, a tendency to waver and let others have 
 their way, instead of insisting upon yours. When I see 
 you sit and moon over a book of poetry, it worries me. 
 The mood of a picture gets into you at times and seems 
 to affect you for days. At a symphony concert, you don't 
 seem to know I'm beside you. I suppose it's your sensi- 
 tiveness. Do you remember that picture you bought 
 when we were in New York on our honeymoon ?" 
 
 "Yes, very well. You jumped on me for buying it." 
 
 tf lt gave me a shock., Foit a moment it made me wonder 
 what sort of a man I had married." 
 
 "Why? Because I picked up a picture?" 
 
 "No, because I saw how peculiarly you were wrapped 
 up in it. It was the way you looked at it and handled it." 
 
 "I don't even remember what became of it." 
 
 "I gave it away," said Beth. 
 
 "Oh, you did?" 
 
 "I didn't want it about. It seemed to stand for some- 
 thing in you that I resented." 
 
 Fielding directed an uncommunicative look at Beth. 
 All this had rasped him. He comprehended anew that he 
 and his wife were great distances apart. He sat studying 
 her face till its calmness and fine breeding appeared to
 
 GOLD SHOD 127 
 
 recede into a crafty stubbornness. He noted the drooping 
 of one of her eyelids and no longer found it charming; 
 it seemed to betray a designing spirit. 
 
 Bennett's absence from the factory cleared the air, 
 reduced the customary tension, and suited everybody. He 
 was a superb salesman but an awkward executive and no 
 leader of men. 
 
 Fielding now occupied the large office directly opposite 
 Bennett's "throne room." At this desk had sat the pom- 
 pous Newendyke, the officious little false-alarm from 
 Toledo, and others who had failed to measure up to the 
 requirements of the post. The mahogany surfaces of the 
 room had reflected a multitude of worried moods. It 
 was here that one of Fielding's predecessors had planned 
 suicide. None of them had been properly qualified to 
 sit here. Fielding wondered how he himself was going to 
 fare. A curious luck, a strange opportunism had landed 
 him here ; he recognized that he was no better fitted to sit 
 in this commanding chair than his forerunners. But the 
 taste of power was gratifying. A vast curiosity drew 
 him on into the absorbing adventure. On his desk was a 
 vase of flaming roses, sent by Beth. 
 
 Fielding's telephone rang. 
 
 "Miss Sheehan calling," said the operator. 
 
 "Put her on," said Fielding. 
 
 "Congratulations," exclaimed Peggie Sheehan. "I saw 
 the good news about you in the Free Press this morning. 
 Fine business !" 
 
 "Thanks," said Fielding, thinking of Peggie's lips, red 
 as the roses Beth had sent him. 
 
 "When are you coming to see me again?" asked the 
 flower-stand girl. 
 
 "Pretty soon." 
 
 Bennett, too sick and worried to trust himself to decide 
 numerous pending measures during the previous fortnight, 
 had left Fielding a heritage of perplexing conditions that 
 required action. Fielding at once adopted the policy of
 
 128 GOLD SHOD 
 
 reaching decisions in conference instead of assuming arbi- 
 trary authority. He wanted his organization with him, 
 not against him. This disarmed and placated these ex- 
 ecutives who had resented his appointment as general 
 manager. 
 
 "The king has temporarily abdicated," said Fielding 
 to his department heads. "During his absence, I propose 
 that we run this organization as a sort of good-natured 
 oligarchy composed of the men now in this room. Mr. 
 Bennett has at times tried to run this place as an absolute 
 monarchy, and it didn't always work. Suppose we try 
 this other scheme and see how it works. I don't pretend 
 to know it all ; I need you men a good deal more than you 
 need me.'* 
 
 Fielding had rolled a shining new marble into the ring. 
 It pleased and flattered his associates. 
 
 That afternoon Meyer, the head of the purchasing de- 
 partment, strode into Glinden's office with a tragic look 
 on his pinched face. Despite the official position that en- 
 abled him to spend large sums of money, he never seemed 
 happy. 
 
 "What's the matter ?" demanded Fielding. 
 
 "This tire manufacturer, Frake, refuses to renew his 
 contract with us at the old figure. He announces a 
 four per cent increase. That runs into a smear of 
 money." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "Close on to half a million dollars on our year's pro- 
 duction of cars." 
 
 "This Akron outfit is taking advantage of Mr. Ben- 
 nett's absence," said Fielding. 
 
 "That's what I thought." 
 
 "I'll run over to Akron and see what I can do," an- 
 nounced Fielding. 
 
 "How are you going at him?" 
 
 "I don't know yet. Isn't there a fellow in town here 
 who pulled out of Frake's plant a while ago and is organ- 
 izing a company of his own?"
 
 GOLD SHOD 129 
 
 "Yes, a chap named Mulger. Used to be Frake's pro- 
 duction manager." 
 
 "Good I want to see him." 
 
 At seven that evening, Fielding and Mulger sat down to 
 dinner at the University Club. Mulger was glad to talk, 
 since his grudges against Frake were numerous. At mid- 
 night Fielding was still asking questions, and at a quarter 
 of one he boarded a train for Akron. 
 
 At ten the next morning, Glinden sent in his card to 
 Mr. Frake, president of one of Akron's large tire manu- 
 facturing concerns. The dusty buildings and uninspired 
 streets of Akron depressed him, but he strove to keep him- 
 self buoyant and confident for the interview. He had 
 never seen Frake before, and discovered a hard-looking 
 little individual with a face like a horse, alert but sunken 
 eyes that shone brilliantly, prominent lips, knuckly 
 hands, large diamonds, and a dressy suit of expensive 
 tweed. 
 
 "This is an unexpected jolt you've handed us," began 
 Fielding. 
 
 "It is always painful to have to revise our prices to 
 old friends," replied Frake hypocritically. 
 
 "You mentioned increased production costs," con- 
 tinued Fielding. 
 
 "It's largely the labor situation. The radical element 
 is growing stronger and stronger. We don't dare let it 
 come to a strike. We've advanced our wage-scale twice 
 in the last year." 
 
 "But that is more than offset by reduced costs of raw 
 materials." 
 
 "I wish you were right," said Frake rubbing his hands. 
 "Sea Island cotton is advancing rapidly. So is grade A 
 plantation rubber. And as for zinc oxide " Frake con- 
 cluded with an upward gesture of despair. 
 
 "Quite right," answered Fielding. "But our standard 
 equipment tires contain negligible quantities of Sea Is- 
 land cotton, or grade A plantation rubber, or zinc 
 oxide,"
 
 130 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "You're mistaken/* protested the tire manufacturer. 
 "I take it you haven't been on the job very long." 
 
 "No, not very." 
 
 "If you will consult the terms of the contract under 
 which we are furnishing your company tires, you will dis- 
 cover that long fiber Sea Island cotton, grade A planta- 
 tion gum, and zinc oxide are clearly specified." 
 
 "I am thoroughly familiar with our contract," replied 
 Fielding. "And I also know that for some time past the 
 tires we've been getting from you have contained little 
 or none of the best cotton fiber ; they have contained an 
 inferior grade of Para gum and considerable quantities 
 of reclaimed rubber; and as for zinc oxide, very little of 
 that. Instead of zinc oxide, you've been using large 
 quantities of lamp-black." 
 
 "My dear boy, some one's been stringing you." 
 
 "It is hardly conceivable that Mr. Mulger, who was 
 formerly your production manager, would lie to me about 
 facts as vital as these," answered Fielding pleasantly. 
 
 Frake gave an almost imperceptible start; it was not 
 lost upon Fielding; but the latter gave no sign that he 
 realized how deep his thrust had penetrated. 
 
 "I realize, of course," continued Fielding genially, "that 
 the tire business is peculiar. And I realize that a tech- 
 nical deviation from the fixed terms of a contract, while 
 it might prove difficult to explain if it came to a legal 
 action, might have more or less general practice on the 
 part of rubber manufacturers to point to for precedent. 
 Besides, there are so many conditions entering into the 
 mileage delivered by a tire, that it anight be pretty hard 
 to demonstrate the relative merits in action of given 
 grades of raw materials." 
 
 "Do you mean to infer that we're not selling you a good 
 tire?" demanded Frake, adopting an air of bluster. 
 
 "Not at all. We're getting a good tire. And even a 
 better-made tire can buckle, blister, and blow-out." 
 
 "You're damn right it can," agreed Frake, hardly 
 knowing just how to size up his opponent. "I've seen
 
 GOLD SHOD 131 
 
 fabric tires go twice as far as cords. Then again, it de- 
 pends on how you treat a tire. No tire will stand up long 
 under abuse." 
 
 "You're quite right." 
 
 "But a contract's a contract. If I ever caught a pro- 
 duction manager departing one iota from the specifica- 
 tions of a contract, I'd kick him for a goal." 
 
 "I imagine that would be your disposition," said Field- 
 ing. 
 
 "How is Mr. Bennett? I haven't seen him in close 
 on to a year," said Frake changing his tone. 
 
 "He's a sick man." 
 
 "You don't tell me." 
 
 "He's about to undergo a serious operation at Johns 
 Hopkins. He went to Baltimore less than a week ago." 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear it," said Frake, pretending not to 
 have known. "In view of what you say about Mr. Ben- 
 nett, it's too bad we raised this subject of price revision. 
 You can forget it," he added abruptly*
 
 CHAPTER VIH 
 
 A UTUMN thickened into brownish fogs, a symbol of 
 ./"\ the apprehensions that were oppressing Fielding. 
 Sometimes his uneasiness amounted almost to physical 
 nausea. His sense of nervous weariness was not accom- 
 panied this time by the familiar pang of desire to be rid 
 of his executive duties ; but he seemed to be slipping ; some 
 intuition seemed to be issuing some warning to him. The 
 sense of power that had been accumulating in him was 
 now disturbed; the security of his position seemed 
 menaced. Every day impressed him more definitely with 
 the fear that there was something wrong in the Bennett 
 organization. Bennett himself seemed preoccupied and 
 changed. Fielding watched him closely and gave him 
 every opportunity to confide, but Bennett remained silent. 
 
 Fielding's forebodings proved well-grounded, as he dis- 
 covered on the day when he finally elicited the truth from 
 Bennett. 
 
 "Mr. Bennett," he began, "there's something the matter 
 in this office. What is it? I want to know." 
 
 Bennett looked at him with unsmiling eyes and de- 
 manded : "Who's been talking to you ?" 
 
 "Nobody." 
 
 "Then what do you know?" 
 
 "All I know is that you look as if something had 
 dropped on you. You haven't acted like yourself for a 
 week. You've got something on your mind. I'd like to 
 know what it is," returned Fielding sympathetically. 
 
 "Well, you're a pretty good guesser." 
 
 "I'm sorry." 
 
 "This is for your information only," continued Ben- 
 nett. "I've been pretty badly in hock for the past year. 
 
 132
 
 GOLD SHOD 133 
 
 Some of my investments have caved in, and I regret to 
 say that the control of the Bennett Motor Company has 
 passed out of my hands." 
 
 "The hell you say," gasped Fielding. 
 
 "I still own something over forty per cent of the stock, 
 but the control has gone to the North American Motors 
 outfit. They've been buying in some of the stock from 
 sources I thought wouldn't let go. I know a good deal 
 about their fancy manipulating, but didn't know they were 
 laying for us. They've hogged up some remarkably fine 
 properties." 
 
 "This is rather serious," answered Fielding. 
 
 "It means a reorganization." 
 
 " Where do you come in under the reorganization?" 
 
 "I continue as president of the company." 
 
 "I'm glad of that," said Fielding. "And where do I 
 get off?" 
 
 "I'll hold on to you, if possible." 
 
 "If possible," repeated Fielding. 
 
 "No one can say, of course, what may happen when 
 we reorganize. Alexander Dufresne, president of North 
 American Motors, may let us pretty much alone. He and 
 I haven't gone into that yet in much detail. He's a head- 
 strong fellow and an arbitrary cuss, and I can make no 
 promises further than to say that I'll do what I can to 
 protect your interests. How much of our stock have 
 you got?" 
 
 "What you gave me." 
 
 "H-m," mused Bennett. *'I wish you owned more of 
 it." 
 
 "Is there any available?" inquired Fielding. 
 
 "I don't know," said Bennett thoughtfully. "I don't 
 dare let go of any of mine. It would only weaken my posi- 
 tion. I don't believe there's a share that could be bought." 
 
 Fielding left the factory in sullen anger. He could not 
 understand his idiocy in having ignored the financial 
 background of the company and getting himself into this 
 hole. God only knew what was going to happen to him
 
 134 GOLD SHOD 
 
 now. He hadn't the slightest assurance that he would 
 not be shaken out of his connection during the storms of 
 reorganization. He knew what reorganizations were. He 
 knew something of the train of favorites who traveled 
 with Duf resne. What an ass he had been not to look to his 
 financial fences and get hold of some of the Bennett stock 
 while there was a chance to do so. 
 
 Fielding knew in a social way Frank H. Bester, secre- 
 tary of the Cadillac Trust Company of Detroit, registrar 
 of Bennett stock. He drove to the bank, and by a stroke 
 of good fortune, found Bester at his desk. Bester had 
 straw-colored hair that grew in a wide, closely-clipped 
 band down the back of his neck. He was well under forty ; 
 the Detroit custom of placing younger men in positions 
 of authority had already invaded the more conservative 
 banking circles. He had a ruddy face and chesty figure; 
 he golfed well, danced well, and had the amiable faculty 
 of making customers feel good about coming to the bank 
 to talk to him, instead of feeling as if they were entering a 
 jail. 
 
 "Bester, I'm going to buy some Bennett stock," began 
 Fielding abruptly. 
 
 "Congratulations. I wish I could afford to add to my 
 own modest holdings of carefully selected securities. 
 Who's letting go of Bennett?" 
 
 "That's what I've got to find out. I thought you people 
 might be able to tell me who the stockholders are." 
 
 "That's easy," said Bester, ringing for a clerk. 
 
 "Mostly owned right here in Detroit, I see," observed 
 Fielding examining the names. 
 
 "Was," amended Bester. "This and that and that," 
 he continued, indicating various blocks, "have been taken 
 over by Dufresne." 
 
 "Hello!" exclaimed Fielding looking closely at the 
 records. "Is Bennett down as low as that? Let me see 
 he can't be holding more than twenty-six or -seven per 
 cent of the total." 
 
 "That's all."
 
 GOLD SHOD 135 
 
 "H-m." 
 
 "He's been borrowing to the limit on it," said Bester 
 lowering his voice. 
 
 "Yes, I knew." 
 
 "He borrowed heavily on it from this fellow," continued 
 the banker, indicating one of the names, "who happened 
 to be one of the whippers-in for Dufresne. Bennett had 
 been margining some of that Southwestern Railroad stuff, 
 and when it crumpled up, Dufresne's man stepped in and 
 got his. Damn shame." 
 
 "Are any of these birds likely to unload any of their 
 Bennett for the right figure?" 
 
 "I hardly think so. Unless it were Simon Leffingwell." 
 
 "Leffingwell? What makes you think so?" 
 
 "It's only a hunch. I happen to know that he is buy- 
 ing a lot of U. S. and Bethlehem Steel, also some Fruit. 
 Apparently he knows something. You might be able to 
 interest him." 
 
 "How much Bennett has he got?" 
 
 "Maybe three thousand shares." 
 
 "I'm very much obliged to you, Bester. Will you do 
 something more for me?" 
 
 "Gladly, if I can." 
 
 "I would appreciate it beyond words if you would say 
 nothing to anybody else about the possibility of Leffing- 
 well's being approachable." 
 
 "I'll be very glad to. But it's only my hunch, you 
 know. If you see him, you won't quote me, of course." 
 
 "Not a word." 
 
 Fielding left the bank with a gluttonous desire to get 
 into control of some of this Bennett stock. Bennett had 
 lied to him about his own holdings, and this only sharpened 
 Fielding's awareness of personal peril. Bennett's future 
 with the company, under these peculiar conditions, was 
 anything but secure, while his own chances at this moment, 
 knowing what he now knew, weren't worth five cents. He 
 entered his car, and drove slowly through the snarl of 
 traffic. He was examining the situation craftily, his lips
 
 136 GOLD SHOD 
 
 and teeth slightly apart, as if figuring just how to bite 
 into it. He swung past Grand Circus Park, stopped his 
 car in front of the Empire Building, and took the eleva- 
 tor for the office of the Leffingwell Lumber Company. 
 
 Fielding found a little man more than sixty years of 
 age, with piercing black eyes, tawny skin, a missing index 
 finger, and short gray hair that stood erect. 
 
 "Well, young man, what do you want?" Simon Leffing- 
 well demanded with a suspicious air. 
 
 "I want to buy stock of the Bennett Motor Company." 
 
 "Mine isn't on the market. Why do you come to me?" 
 
 "Because your holdings can't mean very much to you, 
 and because they would mean a great deal to me. You 
 are a large capitalist, Mr. Leffingwell. You are primarily 
 and solely concerned with the safety of your principal and 
 a comfortable yield. There are a great many good in- 
 vestments that would suit you quite as well as Bennett 
 Motor. My own case is different. I am general manager 
 of the Bennett Company, vitally concerned with the prop- 
 erty and its development. I own some of the stock and 
 want to buy some of yours." 
 
 "It's a good stock. I see no reason why I should sell.'* 
 
 "There are plenty of good stocks that you can surely 
 see no objection to buying." 
 
 "This Dufresne development should make Bennett stock 
 worth even more than it is to-day," said Leffingwell. 
 
 Fielding winced; did every one in Detroit know about 
 the reorganization? 
 
 "Perhaps not," he replied. "An absentee ownership 
 may not be so good. These people are financiers, not 
 manufacturers. I'm not so sure that the reorganization 
 is a good thing." 
 
 "Nonsense." 
 
 "It is conceivable that the automobile industry may 
 get a jolt one of these days," pursued Fielding. "It is by 
 no means as fundamentally sound as, for example, the 
 lumber, food stuffs, or steel industries." 
 
 "Then why don't you get out of it?"
 
 GOLD SHOD 137 
 
 "I happen to be committed to it. And as long as 
 I'm in it, I've got to be a substantial owner." 
 
 "I like the way you talk. Yqu're no fool, my boy. 
 What would you be willing to pay for some of this stock?" 
 
 "Par." 
 
 "My God! What do you take me for?" 
 
 "What do you ask?" 
 
 "A hundred and five." 
 
 "Make it a hundred and three," proposed Fielding. 
 
 "I wouldn't sell a dollar's worth under a hundred 
 and five." 
 
 "How much will you sell me at one-o-five?" 
 
 "Three thousand shares." 
 
 "I'd like an option on that amount." 
 
 "An option? How long?" 
 
 "A week." 
 
 The lumberman shook his head. "You can have three 
 days." 
 
 "All right and thanks," said Fielding, looking at his 
 watch. "It is now eleven-forty. This is Tuesday. You 
 will hear from me by Friday morning at this time." 
 
 "Beth, I have three days to raise three hundred and 
 fifteen thousand dollars. Have you any idea where I can 
 get it?" began Fielding, and tersely outlined what had 
 happened. 
 
 "Now you're talking," answered Beth with a joyous 
 look lighting her eyes. 
 
 "I thought this would interest you." 
 
 She threw her arms about him. 
 
 "It won't thrill Bennett to hear I've got hold of this 
 amount of stock. I'll have more of it than he. Poor 
 Bennett it's been a rough blow to him." 
 
 "But if you can control more stock than Mr. Bennett 
 has, think of what it will mean," said Beth fervently. 
 "You'll be the next president of the company." 
 
 "No, there wouldn't be a chance for anything like that." 
 
 "It would be bound to follow."
 
 138 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "I hadn't even thought of any such possibility." 
 "Then you'd better think of it. What on earth do you 
 want this stock for anyway?" 
 "To safeguard my job." 
 Beth looked at him pityingly. 
 
 Fielding interviewed four of the biggest men of affairs 
 he knew in Detroit. Three of them were amazed at his 
 proposal, and politely gave him to understand that to 
 make such a loan without collateral was unthinkable. The 
 fourth replied: "My dear fellow, I'm flattered to death, 
 but if I had a quarter of a million dollars, I would retire 
 from business and kick a hole in the sky." 
 
 "Who are these North American Motors people?" Field- 
 ing asked Bennett later in the day. 
 
 Bennett named the leading men. 
 
 "All New York people?" 
 
 "Mostly. Several Detroit and Akron men," said Ben- 
 nett, enumerating them. There was a sick look in his 
 tired eyes. 
 
 "It seems to me I've heard that Frake of Akron is in 
 on it. 
 
 "He'd like to be, but he hasn't got a smell." 
 
 Fielding suddenly recalled his interview with the horsey- 
 looking tire manufacturer, and re-examined his impression 
 that Frake had rather admired the way in which he had 
 blocked the attempt to raise his prices to the Bennett 
 Company. His search for a backer in Detroit looked 
 hopeless. If Frake wanted to get in. ... 
 
 "By the way, how comfortable is Frake financially?" 
 Fielding asked Mulger, Frake's former production head. 
 
 "He's nearly the sole owner of his company." 
 
 "Has he got much outside of that ?" 
 
 "A lot. Heavy shareholder in half a dozen or more 
 motor companies, and he's had a fist in two or three big 
 consolidations. His mind runs that way." 
 
 "I suppose he runs with Duf resne."
 
 GOLD SHOD 139 
 
 "No, he never managed to get his nose into that feed- 
 bag- 
 
 Fielding laughed, remembering Frake's horselike face. 
 
 "The Dufresne people have controlled the distribution 
 of their stock very adroitly," continued Mulger. "Du- 
 fresne himself is a good deal of a Sunday school guy ; he 
 knows that Frake seduces young women, and he refuses 
 to get messed up with him, even financially." 
 
 "How are you, Glinden?" began Frake familiarly. 
 *'Glad to see you. Bennett pretty well again?" 
 
 "As well as can be expected under the circumstances." 
 
 "He wasn't very smart to let North American Motors 
 swallow him up, was he?" 
 
 "It's too bad." 
 
 "You don't seem to have lost any sleep over it," con- 
 tinued Frake, contemplating Fielding's sturdy figure, solid 
 face, and confident air. 
 
 "Well, I happen to have an option on three thousand 
 shares of Bennett Motors." 
 
 "Three thousand shares?" repeated Frake with a green- 
 ish look in his eyes. "Where did you get your option?" 
 
 "Dug it up." 
 
 "At what price?" 
 
 "A hundred and five." 
 
 "That's fair." 
 
 "Glad you think so," said Fielding, leaning forward. 
 "I'll tell you why. I'd like to get you to buy it for me." 
 
 Frake looked at Fielding incredulously. "I have list- 
 ened to all sorts of propositions across this desk, Glinden. 
 But I must say that yours is in a class entirely by itself." 
 
 "The conditions are in a class entirely by themselves. I 
 am assuming, of course, that you are not indifferent to- 
 ward the possibility of securing substantial holdings in 
 the Bennett Motor Company. Under the reorganization 
 that would mean a handy chunk of North American Mo- 
 tors. I don't know how familiar you are with the Bennett 
 balance-sheet, or with our record of earnings." Fielding
 
 140 GOLD SHOD 
 
 unfolded the records. "Our stock dividends, you see, have 
 ranged from eight to thirty-seven per cent a year. We 
 have no bonds or preferred stock." 
 
 "Alexander Dufresne hasn't got a damn thing that I 
 want. Never had any use for him." 
 
 "At the same time, the right connections there would 
 provide a magnificent outlet for your product." 
 
 "We never have the slightest trouble selling Frake 
 tires." 
 
 "In another eighteen months North American Motors 
 is going to be so big and important that it may rank 
 alongside U. S. Steel and Standard Oil. The possibilities 
 are Napoleonic. Dufresne isn't a big enough man to stay 
 in control much longer. It wouldn't take you long to 
 make your presence felt in that crowd." 
 
 "I wouldn't even cross the street to see them buried." 
 
 "And yet, it would be all kinds of fun for you to have 
 your say in their councils without their knowing it was 
 you," said Fielding. 
 
 A Mephistophelian gleam appeared in Frake's yellow- 
 ish eyes. "How do you mean?" he asked. 
 
 "Purchase this stock for me, and record it in my name. 
 Of course, you will hold it and receive all the dividends. 
 But let me vote it at your direction.** 
 
 "Well, how are you going to profit by such an arrange- 
 ment?" demanded Frake. 
 
 "The stock in my name would exceed that in Bennett's. 
 It is not inconceivable that there would soon be another 
 president of the Bennett Motor Company." 
 
 Frake's lifted eye-brows were the only reply. 
 
 "My option on that stock expires at eleven-thirty to- 
 morrow," Fielding added carelessly. 
 
 Frake sat looking out of the window; only the anima- 
 tion of his eyes betrayed any interest in Fielding's pro- 
 posal. 
 
 Fielding rose. "Do you want to play or don't you?" 
 
 "I'll sit in." 
 
 "You won't be sorry."
 
 GOLD SHOD 141 
 
 "I've never regretted anything yet. Glinden, can you 
 buy that stock in four blocks at thirty-day intervals?'* 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "If you find you can, wire me to-morrow morning. Give 
 me an affirmative answer regarding some imaginary tire 
 deal; if you can't, wire me some negative about tires. 
 Another thing. No check will pass from me to you. This 
 man" Frake wrote the name and address of a Detroit 
 banker "will hand you his check at eleven o'clock to- 
 morrow for either $315,000, or for $78,750, as conditions 
 require. See? I would prefer to buy the shares in four 
 different allotments ; it would help hide the source of your 
 funds." 
 
 "I get you." 
 
 "It would make the whole transaction seem more nat- 
 ural on your part. How much salary are you getting?" 
 
 "Fifteen thousand." 
 
 "Three thousand shares is a big block to swing on that. 
 We've got to be foxy." Frake rang for his secretary. 
 "Dictate a memorandum to me stating the terms of our 
 agreement." 
 
 "I'm under great obligations to you, Mr. Frake," said 
 Fielding when the stenographer had retired. 
 
 "It's horse and horse," replied Frake. 
 
 Fielding hurried to his train and sank into a seat in 
 the chair car. The successful outcome of his mission 
 acted upon him like a wave of wine. Before boarding the 
 train he had wired Beth the single word "Successful" and 
 he could hardly wait to tell her all about the interview. 
 This was the sort of thing she lived for she had nar- 
 rowed herself down to this. It was too bad. After all, 
 what did it profit him to have thrust his way into this 
 strengthened position? Power but for what? Only to 
 tunnel his way deeper into this turmoil of industrial dark- 
 ness, and to burrow ever farther away from the gleam 
 of his early desires. Persistently he had been betraying 
 something very dear to him. Frake's pledge of support
 
 142 GOLD SHOD 
 
 assumed the startling aspect of thirty pieces of silver. 
 He looked out of the train window with melancholy eyes. 
 The sight of the soaking Ohio farmlands carried him back 
 to his boyhood in Elyria, to luminous moments with his 
 grandfather at the piano, and Anton's wonderful silhou- 
 ettes of animals on the wall. Looking into the future, 
 Fielding saw a new shadow on the wall the grotesque 
 head of a horse.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 three thousand shares had been recorded in 
 A Fielding's name, at discreet intervals. He was now 
 attacking his duties at the factory with a fresh vitality 
 of which he had never before been conscious. He even 
 found himself becoming fascinated with the details of 
 production. 
 
 At the suggestion of the Dufresne interests, a brilliant 
 young Bohemian named Pordek, was placed in charge of 
 engineering. Pordek had been assistant to the inventive 
 genius of one of the large manufacturers of electrical 
 equipment, but his interests had gradually concentrated 
 on automotive problems. 
 
 "He's a wizard," said Bennett. "He's got some ideas 
 on a counteracting, compensated crankshaft that develops 
 sixty-eight per cent more horsepower and seventy-five 
 more efficiency. He read a paper a while ago before one 
 of the institutes of technology that completely upset 
 some of their theories of mechanics and made them rewrite 
 their text books. He's got a doctor's degree from tEe 
 University of Jena, wherever the hell that is." 
 
 Fielding liked this loudly-trumpeted newcomer. He 
 found a thick-set young fellow with piercing but friendly 
 eyes that were set rather too close together, a big nose, 
 heavy chin, fleshy lips. The foreign tang in his careful, 
 studied English gave Fielding the impression of an acute 
 mentality. He liked the earnestness, intensity, and single- 
 track character of Pordek's mind, moving only in engineer- 
 ing lines. Fielding sounded him on music and on books, 
 but discovered no response. This pleased him; he had 
 begun to recognize the danger in divided aims, to want 
 around him men who were free from the interruptions and 
 distractions of other interests. 
 
 143
 
 144 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "Do you like Detroit?" asked Fielding. 
 
 "The more machinery they build in a city the better I 
 like it," said Pordek, lighting a cigarette with a light, al- 
 most feminine gesture. 
 
 "What do you think of the Bennett car?" 
 
 "It is not bad. You have a fast engine, but your 
 transmission is not sturdy enough. Its housing is open 
 to criticism. You need a heavier frame. I would rec- 
 ommend that you change the design of your springs," 
 began Pordek. There followed a long and detailed anal- 
 ysis of the Bennett power-plant and chassis. 
 
 Fielding knew too little about mechanics to comprehend 
 much of what Pordek was driving at, but he could admire 
 the other's thorough grounding in mathematics and phys- 
 ics. Once, when Fielding had made some absurd remark 
 about a machining process, Pordek turned upon him and 
 demanded with amazement: 
 
 "Mr. Glinden, don't you know anything about ma- 
 chines?" 
 
 "Very little." 
 
 "My God!" gasped the engineer. "I will explain to 
 you some of these things," he added, leading Fielding to 
 the machine shop. 
 
 "Your micrometer test of the cylinder bore is inade- 
 quate," began Pordek. "We shall use nothing but plug 
 gages hereafter. You don't ream your bearings right. 
 I shall design a new piston ring checker for you. Your 
 pistons and connecting rods need more careful align- 
 ment." 
 
 Fielding now spent many hours with Pordek under the 
 slanting bars of sizzling acetylene rays, and grew to feel 
 at home among the crashing instruments of production. 
 He grew familiar with the motors running on the blocks 
 with a roar like that of a speedway. He came to know 
 what the dial gage test of gears was all about. The 
 smell of the shops, with their peculiar odors of metal fil- 
 ings, lubricating oil, and grinding compound, no longer 
 annoyed him.
 
 GOLD SHOD 145 
 
 He astounded Bennett one day with a detailed descrip- 
 tion of the merits of a spring shackle adjustment developed 
 by Pordek to prevent side-play and rattling. He pre- 
 pared a radical memorandum attacking the inadequacy 
 of the assembling lines ; he electrified a dealer convention 
 with a glorification of the spiral bevel gear-cutting ma- 
 chinery used by the company, and gave a memorable talk 
 on the merchandising values of the "silent room" in which 
 gears were carefully adjusted and set. 
 
 "This fellow Pordek is all right. He's educating 
 Glinden and making an automobile man out of him," was 
 Bennett's satisfied conclusion. "Thank God this geezer's 
 got something besides skirts on the brain." 
 
 Fielding had entered upon his period of closest concen- 
 tration on the affairs of the company. His decisions were 
 rapid but thoughtful ; if his judgment was assailed, he sup- 
 ported his stand with convincing reasoning. He knew the 
 value of rapid and decisive action ; it improved his subor- 
 dinates' respect for him, steadied them in their work, 
 and established his reputation as a calm, clear-headed 
 thinker. Fielding knew that he was getting credit for 
 qualities he did not possess, and carefully concealed the 
 true Glinden. He felt like an exotic that had taken 
 strange root in this world of fast-moving affairs. He 
 forced himself to talk each day to at least ten officers 
 or department heads, both to know what was happening 
 and to maintain the illusion of an intense concern with 
 their affairs. He closed contracts for tires and steel, 
 and directed the purchase of leather, axles, bearings, bat- 
 teries, and second-growth hickory. He crowded the daily 
 output of cars to new high figures, organized a school for 
 salesmen, and made speeches at conventions. 
 
 Yet all this fashioning of manufacturing policies, mer- 
 chandising objectives, service aims; this selection of deal- 
 ers ; this everlasting fight to cut down overhead and 
 heighten profits, to enforce discipline, to reduce waste, 
 to plan the strategy of conferences and conventions, some-
 
 146 GOLD SHOD 
 
 how failed to gratify him. He caught himself wistful to 
 sit down in silence away from telephones, doors, letters, 
 and telegrams to start a novel, to fashion a song, or to 
 ramble through an essay. Sometimes he wished himself 
 a woodworker, a painter, or an upholsterer, in his own 
 shop. 
 
 Often he jumped into a car and drove furiously out to 
 Grosse Pointe, to let the rush of sunny air sweep his 
 brain clear of responsibilities. Going home to Beth was 
 no comfort ; she quizzed him ceaselessly. She knew almost 
 as much about his office as he himself, and wanted to know 
 everything ; she was avid for details ; she questioned, 
 argued, planned with him, advised with him. He felt 
 more and more like an instrument in her thin, restless 
 hands, a piece of machinery being pressed to its utmost 
 performance. 
 
 There were times, while Beth talked, that Fielding sat 
 dreaming of the magic hours of freedom with that unfor- 
 gettable companion in Chicago, whose fragrant hands 
 were so unlike the managing hands of Beth. 
 
 Meanwhile Bennett had no suspicion of Fielding's heavy 
 purchases of stock, or of his plot to manoeuver himself 
 into the presidency, and was increasingly delighted 
 with his manager's enthusiastic devotion to busi- 
 ness. 
 
 "When I moved you up and made you general man- 
 ager," Bennett told him, "it was a sick man's decision. 
 I was in a corner and had to think fast. I took a chance 
 on you because I trusted you and liked you. But you 
 went in as a stop-gap. You don't know how it surprised 
 me to see you making good. I didn't think you had the 
 stuff. I thought you'd either blow up or else let these 
 fellows hammer you into submission. That's happened 
 a good many times in this place, you know." Bennett 
 stopped, then added abruptly: "You like me, don't you?" 
 
 "Very much." 
 
 "That's a mistake. It will cost you money."
 
 GOLD SHOD 147 
 
 "It's a luxury I think perhaps I can afford," answered 
 Fielding lightly, to cover a sudden compassion. 
 
 "I'm not so sure about that." Bennett paused. "I 
 keep looking for a certain element of egotism in men. 
 It's got to be well concealed, but it's got to be there. 
 I demand loyalty, of course. But I'd be a fool if I didn't 
 recognize that a man's primary loyalty is to himself. 
 I can do more with that combination. It's better business. 
 It puts the horse ahead of the cart, where he belongs." 
 
 Bennett was in and out, and the direction of the com- 
 pany's affairs gravitated steadily into Fielding's hands. 
 He no longer questioned his qualifications to sit at this 
 desk. One by one his distracting moods fell away from 
 him like husks. The old reveries deserted him ; the haunt- 
 ing, obstructing sense of beauty faded out. When he 
 drove to the factory through the stinging autumn air 
 of early morning it was with a lust to get at his work. 
 Business now stimulated him instead of exhausting him. 
 He faced the gust of the day's details with a kind of joy. 
 
 "I feel as if I could devour anything that got into my 
 way," he said to Beth. 
 
 "For a long time I was worried," she replied. "You 
 didn't seem well. You looked pale and worn out. I 
 was afraid the strain was getting the better of you." 
 
 "I had to drive myself. I often felt like quitting." 
 
 Beth looked a little startled. 
 
 "Oh, it takes more than a few years to produce a busi- 
 ness man, you know. Maybe he's the product of genera- 
 tions. Anyway, I inherited nothing along these lines. 
 My father had none of it in him ; it killed him to have to 
 work in a lounge factory think of it ! My grandfather 
 was a doctor ; before that he was a musician. His people 
 before him were farmers, and weavers, and potters, and 
 teachers. You're different. You were born with the 
 heredity of business." 
 
 "We can be grateful for that," smiled Beth. 
 
 So far, Alexander Duf resne had interfered but slightly
 
 148 GOLD SHOD 
 
 in the conduct of the Bennett Company. Fielding had 
 got no intimation that Duf resne even knew anything about 
 his shares. Several observers from New York had vis- 
 ited the factory, had met and talked to Fielding, but the 
 latter had thus far no evidence that Dufresne knew he 
 was on earth. So it surprised him when, late in Novem- 
 ber, he was summoned to New York. 
 
 Curious as to what was impending, Fielding reported 
 at the executive offices of the North American Motors 
 Company in lower Broadway. Fielding found Dufresne 
 to be a man of huge proportions ; his face and frame were 
 almost incredibly broad; his genial brown eyes were far 
 apart and gazed through bi-focal spectacles. His teeth 
 were correspondingly large and were gray in color, un- 
 even in shading and structure. He had a ready smile 
 and a lop-sided jaw. His hands were large, but not 
 fleshy. He frequently elevated them as he talked, hold- 
 ing the fingertips of one hand in contact with those of the 
 other. His words came slowl} 7 , in low pleasant tones. He 
 was not at all the man Fielding had expected to find. 
 
 "I want to cultivate a closer acquaintance with you 
 Bennett men," began Dufresne. He inquired about Ben- 
 nett and Pordek, the engineer. Then he added : "Tell me 
 about yourself." 
 
 "Beginning where?" 
 
 "With your connection with the Bennett unit." 
 
 While Fielding briefly recounted the development of his 
 career in Detroit, Dufresne studied him closely, never re- 
 moving his eyes, observing the calmness and ease with 
 which Glinden expressed himself, and pleased with the 
 latter's air of respectful deference. 
 
 "Where were you raised?" asked Dufresne. 
 
 "I spent part of my boyhood in Elyria, Ohio, and the 
 rest in Chicago." 
 
 "I'm glad you mentioned Ohio. When I was hiring 
 salesmen, I never picked a man who wasn't raised in a 
 small town. The other kind rarely know anything about 
 human nature. It's the plain people of this country that
 
 GOLD SHOD 149 
 
 we're manufacturing goods for. When I was a kid, I 
 had my choice of starting in business selling bicycles in 
 Dixon, Illinois, or going to work as a bank messenger in 
 Chicago. I'm glad I had horse-sense enough to stay in 
 Dixon." 
 
 "I begin to see why you have made such headway," 
 said Fielding, gazing with interest upon this colossus of 
 affairs. He had expected to find a suave and polished 
 financier; instead he had found a man curiously simple 
 and unpretentious. 
 
 "What is your opinion of the absorption of your com- 
 pany by our interests?" 
 
 "I personally welcome it," answered Fielding. "But 
 there are dangers in an absentee ownership. Production 
 and sales efficiency are largely mental; they respond best 
 of all to a strong and nearby individual leadership." 
 
 "Mr. Bennett continues in the capacity of leader." 
 
 "I don't question the quality of his leadership." 
 
 "Do you consider that his spirit has been dampened 
 by our entrance into the equation?" 
 
 "He has always been proud, impetuous, and wilful," 
 answered Fielding. 
 
 "Do you question his ability to carry out policies 
 with enthusiasm, in the event policies are adopted in con- 
 ference to which he may initially have taken exception?" 
 
 "I should be inclined to question it," responded Fielding 
 bluntly. "It must be remembered that Mr. Bennett is 
 a pioneer in his field." 
 
 "I hardly think there will be any trouble, Mr. Glinden. 
 We have a very great respect for Mr. Bennett's accomp- 
 lishments and for his judgment. I'm very glad to have 
 seen you. My compliments to your associates." 
 
 Fielding left the interview puzzled. Had he strength- 
 ened his position with Dufresne, or weakened it? Should 
 he have mentioned his expanded holding of Bennett stock? 
 He could not quite make out Dufresne, or Dufresne's 
 judgment of him. The shrewdness of this powerful man 
 had in it an Eastern refinement baffling to the Mid- Western
 
 150 GOLD SHOD 
 
 mind. Numerous misgivings attended him back to 
 Detroit. 
 
 On December second, he received a telegram : 
 
 AT BOARD MEETING TO-DAY OF NORTH AMERICAN 
 MOTORS COMPANY YOU WERE UNANIMOUSLY ELECTED 
 PRESIDENT OF BENNETT MOTOR COMPANY CONGRATU- 
 LATIONS LETTER FOLLOWS 
 
 ALEXANDER DUFRESNE.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 golden fevers of his boyhood loves came drifting 
 A out of the background of Fielding's memory. He 
 stood at the window of his office, watching his employees 
 issue in vast streams from his factory after the day's 
 work. Nothing like this had ever stirred in his boyhood 
 dreams. He was filled with a nervous depression; he 
 felt strangely out of place and pitied Bennett, whom he 
 had seen but once since his own elevation to the presi- 
 dency. He reflected gloomily that Bennett considered 
 him an ingrate. He was fond of Bennett, and regretted 
 that the other had to fall for him to ri^ie. 
 
 Velvet measures of Anton's playing floated back to him 
 out of his moody childhood. Now his memories shifted 
 to Wicker Park; and he recalled how he had revolted 
 against the turmoil of the gymnasium and locker-room, 
 how he had fled from their smells of perspiring bodies, 
 rubber soles, stale towels, and witch-hazel, to the art 
 students' room under the rafters, to the tranquil com- 
 panionship of its easels, drawing-boards, plaster casts, 
 and prints. 
 
 He remembered how, on one moaning autumnal night, 
 the construction of classroom themes had suddenly flashed 
 from a task into a delight. He smiled at those first sen- 
 timental efforts to convey his moods into language. He 
 was reminded of Adelaide and of how he had stood in 
 front of the kitchen range, staring into its bed of coals, 
 speaking her name, thinking that its syllables had the 
 sound of chimes. He was sorry that his love for Beth 
 could not have been manufactured of that same infinite 
 splendor. 
 
 Descending to the compound, he entered his car and 
 
 151
 
 152 GOLD SHOD 
 
 drove out to his home in Highland Park. He felt like 
 a boy again ; he was filled with a shy hunger for something 
 unexpected but anticipated. Beth and the Ellises were in 
 Florida, where Fielding was to join them for Christmas. 
 He ate his dinner alone, then went to the library to smoke 
 and drink his coffee. The mood that had come over him 
 at the factory still persisted. He picked up a pencil 
 and tried to write; he began to construct groping sen- 
 tences that he was unable to finish. The artist in him 
 refused to respond. 
 
 Recalling that there was a dance to-night at one of 
 his clubs, he decided to dress and go. He and Beth had 
 gone to a number of these affairs; and to-night many 
 of the faces were familiar to him. The floor of the ball- 
 room was already crowded when he arrived. The smells 
 of punch and French powder, the swinging dance music, 
 the white shoulders and sibilance of silk warmed his senses ; 
 and he looked about him for a partner. The absence of 
 Beth made him feel younger and unattached. An ex- 
 pectant sense of freedom came over him. 
 
 "How do you do?" asked a heavy matron, shaking 
 hands. "Did Mrs. Glinden come?" 
 
 "No. She's down south." 
 
 "To be sure. Then be careful,*' replied the other, en- 
 deavoring to be coy. 
 
 The music began, and to Fielding's relief, the other was 
 claimed and borne away by a manufacturer of accessories. 
 
 What Fielding craved to-night was youth, slender elas- 
 ticity, vivacious companionship. He wanted to feel the 
 rejuvenating nearness of fresh young bodies, the rhythm 
 and clicking gait of youthful feet. He wanted to listen 
 to new voices, to explore unfamiliar eyes. 
 
 "There's that man Glinden," a wizened-looking banker 
 was saying to his wife in an undertone. "He's the latest 
 of Dufresne's favorites. Everybody is wondering how 
 long this young fellow is going to last." 
 
 "Introduce him to me," responded the wife with a yawn. 
 "He's got such a good figure."
 
 GOLD SHOD 153 
 
 "Hello there, Glinden," a rival manufacturer was say- 
 ing. "What do you people mean by cutting your prices 
 again ?" 
 
 "Don't you like it?" 
 
 "Not by a damn sight." 
 
 A number of others joined them at the punch-bowl, 
 automobile men, with faces of strength and mobility, 
 changing quickly from laughter to gravity, men of solid 
 poise, standing firmly on their feet. One told a well- 
 seasoned story that provoked a gale of confidential 
 laughter. 
 
 "I hear that that body engineer over at Packard has 
 resigned," said some one. 
 
 "Where did he go over to you people?'* another asked 
 Fielding. 
 
 "No, we can't use all the good men. I wish we could." 
 
 "Speaking of body engineers," began the raconteur of 
 the group, again resuming an appropriate undertone. 
 "Did you ever hear the one about " 
 
 Fielding listened unamused to the tale. The vicarious 
 dissipation of sensual stories did not excite him. 
 
 "Aren't you doing a little stepping, old cock?" some 
 one asked a chap with a highball face. 
 
 "What I need is a shot in the foot," he replied. 
 
 Fielding was soon dancing with an airy young widow; 
 there had been times in the past few months that he had 
 fancied himself half in love with her. She danced with 
 a kind of languishing stealth ; it had the effect of keeping 
 him on his guard. 
 
 "Why don't you people come and see me?" she com- 
 plained. 
 
 "I've been disgustingly busy," said Fielding. 
 
 "Liar," she laughed. "If you have nothing better to 
 do next Tuesday, run over." 
 
 "Mrs. Glinden is away." 
 
 "You come." 
 
 "I hardly think I'd better." 
 
 "Don't be childish," was her scoffing reply.
 
 154 GOLD SHOD 
 
 The music stopped. 
 
 "Just when we had started,'* she protested. "Encore !" 
 she cried, clapping her small gloved hands. 
 
 The orchestra resumed playing; Fielding's companion 
 resumed her patter. But to-night he was unresponsive 
 to her charms. Her moods alternated between limpid 
 surrender and a petulant pretence of indifference. Field- 
 ing could read her like a page printed in ten-point. 
 
 Several times the dancing carried them near the figure 
 of a girl who had instantly arrested Fielding's attention. 
 She could have been no more than eighteen or twenty. 
 Her hair was jet-black; the coloring of her skin was 
 amazingly fair; her straight thin nose was rather short. 
 He kept hunting for her among the dancers. Once he 
 saw her crossing the floor between the dances ; he had 
 never realized before with what splendid grace the act of 
 walking could be accomplished. She swung one of her 
 arms with an independent spirit ; he was delighted with the 
 mannerism. Fielding could not remember when he had 
 ever wanted more to know anybody. At length he wan- 
 dered away from the dancing. The old boyhood shyness 
 kept him from making inquiries about the girl. 
 
 From another part of the club he heard a piano. He 
 supposed that the broken, meditative bars came from the 
 floor above. He went upstairs and saw that the door 
 of the music room stood half open. From it came the 
 melodious stream of a Mozart minuet, and Fielding was 
 flooded with old sensations. He was not aware for a 
 moment that the figure at the piano was the girl he was 
 hunting. There was a feline grace about her hands ; they 
 moved with flexible precision over the keys. Suddenly 
 she looked up, saw the listener and stopped playing 
 abruptly. 
 
 "I didn't know I had an audience," she said with a note 
 of inquiry in her voice. 
 
 "Don't stop," replied Fielding, starting toward her. 
 
 She gave him a look of appraisal. 
 
 "Won't you please play that again?" he asked.
 
 GOLD SHOD 155 
 
 "If you like." 
 
 He stood listening with critical pleasure to the texture 
 and coloring of her playing. Her sensitive hands, com- 
 pounded of strength and understanding, fascinated him. 
 She finished the piece, and struck a few liquid meditative 
 chords. 
 
 "I saw you dancing," he said. 
 
 "It was so stupid," she answered. 
 
 "Watching you wasn't. Then I lost track of you. 
 I thought you had gone." 
 
 "Do you care for Chopin?" 
 
 "Play anything." 
 
 His eyes were feeding upon her hands. It occurred 
 to him that music could issue from those hands almost with- 
 out contact with the key-board. 
 
 "Do you mind my being in here with you?" ae asked. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "My name is Glinden," he said. 
 
 "Yes, I know. Some one pointed you out." 
 
 "And yours, may I ask?" 
 
 "Olgarth." 
 
 "Miss Olgarth," he repeated. "What else?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Your first name." 
 
 "Brenda." 
 
 "I like it." 
 
 She was playing again, but not quite as calmly as be- 
 fore, and now and then she hit the wrong note. Her trace 
 of agitation did not escape him; but added to (her 
 charm. 
 
 "I've got to go," she said abruptly. "They'll be won- 
 dering where I am." 
 
 "Let me take you downstairs." 
 
 "I'd rather you wouldn't." 
 
 "All right. This has been charming of you. I want 
 to see you again." 
 
 "Good night," she said again, and hurried away. 
 
 He caught a glimpse of her when she was leaving the
 
 156 GOLD SHOD 
 
 club. In her eyes was a glistening look of recognition, 
 but she did not nod or speak. 
 
 The man with the highball face, standing nearby, saw 
 the look in Fielding's eyes. Turning to a companion, he 
 remarked : 
 
 "Some one please page Mrs. Glinden. Fielding seems 
 to be skidding." 
 
 Fine, dry snowflakes were sifting through the night air 
 and lodging in the brown turf in front of the club, when 
 Fielding entered his car and started for home. He could 
 think only of Brenda. Every thought of her was fused 
 with impressions of music. His image of her was insep- 
 arable from melodies that flowed and ebbed; its texture 
 was harmonic. Every hue and shading and light and 
 line seemed to have sound. 
 
 But when he had reached his home, and was surrounded 
 again by its familiar objects, all of which brought back 
 thoughts of Beth, the singular charm of Brenda Olgarth 
 receded into unreality. The fragments of their conver- 
 sation at the piano, the glow in her temperamental eyes 
 now seemed only to have been imagined. 
 
 At his desk the next day he was absent-minded and de- 
 tached. The plant's towering brick smoke-stack, with 
 the name Bennett running from top to bottom in emphatic 
 lettering, and the great spread of factory buildings vis- 
 ible from his window brought no contented reflection that 
 he was now in command of this ambitious enterprise. 
 He would rather have been wandering unknown through 
 the streets of Detroit, searching pensively for Brenda 
 Olgarth. 
 
 ". . . Half of these dealers are laying down on us 
 again," an assistant sales manager was complaining. 
 
 "Call a dealers' convention," answered Fielding. "Get 
 them down here and we'll inject some action into them." 
 
 Quick decisions had become a habit with him. 
 
 The next afternoon, he drove to the lagoon on Belle Isle, 
 strapped on a pair of skates, and descended upon the
 
 GOLD SHOD 157 
 
 ice. It was like a sheet of platinum, etched with innumer- 
 able scrolls, weighted down at its edges by uneven heaps 
 of snow, bluish-gray in color. Beyond rose the trees 
 of the park, some of them still brown with unfallen 
 leaves. 
 
 Fielding glided gravely from end to end of the pond. 
 The soft g-r-r-r of his hockey-skates, the swinging rhythm 
 of his flight, the brush of the cool air against his face 
 were exhilarating. Although he had not come with the 
 hope of finding Brenda among the skaters, he was filled 
 with rousing impressions of her. 
 
 It amused him to think that he had run away like this 
 from his desk he, president of the Bennett Motor Com- 
 pany. He chuckled at the absurdity of it. Suddenly 
 he no longer chuckled, for he had caught sight of a skat- 
 ing figure that resembled Brenda Olgarth. He swerved 
 and glided forward in pursuit. Overtaking her, he verified 
 the impression that it was she. 
 
 "Ah, Mademoiselle, I'm in luck," he exclaimed. 
 
 "Mr. Glinden !" she gasped. 
 
 "It must have been an intuition that made me think 
 of going skating to-day," he said delightedly. 
 
 He took her hands and they moved slowly over the ice 
 together, Fielding skating backward. The warmth of 
 her arms entered his hands and streamed graciously 
 through him. He was dazzled by this nearness to her, 
 by their united motion. The skaters all around them 
 receded for Fielding into the phantom figures of a world 
 of shadows. He was conscious only of Brenda, of the 
 fragrance of her face, the brush of her garments against 
 him, the tint and texture of her skin, the pull and warmth 
 of her hands, the measured motion of her flexible body. 
 
 "Getting tired?" 
 
 "No, I just want to keep going," she said. 
 
 The indefatigability of her youth entered Fielding and 
 traveled through his veins and sinews. All the girls that 
 he had fearfully adored as a boy seemed suddenly to 
 have been molded into this vivid creature before him; it
 
 158 GOLD SHOD 
 
 was as if she had been sent to him in glorious compensation 
 for the vanquished longings of those empty days. 
 
 Brenda's features by daylight were even more satis- 
 factory to him than they had been by night. The tissue 
 of glamor through which she had first appeared to him, 
 persisted. He remembered faces of women that had 
 seemed flawless to him in repose, only to grow cheapened 
 and to lose everything when they smiled. Brenda's smile 
 bore out and amplified every promise of her fine features. 
 
 "I was glad to have seen you again for a moment be- 
 fore you left the dance the other night," he told her. 
 "Only I failed to see whom you were with. I wonder if 
 I know any of your people." 
 
 "I hardly think so." 
 
 "Where do you study music?" he inquired. 
 
 "Boston Conservatory." 
 
 "Then you're just here for the holidays?" he asked, 
 disappointed. 
 
 The early darkness of the winter evening was descend- 
 ing. Patches of smoky red colored the west ; the ice grew 
 grayer; arc lights glared above the snowy banks. 
 
 "It's late. I must be going," said Brenda. 
 
 "I'll drive you home in my car." 
 
 They stalked to the shelter house. Bending reverently 
 before her, Fielding unstrapped her skates. The build- 
 ing was filled with a close, steaming warmth after the 
 frosty air of the pond. From the refreshment counter 
 came the smells of cider, coffee, hot chocolate, ice cream, 
 peanuts, molasses candy, and damp leather. Boisterous 
 talk and laughter rang out. But Fielding was unaware 
 of anything but the girl in front of whom he was bending, 
 unstrapping her skates and touching with awe the leather 
 of her shoes. 
 
 Emerging from the shelter house, they started for the 
 car. Their feet tingled. Walking seemed fettered after 
 the swinging motion of skating. 
 
 Fielding was thinking of another afternoon on the ice, 
 years before when he was an awkward boy. He had been
 
 GOLD SHOD 159 
 
 skating with one of his youthful divinities, and had been 
 mightily in love. The moment they left the ice, a con- 
 straint had arisen between them ; neither knew what to 
 say ; with a sinking heart he had felt himself losing all the 
 sentimental ground he had gained while skating with her; 
 he had lacked the courage and the technique to express 
 what he wanted to say to her. His opportunity had 
 beamed and gone out. He had been too fastidious to 
 utter stale and stupid sentimentalities. He had gone 
 home crushed and defeated. It had been a tragedy to 
 him to be young. Devastating losses had littered the 
 roads of his boyhood. 
 
 Fielding put Brenda into his car and crawled in beside 
 her. The car rolled forward over the snowy road. 
 
 "I can't imagine a finer time of the year to have met 
 you," he said. "You're like a sort of Christmas pres- 
 ent." 
 
 "Your half-holiday has gone to your head," she laughed. 
 
 "It has gone to my head, to my feet, to my heart, and 
 all through me, my sparkling friend. I feel like a kid 
 to-day. I have fallen recklessly in love and I don't give 
 a hang who knows it." 
 
 "How alarming," said Miss Olgarth. 
 
 "That's encouraging," replied Fielding. "A reason- 
 able amount of alarm is a sine qua non of all well-managed 
 flirtations." 
 
 "Why are you stopping the car?" demanded Miss 
 Olgarth. . 
 
 "I'm going to kiss you," he said, and carried out the 
 threat. 
 
 "You didn't ask permission to do that," she protested. 
 
 "I was afraid you'd say no. You see I too am not 
 without appropriate alarm." 
 
 "It's a funny way for a big business man like you to 
 act." 
 
 "I don't agree with you. It's entirely natural. You 
 are intoxicating. You compel me to adore you." 
 
 "Aren't you going to drive on?"
 
 160 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "No, I'm going to talk to you while I have the chance." 
 
 "All right. Your nonsense is interesting. But I for- 
 bid you to take any more liberties," said Brenda gayly. 
 
 "I'll compromise to the extent of a semi-liberty," he 
 said, taking her hand. "That's comfortable. Now tell 
 me, why do you characterize my attitude as nonsense?'* 
 
 "There are two good reasons. One is your wife and 
 the other is a very charming man in Boston to whom I'm 
 engaged." 
 
 "Fm glad he's in Boston. But neither reason inter- 
 feres with my devotion to you." 
 
 "Don't you love your wife?" 
 
 "Yes, of course. She is a very remarkable woman." 
 
 "Beautiful, I hear." 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "Out-of-sight, out-of-mind?" 
 
 "No. I am quite devoted to her. Nevertheless it is 
 possible to love more than one woman at a time. And 
 it is possible for a girl to care for two or more men 
 at a time. You, for example, must have found it difficult 
 to decide which of your suitors to become engaged to. 
 Each had his qualifications. An agreement to marry a 
 certain one doesn't destroy your interest in the others. 
 A woman usually does find herself regretting that she 
 didn't marry one of the others. It is the others that 
 always seem the most romantic. I question whether you'll 
 ever marry. Certainly not very soon." 
 
 "What makes you say that?" demanded Brenda Ol- 
 garth with interest. 
 
 "You're too much of an artist. Your love will be 
 hard to control. It will kindle often and flame to and 
 fro. You have temperament." 
 
 "What do you know about temperament and artists? 
 You're a business man." 
 
 Fielding smiled. 
 
 "When are you leaving town?" he asked. 
 
 "In a week." 
 
 "I am leaving next Monday. You'll be gone when I
 
 GOLD SHOD 161 
 
 get back. But I'm going to find you again. You're too 
 delightful to lose track of. I'm not going to pursue 
 you or to bother you ; that's one reason why you'll be 
 glad to see me when I turn up. It will be a comfort to 
 you to know that there is some one who can love you 
 without pestering you to death. I will even agree not to 
 try to see you again before I leave town next week. A 
 Christmas present should be put away and be kept festive 
 and uncommon." 
 
 Brenda looked at him with a curious interest in her 
 glowing eyes. 
 
 "Tempter," she answered.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 HE refused to state his business, and he refused to 
 give his name," said Fielding's secretary. 
 
 Fielding read the card "The Blasphemer." "Let him 
 in," he said, rising. The card had evoked one of the 
 most vivid memories in Fielding's life a feverish, slender 
 face, a vivacious charm, fluent gestures, eyes that might 
 have been a woman's. He wondered whether the Blas- 
 phemer had changed, whether that marvelous animation 
 still persisted. 
 
 "Well, how the hell are you?" demanded the visitor, 
 wringing Fielding's hand, and surveying the roomy splen- 
 dor of the president's office. 
 
 "You couldn't have done me a better turn,'* said Field- 
 ing. "I thought you were in Honolulu." 
 
 "Lord, I've been to a hundred places since Honolulu. 
 I'm going to New York. I'm through kicking around. 
 I'm through braying to all and sundry. I'm going to 
 work. God damn my irresponsible soul!" 
 
 Fielding slapped his desk. "I'll tell you what I'll do. 
 I'll provide you with a job and keep you on our pay-roll, 
 without expecting too much work from you. Then you 
 can write some more of those delightful imaginary con- 
 versations between gravestones in Graceland Cemetery." 
 
 "I wouldn't live in Detroit for all the rubles in Russia. 
 New York calls. It will act on me like strong drink. It 
 gets under the skin like a hypodermic. It makes you keep 
 going or get out." 
 
 Fielding listened with delight to the old familiar roar 
 and rant. 
 
 "In my most imaginative moments I never expected to 
 see you in such lofty eminence as this," waved the Blas- 
 phemer. "How did it happen? I ask to know. (This 
 
 162
 
 GOLD SHOD 163 
 
 isn't a damn bit like you. It bears the stamp of some 
 one else. You never had the itch for anything like this. 
 I envy you, pity you, rejoice with you and grieve with 
 you. It must be heaven. It must be unmitigated hell. 
 I suppose there are compensations a fine assortment of 
 exclusive luxuries reserved for you darlings of the gods." 
 
 "Tell me about yourself," said Fielding. "What have 
 you been writing?" 
 
 "Several very bad tragedies that nobody wants. If 
 one of them ever got produced, like Charlie Lamb, I should 
 probably help boo it off the stage myself. I don't blame 
 the producers I merely hate them. From what I read, 
 Broadway productions continue to be utterly lousy. But 
 for all of New York's blatant vulgarity, it is so big and 
 curious and impetuous that it can't become institutional- 
 ized. Thank God for that." 
 
 The Blasphemer was taken with a fit of coughing. 
 
 "This bastard cough!" he gasped. 
 
 "My doctor is a hound on coughs," said Fielding. 
 
 He rather dreaded the effect his visitor might have 
 on Beth, but he wanted them to meet and he wanted 
 him to see the establishment. He regretted that he had 
 neglected the Blasphemer. He thought of the many 
 others he had put in the way of better jobs, always with 
 ulterior objects of his own, always with the motive of 
 strengthening his useful friendships. He realized with 
 a shock that there had ceased to be anything generous 
 about him, that he had grown hard and crafty and 
 grasping. 
 
 When the butler bowed them in, Beth was looking her 
 best. To make the right impression upon Fielding's as- 
 sociates was a very serious business of hers. 
 
 "Mrs. Glinden," said Fielding, "let me present a very 
 dear friend of mine." 
 
 "I am always happy to meet one of Mr. Glinden's busi- 
 ness friends," she replied, shaking hands. 
 
 The Blasphemer bowed gravely. "I am hardly what 
 might be called a business friend," he answered.
 
 164 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "Mrs. Glinden," he continued, when they were seated 
 for dinner, "your husband is getting plutocratically and 
 appropriately fat.'* 
 
 "Beef has its advantages," said Fielding. "It's an 
 asset in business. It often helps bang home a point in 
 conference. I'd like to have your opinion of this claret." 
 
 "In die Augen schauen," replied the Blasphemer, lifting 
 his glass. "Very seductive indeed. Quite in the care- 
 fully-selected class of the cocktails we drank a moment 
 ago. Hardly of the same vintage, I might add, as that 
 we used to consume when we were poor devotees of the 
 arts in Chicago. But they were put down with relish 
 for all of that, Mrs. Glinden." 
 
 "I dare say," she responded. She had been studying 
 their guest. Not quite able to make up her mind whether 
 he was distinguished or common, she found herself antag- 
 onized. His voice was too loud to suit her; there was 
 hardly enough deference in his proud air. She tried to 
 remember whether Fielding had ever mentioned this fellow. 
 
 "Mr. Glinden has so often spoken of you," she said. 
 
 "You have driven him into business, I see. It was 
 my intention to hurl him into a different career." 
 
 "He had visions of my becoming a writer," put in 
 Fielding. "Our ambitions those days were essentially 
 literary." 
 
 "How amusing!" laughed Beth. "Did it want to be a 
 poet?" she said banteringly, turning to Fielding. 
 
 Fielding's eyes rebuked her. "My romantic instincts 
 have been safely ironed out of me," he observed drily. 
 "I have abandoned the motions of poetry for the more 
 lucrative poetry of motion." 
 
 "An epigram!" exclaimed Beth. 
 
 "Tell it with slugs. Stick x it in the house organ," said 
 the Blasphemer, emptying his glass. "Fielding," he de- 
 manded, "what are you driving at in your business any- 
 way if I may ask?" 
 
 "Power." 
 
 "What do you propose to do with it?"
 
 GOLD SHOD 165 
 
 "Enjoy it." 
 
 "You have a hell of an idea of enjoying yourself. 
 Power is the thing all your employees hate you for hav- 
 ing." 
 
 "Oh," thought Beth, "he's one of those Socialists." 
 
 "Envy me, perhaps," answered Fielding. 
 
 "I mean hate. They all want want you've got. 
 They're disappointed, and to be disappointed is to hate." 
 
 "Well, take the arts," replied Fielding. "The medi- 
 ocre in their disappointment hate the successful. There 
 is probably no greater disappointment in the world than 
 to be unable to express what another succeeds in ex- 
 pressing." 
 
 "The artist gives something. He creates. He en- 
 larges life itself," argued the Blasphemer. 
 
 "So does the man who runs a factory," said Beth im- 
 patiently. 
 
 "Certainly," said Fielding, coming to her support. "He 
 gives jobs and opportunity. He supplies goods." 
 
 "Drivel," responded the Blasphemer. 
 
 Beth surveyed their guest with an amused, superior 
 smile. 
 
 "What would you wear, if it were not for woolen mills?" 
 she asked. "What if there were no shoe factories, no 
 steel mills, no railroads? Civilization rests on its indus- 
 tries. If the industries stopped, progress would stop." 
 
 "Oh, sweet complacent mush," sighed the guest. 
 
 "I knew you would enjoy hearing him rave," said 
 Fielding. 
 
 "What do you want? An end of the industries?" in- 
 sisted Beth, amused again. 
 
 "No, I want plenty of smoke, plenty of production, 
 plenty of jobs. I'd just as soon have the world flooded 
 with merchandise, more of it all the time, and getting 
 cheaper all the time. But I want to see the stuff pro- 
 duced by fat-heads who can't do anything else. I hate 
 to see Fielding driven to it by this craze for power, and, 
 if you will pardon me, by an ambitious wife." He drank.
 
 166 GOLD SHOD 
 
 " 'An ambitious wife%" said Beth, nettled beyond dis- 
 cretion, "is rather essential to a man's career. I happen 
 to know that it has been no misfortune to Fielding that 
 I am ambitious." 
 
 In the silence which followed, Fielding heard Beth's toe 
 tap-tapping the chenille, and wondered why that faint, 
 familiar pulse of sound had never before played so arro- 
 gantly on his nerves. It took an effort of will to with- 
 draw his mind from the sudden contemplation of an emerg- 
 ing revelation of his position with this woman. He saw 
 the Blasphemer gazing non-committally into his empty 
 glass, and from force of habit sent the butler a reminding 
 signal. Then he was able to turn to Beth and remark 
 with self-possession: 
 
 "The Blasphemer here is going down to New York to 
 write a play." 
 
 "We shall attend its premiere" said Beth sweetly. 
 
 The Blasphemer bowed. 
 
 "But that takes time," said Fielding. "Meanwhile 
 you've got to live." 
 
 "There are plenty of swine who will be glad to employ 
 me." 
 
 "Here's one who will be glad to endow you." 
 
 "It would destroy me. I'd soften and grow weak, and 
 become a dilettant and write rot. I'd become a solemn 
 ass like other playwrights. A perfumed boudoir would 
 have wrecked Masefield; what made him was to have to 
 sweep up the sawdust in a bar." 
 
 "But you aren't well, man," protested Fielding. "I 
 don't like that cough. You can't perform under abuse." 
 
 "I'm not a machine. I'm a flame. I burn." 
 
 In spite of herself, Beth was caught by the intensity 
 of their guest. It was not lost on him. 
 
 "Fielding," he said with an odd simplicity, "your light ? 
 It hasn't quite gone out, has it?" 
 
 "There are times, old man, when I have my fancies. 
 But life isn't built of fancies. The deeper you get into 
 business, the tighter it holds you," answered Fielding.
 
 GOLD SHOD 167 
 
 He was conscious of Beth's approval before he heard 
 the Blasphemer explode: 
 
 "Weakling!" 
 
 Beth gave the Blasphemer a look of sleet. 
 
 "Besides," said Fielding easily, "I owe something to my 
 wife, you know." 
 
 "There's no limit," scoffed the Blasphemer, "to what 
 wives want. When they have everything obtainable, then 
 they fix their minds on the unobtainable bottomless vats 
 of acquisitiveness." 
 
 "Wives," Fielding said, "are of course primarily con- 
 servative." 
 
 "Wives," snarled the Blasphemer, "are primarily pigs !"
 
 CHAPTER XH 
 
 BETH had let herself become pregnant, best evidence 
 that she now regarded Fielding's position as secure. 
 
 But Fielding was not elated. This new life on its way 
 to them could only mean another fetter binding him to 
 Beth. But he was quick to perceive that with Beth's 
 attention centered upon their child instead of upon him, 
 he would be relieved of the incessant strain of Beth's 
 concern with every move he made in business. It would 
 furnish a welcome interruption to the deadly necessity 
 of thinking business and talking business at home as well 
 as at the office. 
 
 Already the novelty of the new life within her had taken 
 commanding possession of Beth's interest. In this new 
 freedom Fielding found himself reviving long-suppressed 
 temperamental trends. The glimmer of old tendencies 
 began sifting back upon him in golden rays. The embers 
 of smoldering dreams were fanned into new burning. The 
 banished hues of old friendships with books began lend- 
 ing him their warm luster again. 
 
 The sleeping artist in him was awaking. He no longer 
 saw the streams of motor cars on the avenues as com- 
 posed of power-plants, chasses, transmissions, gears, and 
 steering-columns. He began to see them in terms of form, 
 line, color, rhythm. He became acutely sensitive to har- 
 mony and its absence in the structure and appearance of 
 cars. Once, when designs for a new series of Bennetts 
 were brought to him, he went over them in critical silence. 
 
 "They won't do," he said finally. "They're ugly. 
 See how you break up your lines. Look at the slant of 
 your hood with reference to your tonneau. Look at your 
 windshield. And there's something wrong with the top. 
 As a color job, that roadster is atrocious. It jars; it 
 
 168
 
 GOLD SHOD 169 
 
 hurts. I'm not enough of an artist to say what is wrong 
 and why. But this stuff is faulty all the way through." 
 
 The chief body designer scowled. 
 
 "Let's call in some people who know something about 
 these things," snapped Fielding. 
 
 "We have one of the best body engineers in the in- 
 dustry," said one of the vice-presidents. 
 
 "It isn't right pictorially. It needs better composi- 
 tion and coherence," replied Fielding. 
 
 These practical automobile men hardly knew what 
 Glinden was talking about. But they sensed that here 
 was something they could capitalize and merchandise, 
 something that might give them the jump on their com- 
 petitors. 
 
 "I see what you mean," said the sales manager with 
 interest. "Get some artist guys in here and see what 
 they can suggest. Let's have something with more class 
 to it." 
 
 Fielding entered upon a series of strange consultations. 
 He talked to an eminent architect. He visited the studio 
 of a famous portrait painter. He brought to the factory 
 an effeminate little Frenchman whose fetish was color. 
 He summoned a noted interior decorator. A new car was 
 born. Its "refinements" were in marked and superior 
 taste. New names were invented for its various color 
 options. A search through the terminology of India's 
 and Egypt's conveyances unearthed striking names for its 
 various enclosed models. A new advertising agency, cel- 
 ebrated for its studio atmosphere and artistic work, was 
 retained to exploit the new Bennett car. It was regarded 
 as so much better than previous models that prices were 
 at once substantially increased. 
 
 Beth was delighted! But Fielding found himself only 
 vaguely satisfied. He hungered to live other lives. At 
 his desk, he kept his attention focussed upon his business. 
 Away from it, he seemed to have entered a different world. 
 Evenings he was no longer the brisk, decisive, dictatorial 
 personage he was by day. After nightfall, he slipped
 
 170 GOLD SHOD 
 
 into moody detachment, pensive and forlorn, and felt 
 strangely like the boy he had been, wandering curiously 
 about the streets of Chicago at night, listening with dis- 
 turbed rapture to the voices of pianos, looking at lamplit 
 windows and lonely gates, gazing at the skies, humming 
 melodies of his own, wanting no companionship but his 
 own reflections. 
 
 Occasionally, bored with motor cars, he set out on foot 
 from the factory. These rambles on late afternoons in 
 April were revelations to him. He discovered that he had 
 almost forgotten how to walk he had grown fat and 
 stodgy in his own cars. He grew to hate the arrogance of 
 motorists toward pedestrians, and to look dubiously upon 
 the raging torrents of cars with which he was helping 
 to flood the country. On these walks, he thought often 
 of the Blasphemer, and agreed more and more with his 
 blasphemies. About the same time oddly he thought 
 he began remembering Brenda Olgarth, and wondered 
 whether he should ever see her again. 
 
 By degrees, the president realized that after dusk he 
 was a different man, engaged with different thoughts, 
 reacting entirely differently to life. 
 
 "That Berlin importer is here," declared the sales man- 
 ager to Glinden, having rung him up at his home. 
 
 "Well, what about it ?" asked Fielding, indifferently. 
 
 "He's got to leave for Chicago at midnight. If you 
 can arrange to come down to the club and talk to him, 
 I think we can close a big contract," urged the other. 
 
 "I can't be bothered. You sell him." 
 
 "I'll see what I can do," said the other disappointed. 
 "What shall I do with him?" 
 
 "Oh, take him to a movie." 
 
 Fielding called no more night conferences with his 
 subordinates. He avoided business sessions at dinner. 
 He cultivated a different kind of friends. At night he 
 wanted people about him with creative minds. But he 
 could not tolerate poseurs, people who pretended to write 
 or pretended to be musicians. He frequently had a local
 
 GOLD SHOD 171 
 
 novelist at his home, a young mystic who had come through 
 hell into the beginnings of eminence in his field. He 
 invited visiting virtuosos, not to patronize them, not to 
 have them meet his friends, or to show them off, or mate 
 them play, but to talk to them about their art, how they 
 worked, what they sought to express. He gladly let him- 
 self be imposed upon by wandering poets, by painters with 
 local exhibitions, for he now felt secure enough in his 
 business position to allow himself these liberties. 
 
 To these follies, Beth, of course, objected strenuously. 
 
 "Why on earth do you want people like that running in 
 here?" she demanded. "They do you no good. They 
 just work you and waste your time. They all remind 
 me of that insulting Blasphemer." 
 
 "They rest me," replied Fielding. 
 
 Fielding's library grew by jumps. The great Russians 
 found their way to his bookshelves : Tolstoi, Turgenev, 
 Dostoyevsky, Chekov. He renewed his acquaintance with 
 Shakespeare, Marlowe, Jonson, and with Lamb, Hunt, 
 and Hazlitt. He rediscovered Goethe. He threw open 
 his doors to the sunlight that poured from the volumes 
 of Jean-Christophe. He came under the tantalizing spell 
 of the decadents : Baudelaire, Verlaine, de Gourmont, 
 Sudermann, Oscar Wilde, George Moore, Arthur Schnitz- 
 ler, Anatole France. For weeks at a time he dwelt with 
 Thomas Hardy under the melancholy skies of Wessex. 
 
 Sometimes, fortified by all the soothing luxuries of his 
 study, he strove to write and felt like a boy at school. 
 He wondered what had become of his old English teacher. 
 It crossed his mind at times to get in touch with him; 
 perhaps he might do something. . . . Then he would re- 
 coil from the patronizing thought. What could he do 
 for a man like that? What need had the other of any 
 favors this teacher who knew how to comb the adolescent 
 minds of Chicago's Northwest Side for sparks of under- 
 standing, for jets of genius? 
 
 Fielding's writing flitted from form to form. He began 
 the outline of a naturalistic novel, wrote parts of the
 
 172 GOLD SHOD 
 
 opening chapter, then threw it away. He wrote frag- 
 mentary things without beginnings or endings. Some- 
 times he would fuss with a scene for a play or with verse, 
 toying with words, rhythm, and lilt. 
 
 He had embarked upon two different lives, the one 
 known and approved by the world in which he lived, and 
 the other a secret. Only the Blasphemer knew of Field- 
 ing's divided life. 
 
 "I'm after two things," Fielding had written him. 
 "But instead of hating one of my activities and enjoying 
 the other, I propose to enjoy them both. I feel that 
 I am making definite headway each day in both directions. 
 The one effort feeds the other. They seem to balance 
 each other. I too shall write. You will hear from me." 
 
 "You poor fish!" roared the Blasphemer in reply. 
 "Don't talk like a God damn fool. Either you'll be a good 
 business man and a vile artist, or you'll be a decent artist 
 and a rotten man of affairs. Do you think you can 
 serve two masters?"
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 YOU'RE crazy," exclaimed Fielding impatiently, dis- 
 missing the easy optimism of Wayland Emmett. 
 "The thing has been brewing too long. It will last two 
 years, if not longer. We'll have a hell of a time getting 
 steel for cars. By God, we'll have a time getting men. 
 Watch them try to produce enough munitions to feed 
 fronts like these." 
 
 Emmett had come to New York at Fielding's sudden 
 request. 
 
 "Do you suppose for a minute that the American people 
 are going to do without cars?" demanded Emmett. 
 
 "They'll do without new cars. And they'll do with- 
 out a lot of other things before this idiotic war is over. 
 I wish I were manufacturing trucks ! They need trucks." 
 
 "Why don't you make trucks?" 
 
 "It would take us six months to convert our plant 
 for trucks. And it might take twelve. By that time 
 every factory now making trucks will be loaded down 
 with contracts for all the product they can turn out for 
 the next two years. We're too late. There's not a 
 chance. How does your crowd in Cleveland feel?" 
 
 "Not so good." 
 
 "The business of this country is going to get one vio- 
 lent churning-up," continued Glinden. "How we're go- 
 ing to meet this condition, I don't know. Nobody else 
 knows. It's going to mean some awful grief and some 
 huge opportunities for some of the men who can act fast 
 enough. Wall Street is groggy. My brain hurts from 
 trying to expand itself into the dimensions of the thing." 
 
 "My own feeling is that the demand for pleasure cars 
 is going to keep right on," observed Emmett. 
 
 "Pleasure cars! Why, damn it, if this thing lasts a 
 
 173
 
 174 GOLD SHOD 
 
 year, the world won't even tolerate the name pleasure 
 car." 
 
 Fielding had moved to a window. He turned abruptly. 
 
 "The truck manufacturers must be poorly organized 
 to supply Europe." 
 
 "What about it? Trucks will sell themselves," Emmett 
 replied. 
 
 "Nothing sells itself. Not now, at any rate, when the 
 whole world is filled with fear and uncertainty. Here's 
 what I wanted to see you about. There's a chance for 
 some one to jump in and force the representatives of 
 the governments at war to deal with a single, compact 
 American sales unit. That sales unit can handle the 
 disposition of millions of dollars' worth of trucks. That 
 sales unit, if it has the confidence of the truck manufac- 
 turers, can obtain contracts for their whole output of 
 trucks for export for the duration of the war. It can 
 tie up trucks for export so tight that both the Entente 
 commissions and the German commissions will have to 
 deal with it. It can get trucks at the usual dealers' dis- 
 counts, and sell them at a fat premium. Having tied up 
 trucks for export, it can do the same thing with other 
 necessities of war munitions, steel, food, shoes, clothing, 
 and all kinds of supplies. This country will be the sup- 
 ply station for billions of dollars' worth of stuff.'* 
 
 "Can trucks for export be tied up that way?" 
 
 "Why can't they? I tell you the truck people aren't 
 organized. They haven't got the men to keep camping 
 in Washington and in New York. And they haven't time 
 to train new men. Some one will act and act quick. 
 I'm going to be that some one. Will you join me?" 
 
 "You're firing that question at me point-blank," coun- 
 tered Emmett. 
 
 "It's got to be answered point-blank," said Fielding. 
 
 "I'll join you if we can get the right contracts," said 
 Emmett. "It will take capital. The manufacturers will 
 require big money to bind the contracts. Have you got 
 the money?"
 
 GOLD SHOD 175 
 
 "Certainly not," returned Fielding. 
 
 "Can you get it?" 
 
 "I'm going to try." 
 
 "What about Dufresne?" 
 
 Fielding shook his head. "Dufresne would hog a thing 
 like this." 
 
 "Has Bennett any money?" 
 
 "Bennett is raising prunes in California and couldn't 
 be dragged East with a tractor. Besides, he thinks I 
 double-crossed him. Did you ever hear of Marven F. 
 Hopewell?" 
 
 "I know the name." 
 
 "I have an appointment with him to-morrow. I think 
 perhaps I can interest him." 
 
 Far into the night, Fielding and Emmett tested, dis- 
 carded, or tentatively adopted strategical moves. At 
 eleven the next morning, Fielding presented himself at 
 Hopewell's office in Nassau Street. The financier was 
 now about forty-five years old a tall, august personage, 
 with a calmness becoming to one who had inherited a 
 large fortune, who had doubled it in sugar importations, 
 and was now an investment banker of note. The watery 
 blue iris of his eyes surrounded large gleaming pupils; 
 his gaze passed to and fro over Fielding's face like the 
 blade of a knife. Fielding, who had fully thought out his 
 plan, outlined it with deliberation. He was convincing 
 about his own and Emmett's qualifications to seek the 
 contracts. He enlarged respectfully upon the advantages 
 of Hopewell's social connections in diplomatic circles in 
 Washington. 
 
 "I'm not well enough informed on automobile conditions 
 to be much of a judge," Hopewell said finally. "But sup- 
 pose I talk to Dufresne.'* 
 
 "That would be a mistake," said Fielding firmly. 
 "There is plenty of money to be made in this thing if 
 we act secretly and quickly. Too many cooks would 
 spoil the broth. It may be too late even now. But unless 
 some one has beaten us to it, which I question, I can per-
 
 176 GOLD SHOD 
 
 sonally guarantee our ability to close the contracts. We 
 should require immediate credit of several millions," he con- 
 tinued. "I should leave on the first train for Detroit ; 
 Emmett would go at once to Cleveland and Buffalo. Tel- 
 egrams would precede us, outlining enough of the project 
 to enable the manufacturers to discuss it to-morrow morn- 
 ing with their associates. We would be able to wire you 
 as to the results of the first interview to-morrow after- 
 noon." 
 
 "I'll have to think it over," Hopewell answered. "On 
 what basis do you consider that you and Mr. Emmett and 
 I should share the profits if we were to proceed?" 
 
 "Forty per cent of the net for you, forty for me, and 
 twenty for Emmett." 
 
 "I'm sorry, Mr. Glinden, but that wsuldn't interest 
 me." The tone was suave, but not quite final. 
 
 "Very well, sir. I'm sorry to have taken up your time 
 and mine," said Fielding, rising to go. "If you should 
 change your mind, you can reach me at the Biltmore." 
 
 Fielding left Hopewell's office without regrets. The 
 grasping propensities of these New York financial men 
 were not new to him. He considered Hopewell under obli- 
 gations to him for placing this opportunity within his 
 reach, and had tried to make that clear to him. 
 
 On his way to the hotel, Fielding half wished that he 
 might never hear from Hopewell again. One side of him 
 protested loudly against this deeper plunge into commer- 
 cial affairs, offering stern resistance to the lust for gain 
 and power that had recently been machining his ambition 
 into this pointed direction. Now that the reaction was 
 setting in, he began to see how sharply he had been moving 
 in the direction of Beth's notions. 
 
 Wayland Emmett listened disappointedly to Fielding's 
 report of the interview. 
 
 "This man Hopewell must be a stuffed shirt," said 
 Emmett. 
 
 "No, I think we'll hear from him." 
 
 At nine o'clock that evening, Hopewell telepiio^ad ; he
 
 GOLD SHOD 177 
 
 invited Glinden to call upon him again in the morning. 
 
 "I have an important appointment in Wall Street to- 
 morrow that may occupy all morning, and another in the 
 afternoon. I'm sorry," replied Fielding. 
 
 "Are you free this evening?" asked the banker. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then why not run up to my home?" 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 Wayland Emmett, who was in the room, asked : "Where 
 are your appointments for to-morrow?" 
 
 "At an old bookshop in lower Broadway," smiled 
 Fielding. 
 
 Five days later, Glinden, Hopewell, and Emmett con- 
 vened in HopewelTs office. There lay on the desk formal 
 contracts with twelve of the leading truck manufacturers, 
 covering their entire production of trucks and parts for 
 export for one year, with renewal clauses providing ex- 
 tension for an equal period on identical terms if the war 
 should continue beyond that time. The form of the con- 
 tracts had been carefully drawn on the way to Detroit 
 by Hopewell's attorney, who had accompanied Field- 
 ing. 
 
 Application had been made for the incorporation of 
 The Motor Export Corporation to do a general exporting 
 business. Glinden was elected president of the new com- 
 pany, while he retained the presidency of the Bennett 
 Company. Emmett resigned from his Cleveland connec- 
 tion. New York offices for the new company were being 
 sought by Hopewell's agents. 
 
 "You men have moved faster than I expected," com- 
 mented the financier with satisfaction. 
 
 "Mr. Emmett is leaving at once for Europe," said 
 Fielding. 
 
 "What?" said Emmett. 
 
 "We can save time and money through direct repre- 
 sentation there,*' explained Fielding. "The state depart- 
 ment will issue a passport for you to-day. The Maure-
 
 178 GOLD SHOD 
 
 tania sails to-morrow. We are cabling the various war 
 offices that you are on the way over." 
 
 "But I've got to talk to Mrs. Emmett about a trip like 
 that!" 
 
 "There's a telephone. Talk to her," said Fielding. 
 
 "Very well, I'll obey orders. Mr. Hopewell," he added, 
 "would you believe that a few years ago Mr. Glinden 
 was applying to me for a job?'* 
 
 "I wish he had applied to me," said Hopewell. 
 
 Looking back over the founding of the new enterprise, 
 Fielding Glinden came to realize that it was not his own 
 will that had driven him into it. Rather, it was a peculiar 
 fascination to see how far he could go with this idea, a 
 curiosity to find out how much power he could really 
 exert. 
 
 He remembered how he had come down to New York late 
 in July, ostensibly on business, but in reality to get away 
 from Beth and his business, and to indulge in that de- 
 licious pastime, when one is in his thirties and loaded 
 down with responsibilities, of sowing a second and more 
 deliberate crop of wild oats. With a delightful freedom 
 from misgivings, he had stepped to the brink of New 
 York's glistening stream of night life, cleaving its enticing 
 waters with an eager plunge. He had dined and danced 
 with numerous magnetic strangers, had made short-lived 
 love to sparkling young creatures of the cafes, and had 
 spent a luxurious week-end at Long Branch with a girl 
 so desirable that the parting had filled him with keen 
 regret. 
 
 Into the very midst of this conge, had burst the world- 
 roar of mobilization. Automatically, Fielding had thrust 
 himself into a warlike consciousness of commercial peril 
 and opportunity. He knew now that it had reclaimed 
 him relentlessly for Beth. Functioning as a trained busi- 
 ness man, he had again become her puppet.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 conference room of The Motor Export Corpora- 
 M. tion had rapidly become the scene of important 
 meetings between its officers and distinguished emissaries 
 from abroad. The unusual chamber was not only sound- 
 proof, but interruption-proof. It was windowless and 
 had no telephone connections with the outside world. The 
 unbroken walls displayed an extraordinary mural treat- 
 ment a map of the world. 
 
 "Mon Dieu, you Americans !" gasped a French general, 
 upon seeing it. 
 
 Fielding was practically a commuter between New York 
 and Detroit. Unwilling to relinquish the presidency of 
 the Bennett Motor Company even under the pressure of 
 his greater responsibilities in New York, he took an ironic, 
 almost malicious pleasure in punishing himself with in- 
 cessant activities in these fields that he still considered 
 foreign to his temperament. 
 
 "I don't see how you do it," Hopewell had repeatedly 
 remarked. "I think you're making a mistake to retain 
 that Detroit presidency, but I'm giving you credit for 
 knowing how far you can push yourself. You're one 
 of those fortunate devils with nothing but business on the 
 brain. And by Jove, you thrive upon it. I fancy you 
 have never had a distracting thought in your life. I 
 marvel that you ever took time to marry that charming 
 wife of yours. I imagine that you see so little of her 
 that you could use a letter of introduction." 
 
 "The first consignment of Bennett trucks will be ready 
 to ship a week from to-day," was Fielding's careless 
 reply. 
 
 "Bennett trucks? I didn't know your plant could 
 make trucks." 
 
 179
 
 180 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "We found a way to do it." 
 
 "What have you got? A magic carpet?" 
 
 "We work," said Fielding. 
 
 "Then you'd better sign a contract with yourself on 
 behalf of The Motor Export Corporation for all the 
 trucks you can build." 
 
 "I have done so." 
 
 "Glinden, I'm glad you induced me to go into business 
 with you. But on the other hand, you need some relaxa- 
 tion. I'm having a little party up at the apartment 
 to-night. Some engaging girls. I'm counting on your 
 being there." 
 
 "Sorry. I'm leaving on to-day's Wolverine for De- 
 troit." 
 
 "You're too moral. Don't you ever relax?" 
 
 Fielding and Dufresne shared the same stateroom to 
 Detroit. 
 
 "How are you making out with your export business?" 
 inquired Fielding's massive traveling companion. 
 
 "Quite successfully. We're getting pretty well organ- 
 ized. Our merchandising problem is fairly simple. The 
 subject of credits doesn't bother us; we do a cash busi- 
 ness and assume no delivery risks whatever." 
 
 "There has been some criticism of you for dividing 
 your time between these two businesses," remarked Du- 
 fresne. 
 
 "I suppose so," returned Fielding. "Do you feel that 
 way about it ?" 
 
 "Not in the least. I have no desire to surround my- 
 self with men of single interests. Your ability to convert 
 part of your plant for the production of trucks shows 
 that you are not neglecting your opportunities in Michi- 
 gan. It was a very commendable move. 
 
 "You are a man of a good deal of vitality," continued 
 Dufresne. "Don't waste it. On the other hand, don't 
 make the mistake of relying too much upon your ability 
 to make decisions unaided. That's a trap that has de-
 
 GOLD SHOD 181 
 
 stroyed many promising careers. Keep out among men. 
 I spend three or four months every year talking to deal- 
 ers. I like to sit on their porches with them and gossip. 
 These men are conducting their own businesses with their 
 own money; I have a profound respect for their views 
 because I can believe what they tell me. I generally dis- 
 trust manufacturers and the views of the men in my own 
 organizations. The former usually try to mislead me, 
 and the latter usually tell me what they think I want to 
 hear. But I know I am getting the truth at Iowa or 
 Indiana crossroads." 
 
 "Exactly," agreed Fielding, gazing with renewed inter- 
 est at the hulk of a man before him. "Your methods are 
 very different from those, for instance, of Bennett.'* 
 
 "Bennett relied too much on his own inspiration. I 
 never do. I don't lay claim to any special wisdom and I'm 
 not a genius. I can't make a quick decision. I never de- 
 cide a question until I've looked at it through the eyes 
 of hundreds of the dealers and the thousands of car own- 
 ers I've talked to. I'm 'Aleck' to any number of these 
 fellows, and I'm glad of it. I'd rather chew the rag for 
 five minutes with the owner of some wayside garage than 
 hear J. P. Morgan talk finances for five hours. It's 
 the plain people of this country that count." 
 
 "What's going to happen to the automobile industry 
 after the war?" asked Fielding. 
 
 Duf resne made a downward gesture with his big hands. 
 "The industry is going to be drunk with prosperity for a 
 while. Most manufacturers are going to lose their heads. 
 And then there's going to be a slump. You can't destroy 
 wealth without paying for it, and I look for a panic. 
 This industry will be especially hard hit because it will 
 be hard to trim the sails during a period such as this of 
 abnormal production regardless of cost. Those of us who 
 can see what is coming must exert a steadying and stabiliz- 
 ing influence," declared the consolidator. 
 
 Other business men would gladly have paid for the priv- 
 ilege of making such a journey with the great consolida-
 
 182 GOLD SHOD 
 
 tor; but as the train roared on, Fielding was tempted to 
 shriek out in protest. At length the language of his com- 
 panion sounded strange in his ears. At Buffalo, Du- 
 fresne was still talking, pouring his gospel of mass pro- 
 duction into Fielding's ears, until the listener felt as if 
 he were chained and being fed upon by this gargantuan 
 vulture of affairs. 
 
 He breakfasted with Dufresne on the train and listened 
 to some more earnestly-stated facts about merchandis- 
 ing. But it was a relief to be in the diner where he could 
 at least see some women. His eyes traveled from one 
 to another, and soon fixed upon one of them. Her back 
 was turned; the lines of her blue velvet dress refreshed 
 him; her cheek had charm. He looked closer, and saw 
 that it was Peggie Sheehan. 
 
 Fielding went to her. 
 
 "Hello! I wish I had known you were aboard,'* he 
 said. 
 
 "Well, cutie!" replied the other, looking at him with 
 delight and offering her hand. 
 
 He gazed at her with famished eyes. 
 
 "I'm mad at you," she returned. "You haven't looked 
 me up in a year." 
 
 "I've been swamped with work." 
 
 "How long are you going to be in Detroit?" she de- 
 manded. "About a day, I suppose. 'Saturday flit, short 
 sit.' " 
 
 "Long enough to renew my friendship with you, little 
 charmer." 
 
 "You'd better," she said, touching his hand quickly with 
 hers. 
 
 Her vague perfume made enchanting inroads upon his 
 imagination. He could almost feel her smooth forearm 
 around his neck again. Her eyes were bewitching, her 
 voice consoling. She didn't have much intelligence, but 
 she knew how to love. 
 
 "Wifey meeting you?" she asked. 
 
 "No."
 
 GOLD SHOD 183 
 
 "Then come on up with me. We're nearly in." 
 
 "I wish I could," he answered. "But I'm with a man." 
 
 "Shake him." 
 
 "I'll try." 
 
 "I'm in the second coach back. I'll wait there," said 
 Peggie. 
 
 Fielding returned to his own coach with Dufresne. 
 
 "I thought I'd run up to the house and get into some 
 fresh clothes," he said, when the train was pulling into the 
 station. 
 
 "All right. Suppose you pick me up at my hotel at 
 half past ten. The directors' meeting is set for eleven." 
 
 "Very well, sir." 
 
 With singular eagerness, Fielding made his way to 
 Peggie's coach, and together they entered a taxi and drove 
 to her apartment. 
 
 It was an evening of apple blossoms and coral skies. 
 Fielding and Beth were seated on a rustic bench on their 
 lawn. 
 
 "We've become almost strangers to each other," said 
 Beth. "It's a pity for you to have to be separated 
 so much from the baby. He's getting cuter every 
 day." 
 
 "Yes, I know. We'll open an establishment in New 
 York early in the fall and all be together." 
 
 "Are you sure you want to be?" 
 
 Fielding looked at her closely. "Certainly. Why 
 shouldn't I?" 
 
 "I don't want a thing to interfere with your business." 
 
 Fielding felt the chains of responsibility, which had 
 fallen marvelously away from him during his morning 
 visit with Peggie, tightening around him once more. 
 
 "Sometimes I can hardly realize that you're accomp- 
 lishing all these great tilings," continued Beth. "Nothing 
 must interfere." 
 
 "Too bad I've had to neglect you so much of late." 
 
 "What's this ?" asked Beth, picking up a card that had
 
 184 GOLD SHOD 
 
 fallen to the ground when Fielding drew a handkerchief 
 from his pocket. 
 
 "Let me see," he replied, reaching for it. 
 
 Beth looked sharply at the card. It bore the name 
 "Peggie" and telephone number. She directed a search- 
 ing look at Fielding. 
 
 "Peggie?" she asked inquisitively. 
 
 "A 3 7 oung woman I met on the train this morning." 
 
 "What sort of a young woman?" 
 
 "Oh, just a girl that used to sell me flowers. Wants 
 me to patronize her flower-stand again." 
 
 "Oh, this is her business phone?'* 
 
 "Presumably." 
 
 "But this is a residence exchange." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Fielding, I don't believe you," said Beth, with a hard, 
 examining look. 
 
 "Good Lord, you don't suppose Fm running after an 
 ordinary little sales clerk?" 
 
 "I should hate to." 
 
 "Then forget it. I have worries enough without being 
 accused of this sort of thing," exclaimed Fielding, irri- 
 table in spite of himself. 
 
 "What makes you angry?" 
 
 Fielding took a turn on the lawn, then faced her. 
 "Now look here, Beth, you're laboring under an absurd 
 notion. Dismiss it. If you think for five minutes that 
 I have time to chase women, get over it. Why, you've 
 driven and driven and driven me deeper and deeper into 
 business until I'm so surrounded with responsibilities that 
 I can't think of anything else." 
 
 Beth gasped. "What did you want to do remain a 
 cheap little clerk?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm not complaining. I'm simply telling you 
 that I haven't the time for philandering, even if I had 
 the inclination. And under the circumstances, it's a 
 damned ungracious thing of you to talk to me like this." 
 He thrust his hands angrily into his pockets.
 
 GOLD SHOD 185 
 
 Beth's eyes blazed. Her face had gone white. 
 
 "Let me tell you this," she said sternly. "I know a 
 thing or two about men. I know they aren't saints. If 
 you ever do try any funny business, don't you dare 
 humiliate me by falling for a common little strumpet. 
 I'd never forgive you. The idea of you>r having a card 
 like this in your pocket!" she ended, tearing it into bits 
 that scattered on the grass.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 IN the following months, as the baby made fewer and 
 fewer demands on her time, Beth became increasingly 
 engrossed in her plans for a New York establishment. 
 In October they took a house in East Sixtieth Street, 
 and hired a butler, a cook, a French maid for Beth, a 
 nurse for the baby, and a chauffeur. Fielding's mother 
 came on for a visit; so did Beth' s mother and Ellis. 
 These visitors all rejoiced over Fielding's achievements, 
 and fairly gloated over the magnificence in which he and 
 Beth were living. 
 
 The first fiscal year of The Motor Export Corporation 
 had shown profits of more than two million dollars, and 
 Fielding's office had become the rendezvous of Allied High 
 Commissioners. He had made a brief trip to London, 
 and had spent weeks at a time in Washington. 
 
 Beth, who had counted upon a resumption of her for- 
 mer close business partnership with her husband when 
 they should move to New York was deeply disappointed 
 to find that things did not work out that way. She felt 
 more and more neglected and out of it. She considered 
 herself the builder of Fielding's success and viewed with 
 embittered resentment his growing avoidance of discussing 
 business matters with her. Her child, her home, her cars, 
 clothes, jewels, and receptions did not compensate her for 
 being kept in ignorance of the strategies behind these vast 
 shipments of supplies to Europe. 
 
 "What did Mr. Hopewell want?" she inquired when 
 Fielding rejoined her in the library after a long telephone 
 conversation. 
 
 "We've got to see a couple of jabbering Frenchmen in 
 the morning." 
 
 "How are the new trucks standing up?" 
 
 186
 
 GOLD SHOD 187 
 
 "Pretty well. Now, for heaven's sake don't ask me 
 to go over all that again ! It interests me a good deal 
 more to know how this Italian furniture is standing up." 
 
 Beth gave him a tragic look. "You never take me into 
 your confidence any more," she complained. 
 
 "I haven't the strength to sit here and hash over every 
 phase of the business with you." 
 
 "You used to be very glad to. And I was of help to 
 you, if I do say it myself." 
 
 "I owe everything I've got to you," admitted Fielding. 
 
 Beth's face brightened. 
 
 "And you have certainly not permitted me to forget it. 
 Now that you've made a human cash register out of me, 
 I hope you're happy," he added lightly. 
 
 "That's a nasty remark to make to me," Beth spoke 
 in a tone of disillusion. "To hear you talk, one would 
 think that to be president of two wonderful concerns in- 
 stead of assistant to a mere sales manager is a sort of 
 martyrdom." 
 
 Before going to bed, Fielding went to the front of the 
 house, unlocked the ponderous iron doors, and stood for a 
 moment in the cool entrance. The fashionable street was 
 now quiet. He thought of his boyhood wanderings 
 through Chicago streets at night, gazing at ruddy window- 
 panes and listening for the voices of pianos. He had 
 been far happier during those lonely, meditative years. 
 
 He re-entered the house and locked the forbidding 
 doors. Upstairs, he paused at the baby's bedroom beside 
 the nursery. The baby was a boy ; they had named him 
 Carter, after Beth's father. Fielding perceived in Car- 
 ter the same shyness, the same sadness and peculiar reac- 
 tions to music and sun and evening, the same recoil from 
 sternness, that had characterized his own early years. 
 
 Standing beside Carter's bedside, Fielding could almost 
 picture to himself the dreams that wove through the mind 
 of his son, the nightmares that still lingered in grotesque, 
 uncomprehended droves from the months of imprisonment 
 in the womb, and were now clashing with forebodings of
 
 188 GOLD SHOD 
 
 the struggles and fears of the future. As he watched 
 the baby from day to day Fielding had been oppressed 
 by the tragedies of being so young, the tragedies of 
 shut doors, of great heads of adults wagging "no" to him, 
 of coveted objects beyond his reach, of the blackness of 
 the bedchamber at night, the abrupt departure of loved 
 faces. He could understand the fear that must have 
 clutched at Carter's heart as he imagined terrible beings 
 crouching behind clocks and under rugs and behind chairs 
 and pictures. Fielding wished deeply he could have 
 viewed this child with simple, unimaginative paternal 
 pride. But he saw more, felt more, imagined more. He 
 wondered what lasting impressions were stealing into Car- 
 ter's soul, to sow their dark seeds of discontent, to keep 
 him harassed and distraught with subconscious forces 
 that never could be measured or understood. 
 
 Fielding went to bed, but could not sleep. His terrific 
 application to work had been weakening and pulling him 
 down. His mind continued to teem with a world of de- 
 tails; they swarmed through him ceaselessly, making his 
 broken sleep jumpy and distracted. With his will no 
 longer master, his unfinished tasks beat down upon him 
 like furies, filling the dark hours with torturing anxieties 
 that dramatized themselves into terrifying pantomime. 
 It seemed at times that he must jump to his feet and cry 
 out. 
 
 In the morning, he rose unrested, his nerves sore. He 
 limped into the bathroom and let a comforting stream 
 from the hot shower pour against the base of his skull. 
 Suddenly he gave a cry. A pain had jabbed him in the 
 side like a sword. He emerged from his bath weak and 
 shaky. At breakfast Beth took one look at him. "What's 
 the matter?" she demanded. 
 
 "There's something the matter with my side. Feels 
 as if I had a broken rib." 
 
 "You'd better see a doctor." 
 
 The discomfort increased. Within a few days getting 
 into his clothes after a night of pain was like strapping
 
 GOLD SHOD 189 
 
 himself into a strait-jacket. Finally he called, by ap- 
 pointment, at the office of a distinguished physician tall, 
 slim, gray-haired, business-like. He wore a white jacket, 
 and sat at a massive walnut desk. Beside him was a nurse 
 with a stenographic note-book. 
 
 "Sit down, Mr. Glinden," said the physician. "What 
 made you wince when you sat down?" 
 
 "I have a pain in my right side. I want to know what 
 it is, and how to get rid of it." 
 
 "What's your full name?" asked the other, beginning 
 a rapid bombardment of questions. 
 
 After answering several, Fielding grew impatient. 
 "I'm not applying for life insurance; I want to know 
 what this pain is. I'm in a hurry," he interrupted. 
 
 "It has probably taken you a good many years to ac- 
 quire that pain in your side," answered the physician 
 pleasantly. "I can't extract it in five minutes. I'm a 
 doctor, not a magician. What time do you usually eat 
 your breakfast?" he added, resuming his questioning. 
 
 "Eight o'clock." 
 
 "What do you eat?" 
 
 "What does it matter what I eat for breakfast?" 
 
 "Perhaps you eat fish and have a fish bone sticking 
 you in the side." 
 
 "I never eat fish for breakfast. I eat fruit, bacon, 
 eggs, toast, and coffee, and I do it in fifteen minutes. 
 Come on, Doctor, make it snappy." 
 
 "You seem to be in a hurry." 
 
 "I'm always in a hurry." 
 
 "That's probably why you're sick. Now, look here. 
 I want you to compose yourself and answer questions. 
 There are nearly forty more on the list." 
 
 "Forty more"? Good God!" 
 
 "You are my prisoner for an hour," declared the 
 doctor. 
 
 "That's ridiculous. Please get down to business, or 
 let me go." 
 
 "The door snap-locked behind you," said the physician
 
 190 GOLD SHOD 
 
 genially. "At what hour do you usually reach your 
 office?" 
 
 Fielding submitted, tolerantly amused. 
 
 "Very good," said the doctor at length. "You may 
 take off your coat, waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt. 
 Then you may lie down on that table." 
 
 Fielding did so. 
 
 "Your skin shows lack of stimulation," observed the 
 examiner. 
 
 "I don't even have time to take a drink any more," 
 answered Fielding. 
 
 "Nor to take a walk," returned the doctor, applying 
 pressure to different parts of the abdomen. "Your kid- 
 neys, appendix, and duodenum appear to be all right. 
 Take a deep breath," he continued, applying the stetho- 
 scope. "Say ninety-nine. Again. Now in a whisper.* 5 
 The stethoscope moved rapidly from point to point. 
 "Lungs O.K." stated the examiner. "Heart not quite 
 large enough for your body. Turn over on your face," 
 continued the physician, dictating from time to time to 
 his nurse. "All right, you may dress." 
 
 "What's the matter with me?" asked Fielding. 
 
 "You have a touch of neuritis. One of your ganglia 
 is kicking up a little fuss. Nothing serious. There will 
 be a breaking out of the skin half way around your body 
 at the waist-line. The shootingpains will last for about 
 ten days. I'll give you a prescription to take five times 
 a day. Get all the rest you can, drink plenty of water, 
 eat less meat, avoid excitement and worry." 
 
 "What caused this condition?" 
 
 "You did." 
 
 "I ?" 
 
 "Yes, by trying to do two or three days' work every 
 twenty-four hours. Work that you are not overly in love 
 with." 
 
 "What makes you think that?'* inquired Fielding with 
 interest. 
 
 "If you cared more for your job, your nerves wouldn't
 
 GOLD SHOD 191 
 
 set up a protest. I know all kinds of men in this town 
 who work as hard as you do, and it doesn't feaze them. 
 What's your favorite amusement?" 
 
 "Theaters and symphony concerts.** 
 
 "How often do you go?" 
 
 "Damn seldom." 
 
 "Go oftener. And go alone. You can't enjoy a play 
 or a concert if you are compelled to carry on social small- 
 talk. Do you play golf?" 
 
 "Not unless I have to." 
 
 "Do you like to hunt and fish?" 
 
 "Hate it." 
 
 "Ride horseback?" 
 
 Fielding shook his head. 
 
 "I had a bank president in here the other day," said 
 the physician. "I finally prescribed a dog and a cane, 
 and he now walks for a couple of hours every day and 
 has the time of his life. I don't suppose he had taken 
 any exercise for years. I see you carry a stick, Mr. 
 Glinden. Very good. There's no better walking com- 
 panion. Medical men are making a lot of fuss about re- 
 pressions just now. And I find that the most universal 
 repression is exercise. I've had fellows in here who have 
 even forgotten how to stretch. I cured one chap of what 
 ailed him by inducing him to stretch for five minutes 
 each morning. 
 
 "It's a curious thing about repressions," continued the 
 doctor. "One fellow, it appeared, used to get his chief 
 joy as a poor boy in buying an occasional gallery seat 
 at the opera. He's rich now and has a box at the opera. 
 But the solemn gayety of the horse-shoe has never satisfied 
 him. I've persuaded him to go alone and sit in the gal- 
 lery. He's having the time of his life. One Wall Street 
 man confessed to me that as a child it used to be an ambi- 
 tion of his to ride in a hansom cab, and that he used to 
 stand at the curb and envy those who could. I urged 
 him to forget his flock of motor cars and to roll home 
 from work in an old hansom cab. He now has a cabby
 
 192 GOLD SHOD 
 
 pick him up every evening ; he's like a kid with a new toy. 
 
 "You're repressing something. Probably an early im- 
 pulse that never had a chance. Maybe you wanted to be 
 a prize-fighter; maybe you wanted to put on old clothes 
 and bum rides on a freight car. Maybe you've wanted 
 to have a fling with another woman mind you, I don't 
 prescribe that sort of thing. Maybe you wanted to be a 
 musician instead of a manufacturer. Rockefeller admits 
 that he always wanted to play in a band. Maybe you 
 wanted to paint pictures. I know half a dozen executives 
 who get out and paint pictures every Sunday. Whatever 
 your pet repression is, take some time and give vent to it. 
 Have the time .of your life. That's the chief medicine 
 you need." 
 
 Fielding looked at the physician and gave a saturnine 
 laugh. "It's easy enough to talk. But your advice is 
 no better than your pills. Do you think my whole life 
 can be recast? It's too late." 
 
 "At your age?" smiled the physician. 
 
 "It isn't a matter of age. It's a matter of fetters. 
 My real inclinations are on the shelf and gray with ac- 
 cumulated dust. I don't do a damned thing I really 
 want to do. Why, this pain in my side is a joke com- 
 pared with the pang that I've felt ever since I've been 
 president of a million-dollar corporation."
 
 BOOK THREE 
 THE WOOD-WIND
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THROUGH the gray dusk shone the yellow lights of 
 innumerable window-panes. The massive buildings 
 of the financial district loomed like crowded cliffs and 
 crags strange, hollow, mountainous things filled with 
 a saffron glow. Fitful snow-flakes drifted daintily 
 through the air, something restful, almost feminine, in 
 their wavering descent. 
 
 Fielding moved his face closer to the cool window. 
 The weight of his weariness ebbed away from him as he 
 contemplated the picture. His telephone bell rang, but 
 he did not answer. Some one opened the door, but Field- 
 ing waved him back. The intruder apologized and dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 The lighted hollow peaks and summits grew almost 
 lyric in their appeal. Fielding was making idle strokes of 
 a mental etching of the billows of roofs and broken sky- 
 lines. Recalling an early impulse to enroll for study at 
 the Art Institute in Chicago, he smiled. Had he pursued 
 the impulse, he might now be making layouts in the art 
 department of some advertising agency. Still, it might 
 have been just as well. He put on his hat and overcoat, 
 descended to the street, and told the chauffeur to go on 
 home. 
 
 Fielding stood a minute watching the receding car, 
 glad that he was not in it. His wife was up at Lake 
 Placid for the last of the season's winter sports; Carter 
 and Mrs. Ellis were with her. Fielding had promised to 
 join them for at least a week-end but had invented and 
 wired some excuse. 
 
 To-night he did not want to set eyes upon his house 
 its Empire furniture and golden draperies, the silken 
 
 195
 
 196 GOLD SHOD 
 
 blandishments of its Persian rugs, its heavy lamps and 
 mirrors. He recoiled from its grand air, luxurious hues, 
 and attentive servants. He felt a sudden need for neutral 
 hues, vacant spaces, austerity. He craved something hard 
 and uneven under his feet. He thought of monks in their 
 bare cells, removed from all the impediments of beautiful 
 objects, intent upon the murmured beauties of the inward 
 word. 
 
 In front of him was Trinity Churchyard. He stood 
 gazing at the ancient gravestones. 
 
 He wandered into the narrow slit of Exchange Place, 
 and strolled on through Hanover Square. He thought 
 of dropping in at the India House for dinner, but changed 
 his mind, and strode on through the cool March evening 
 toward the water front. The big warehouses filled the 
 foggy air with the smells of coffee, tea, rice, and tobacco. 
 From the shops of ship chandlers came the composite 
 odor of rope, pitch, tar, tallow, and leather. Through 
 dirty windows, he could see the bent forms of shipping 
 agents laboring at dingy, lamplit desks littered with ship- 
 ping documents. An old woman stood weeping in front 
 of the British Consulate because her son was within to 
 see about enlisting in England's army. In the windows 
 of saloons were signs warning the passer-by of "spies, 
 crime and coercion" if prohibition should become a law. 
 
 Fielding paused involuntarily in front of a chapel for 
 "seamen, boatmen and others," as though half-expecting 
 some form of miraculous comfort to come to him from 
 the wooden doorway. He wandered on through the damp 
 streets, his thoughts clinging vaguely to different ob- 
 jects. He stared at an approaching stevedore, a barge of 
 a figure, who looked like a composite of a Millet and a 
 Rodin. He stared at the Munson liners at their docks, 
 at ferries lunging for their slips, their blunt prows send- 
 ing gray billows of foam over the brown waters of the 
 river. The melancholy horns of the river-boats blew con- 
 tinuously. 
 
 He gazed with peculiar satisfaction at the stolid labor
 
 GOLD SHOD 197 
 
 of loading and unloading, at the bent backs, the soaking 
 wooden sides of the wharves, the slow washing of the 
 tide. Perhaps these longshoremen were moving some of 
 his company's cargoes. He remembered the vain aspira- 
 tions of Beth's father to build ships for ocean traffic. 
 Did no man ever contrive to do the things he wanted most 
 to do? 
 
 Before he knew it, he was thinking of the Blasphemer; 
 it was nearly a year since he had seen him. He entered 
 a little tobacco shop, hunted through his notebook for 
 the Blasphemer's telephone number, and rang him up. 
 
 "He don't live here any more," answered a woman's 
 voice. "He took sick maybe six weeks ago. It's his 
 lungs." 
 
 "Where did he go?" demanded Fielding with a sinking 
 heart. 
 
 The woman gave him the name of a sanatorium. 
 
 Fielding hurried to the Bankers' Club and sent a 
 telegram. 
 
 Vastly depressed, he walked down Cedar Street and 
 found the old chop house where he and the Blasphemer 
 had dined together the last time they had talked. He 
 found the same stall, sat down on the same wooden bench, 
 and ordered dinner. It was almost as though he sat op- 
 posite the bracing companion for whose influence he felt 
 such need to-night. He heard again the other's condem- 
 nations and intolerant blows, his preaching of harder 
 ways and more glorious quests. 
 
 The memories bore sternly in upon Fielding. He saw 
 something heroic, something glistening and god-like in 
 the unyielding labors of his friend, who had beaten himself 
 into this wreck. 
 
 The curtain had already risen; the somber texture of 
 the play revealed a Russian influence ; it was distinguished 
 by tolerance and pity ; foreign to anything he was accus- 
 tomed to on Broadway, it unfolded with amazing sim- 
 plicity.
 
 198 GOLD SHOD 
 
 A young woman playing a minor role had been on the 
 stage several times before she particularly arrested 
 Fielding's attention. At her third entrance, she went 
 to the piano, and now the graceful reverie of her hands 
 over the keys reminded him of Brenda Olgarth. The 
 music stopped, and recommenced in the medium of the 
 actress's voice. Her personality seemed to illuminate 
 the whole stage, and lingered like an actual presence after 
 her exit. She played her subordinate part with an august 
 melancholy. He left the barnish little theater, grateful 
 that he had come, and with the feeling of having set foot 
 on familiar ground once more after prolonged and tired 
 wanderings. 
 
 He must have been walking for an hour, and now he 
 found himself in Eighth Avenue, peering into the darkened 
 windows of cheap bakeries, laundries, little French meat 
 markets, restaurants, and garment stores. In a drug- 
 store he saw a card showing the colorings of a hair-dye; 
 he remembered having seen just such cards in Chicago's 
 drug-stores long ago. What a fine thing to have a mind 
 able to banish its troubles by dyeing the hair on its 
 head! 
 
 "Paper, Mister! Mornin* Telegraph! Racing Ex- 
 tra !" cried a cripple. 
 
 Fielding reached into his pocket, and handed the news- 
 boy a bill. 
 
 "Ain't you got no change?" 
 
 "Never mind the change." 
 
 "My God, Mister 1" gasped the newsboy. 
 
 Rain began to fall. Cabmen hailed Fielding, but he 
 strode on, keenly enjoying the swinging walk through the 
 rain. He was humming old songs, remembered for the 
 first time in years. He whistled snatches of melodies that 
 must have sounded strange to the homebound pedestrians 
 he passed. 
 
 Fielding bumped on to his valet, drowsing in the en- 
 trance hall, awaiting the return of his master. For a 
 moment the Englishman sat bolt upright in his chair r
 
 GOLD SHOD 199 
 
 staring dumfounded at the rain-soaked figure. Then he 
 leaped to his feet. 
 
 "Good gracious!" he exclaimed. "God pity you, sir!" 
 
 "Not at all," laughed Fielding. 
 
 Fielding rose unusually rested. His brain felt as if it 
 had had a house-cleaning. But Hopewell met him at the 
 office with a look of anxiety. 
 
 "Good morning," said Fielding cheerfully. 
 
 "That Pittsburgh matter suddenly broke last night," 
 frowned Hopewell. 
 
 "Good." 
 
 "I don't know about that." 
 
 "I told you they'd come to us." 
 
 "The thing had to be closed last night. I met these 
 men at the Union League Club." 
 
 "That's fine." 
 
 "Not so fine as you think. Had I been able to locate 
 you last night, the order would have been worth a great 
 deal more money to us. Where the devil were you? 
 While I have no desire to interfere with your private 
 affairs, I urge you to leave word either at home or at the 
 office where you can be reached. You alone knew the 
 facts that would have enabled us to deal with that crowd 
 and get what was coming to us." 
 
 "What price did you close at?" asked Fielding. 
 
 "Twenty-seven per cent off the list." 
 
 "Delivered?" 
 
 "No. F.O.B. Pittsburgh." 
 
 "Subject of course to price increases without notice?" 
 
 "Yes, of course," said Hopewell drily. 
 
 "You didn't do so badly," smiled Fielding. 
 
 "It lay between us and that Blunthaven crowd, or 
 whatever their name is. I knew nothing of their defects 
 as an organization and couldn't say much. You could 
 have gone after them." 
 
 "Well, I might not have felt like it." 
 
 "Why not?"
 
 200 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "Oh, I was in a generous mood last night." 
 
 "Don't be too generous toward your competitors," said 
 Hopewell, leveling searching eyes at his partner. 
 
 "Is this a lesson in business sagacity?" asked Fielding 
 pleasantly. 
 
 Hopewell was not unaware of the irony. "I don't think 
 you need any." 
 
 Fielding spent the evening alone among his books. His 
 gaze roved without satisfaction over the shelves of expen- 
 sive bindings which Beth had from time to time added 
 to the library. Charles Lamb in crushed levant seemed 
 ridiculous ; he thought of Elia's creator, toiling his life 
 away a clerk in London counting rooms, living in morbid 
 lodgings with a crazy sister who had killed their mother, 
 laboring at his art in moments dearly bought, and now 
 ranged upon shelves in gold-tooled purple. To-night the 
 irony of it killed his pleasure in the precious, identical 
 volumes over which Shelley had meditated and Keats had 
 wept. He had loved to go to his own library at any hour 
 of the night and handle the ancient texture of the very 
 pages which had comforted Burns, inspired Wordsworth, 
 and enchanted Victor Hugo. But to-night he craved a 
 more articulate expression than the mere possession of ob- 
 jects once significant to the lives of genius. 
 
 To-night, moreover, the whole splendor of his home 
 was an oppressive weight. Its pretentious luxuries rose 
 between him and the books he tried to read. The massive 
 rugs, heavy crystals, imposing chairs and tables of the 
 library, the hangings of crusted gold and black velour, 
 the Georgian clock, the Cloisonne vases, the bronzes, and 
 paintings in ornate frames, all craved and accumulated 
 object by object no longer soothed or contented him. 
 These valuables that massed themselves round him now 
 seemed to crowd themselves against him. 
 
 He retreated to Carter's nursery, but found no relief. 
 Its mural phantasies, its multitude of toys, deprived the 
 imagination of its play. What an offense to jam the
 
 GOLD SHOD 201 
 
 mind of a child with this herd of impressions, to litter 
 its days with these artifices! 
 
 He roamed on through the house like a stranger in a 
 museum. Recoiling from it, Fielding had no way of 
 knowing that he now stood in the heart of the realization 
 of one of the longings of Anton, his grandfather, whom 
 he remembered best as a lonely figure who played Bach 
 and Beethoven with stiffening fingers at dawn. 
 
 Fielding went to bed, but not to sleep. The cares 
 and speculations and strife of his febrile career inhabited 
 this lofty chamber like embodied presences. They roped 
 him and dragged him back to his affairs, to his contracts, 
 exports, and dealings with High Commissioners ; his war- 
 ring on the fringes of war. 
 
 At his office the next day, he upbraided his subordi- 
 nates, and avoided Hopewell and Emmett. 
 
 A telegram from Detroit, where he had not been for 
 more than a fortnight, urged him to indicate certain 
 important decisions ; one from Frake contained a number 
 of commands ; but Fielding ignored them both. 
 
 Dufresne's office tried repeatedly to reach him by tele- 
 phone, but Fielding refused to authorize the connection. 
 Trying vainly to focus his mind on his affairs, he sat 
 gloomily at his desk, tortured by his chains. 
 
 He dined that evening at the quietest of his clubs, and 
 then set out aimlessly for a walk. He found himself 
 proceeding south on Seventh Avenue, and felt a sudden 
 friendship for this thoroughfare, shabbier and dustier 
 and cheaper than the avenues to which he was accus- 
 tomed. Ahead of him he saw the big Street & Smith 
 building, and remembered early efforts of his to sell 
 stories to these publishers, and the invariable dishearten- 
 ing rejections. 
 
 He strode on through the dry, mild spring evening 
 past Sheridan Square. He watched the slow movement of 
 a white-wing, sweeping the pavement, and a squad of 
 bill-posters swabbing a bill-board with their long-handled
 
 202 GOLD SHOD 
 
 brushes, dripping with paste. He had gazed with envy 
 at these deft operations when he was a youngster in 
 Chicago, marveling at the smooth rapidity with which 
 the big sheets were sped into place by the magic passes 
 of the poles and brushes. Now he could imagine wearily 
 what feverish merchandising campaigns formed the execu- 
 tive background for this overtime labor of the bill-posters. 
 
 For relief he stared into a cabinet-maker's window, 
 pleased with the workmanlike exhibits of the fellow's 
 craft ; it was a fine thing to know a trade. Overhead 
 hung a midwife's sign, with some lettering in a foreign 
 tongue probably Italian, he supposed, but for all of 
 his tides of exports to foreign lands, he was not sure of 
 the language. It was years since he had seen the word 
 "midwife." He thought of the day of sleet through which 
 his grandfather had driven to the bedside of his last pa- 
 tient, a woman giving birth; and he recalled the return 
 of Anton with chattering teeth, a dying look in his eyes. 
 
 Fielding's gaze wandered over brick walls displaying 
 huge advertisements of Gold Medal Flour, Spearmint Gum, 
 and Coca Cola ; theater bills held out the lure of current 
 amusements ; wash flapped on lines that ran from window 
 to window between the backs of tall brick tenements. He 
 roamed on past a little red shack bearing a gasoline sign, 
 and stood for a moment looking at the cart of a green- 
 grocer at the curb, its array of radishes, spinach, lettuce, 
 and beets dripping freshly with water. Fielding now 
 became aware that he had drifted into a neighborhood 
 that he had never seen before. It had an air of charm 
 and quiet; it seemed to him that he had left fifty years 
 of city life behind him. Was this New York? 
 
 A row of refreshing-looking houses stretched before 
 him. Some of their iron fences, gates, and banisters were 
 painted blue or green. Some of the houses had minute 
 flower-gardens beside their stoops. One especially at- 
 tracted him; it had low iron grills at its windows, blue 
 flower-boxes, and green shutters. It was cleanly built 
 of red pressed-brick, pointed up by slender lines of white
 
 GOLD SHOD 203 
 
 paint. There were snowy glass curtains at the window. 
 He discovered a sign "Apartment to Let." For a moment 
 he hesitated, held by the sudden thought of Beth and the 
 baby. 
 
 "I'll have a look at it anyway," he said to himself, 
 and rang. 
 
 An elderly woman who seemed to belong to an elder day, 
 opened the door. 
 
 "I'd like to see the apartment," he said. 
 
 "It's only two rooms and bath. Was it only for your- 
 self?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It's upstairs in the front," she replied, leading the 
 way. "Unfurnished. This is the bedroom. It's a nice 
 apartment." 
 
 Fielding noted the clean walls and high ceilings. The 
 wooden floors were a relief to his feet. The plainness 
 of the brick fireplace was charming. 
 
 "You'd like it, sir. You'll hardly know you're in New 
 York." 
 
 "It seems quiet." 
 
 "At night you'd almost think you were out in the 
 country. Of course, the children yell and play across the 
 street in the day-time." 
 
 "What's that, a schoolyard?" asked Fielding, looking 
 at the gray stone posts and green iron fence across the 
 street, and at the swings and benches and strips of grass 
 and sandy compounds of the enclosure beyond. 
 
 "It's a municipal park," said the woman. "It used to 
 be the cemetery of Trinity Parish, but for twenty years 
 now it's been a play park." 
 
 "I suppose that's a public school over there beyond the 
 park," continued Fielding reflectively, trying to imagine 
 Carter among the young foreigners who daily scampered 
 and shrieked in the park. He wondered whether Homeric 
 dreams glistened in the eyes of any of these young Greeks, 
 whether there were any sensitive Virgils among the Ital- 
 ians. There were dingy clumps of brick houses with the
 
 204, GOLD SHOD 
 
 eternal wash on the window-lines and foreign women lean- 
 ing out of windows, gossiping from house to house. He 
 supposed that he would be unmolested here. 
 
 "What street is this anyway?" he asked. 
 
 "St. Lukes's Place, sir." 
 
 "I'll take the rooms," said Fielding, and paid three 
 months' rent in advance. 
 
 He paced meditatively to and fro over the hard bare 
 floor. Already the picture was working itself out in his 
 mind. He would have monks' cloth at the windows. Here 
 he would have a simple desk, there and there and there a 
 chair. Over here a row of open bookshelves. A picture 
 here, another here; on the floor, a single hearth rug. 
 In the other room, a bed, a chest of drawers, a chair. 
 Nothing more. 
 
 With an air of delightful proprietorship that neither 
 his home in New York nor the one in Detroit had ever 
 afforded him, Fielding began exploring his new neighbor- 
 hood. Half a block to the right, the charm of St. Luke's 
 Place suddenly vanished at the intersection with Hudson 
 Street ; here the street-cars were the dustiest-looking con- 
 trivances he had ever seen. On the corner stood a men's 
 coffee house, and opposite it the large building of a press, 
 grinding out God only knew what books and pamphlets 
 and circulars and hand-bills. In the other direction was 
 a candy factory, grinding out its daily tons of sweets.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 FIELDING'S revolt from the luxury of his home, and 
 his recourse to the primitive simplicity of his new 
 rooms, proved stimulating and restoring. With a pipe 
 between his teeth, he would sit hours at a time at his desk 
 before the muttering woodfire, recording fragments of 
 fiction and wisps of verse. Between the bare walls of his 
 bedroom, he slept as soundly as a day-laborer. 
 
 Each day he hurried from his office back to this satis- 
 fying retreat with a marvelous feeling of freedom. He 
 felt again the old shyness, the sensitiveness to impression, 
 the wonder at life. He discovered himself speculating 
 about the future with all the suspense of eighteen. After 
 the old sense of romance had lifted him aloft, he would 
 remember with a start that he was a father. 
 
 Beth, with her mother and the baby, were still in the 
 Adirondacks, Beth fancying that her continued stay 
 would bring Fielding to them for the promised rest, and 
 wholly unaware of the divided life upon which he had 
 embarked. 
 
 It was Fielding's longing to see Carter that early in 
 April finally took him up into the mountains, though only 
 for a few days. Beth plied him with questions about 
 their home, about his business, about the servants. Was 
 he being properly looked after? Were his meals all 
 right? Did he miss his family? Was he getting about 
 socially? How did it happen that he had remained 
 away from Detroit for so long? How was Dufresne 
 acting? 
 
 Fielding was glad to get back to the refuge. 
 
 He sat in the agreeable freedom of his room. Some- 
 where in the neighborhood, apparently in the same house, 
 
 205
 
 206 GOLD SHOD 
 
 he heard a piano. He stopped writing and listened to 
 the tranquil ease of the playing. What was it some- 
 thing he had heard old Anton play, something Brenda 
 Olgarth had played for him? Once he nearly remembered. 
 Then it was gone. 
 
 Fielding spent the remainder of the week in Wash- 
 ington, reached an important understanding with the 
 Italian Mission, conferred with British ordnance officials 
 on Sunday, and was back in his office on Monday morn- 
 ing. 
 
 "Come out to the house for dinner with me this even- 
 ing," said Hopewell. 
 
 "Can't. I have an appointment," replied Fielding. 
 
 His engagement for the evening was the usual one 
 with himself. On the stairs, he stepped aside to permit 
 a woman to pass him on her way down. He was aware 
 of a vague impression of having seen her before, but 
 could not place her. A romantic agitation like those of 
 his boyhood, swept him, but only for a moment, and he 
 made no effort to meet her. He asked nothing, wanted 
 nothing, needed nothing but the solitude and serenity of 
 these unmolested evenings. 
 
 There had been times during the past few years when 
 his passionate pursuit of business had suddenly, without 
 warning, veered into a tempestuous lust for women; and 
 he had entered from time to time upon brief affairs. This 
 had happened abroad, it had happened in Washington, 
 and in New York. These transferences of passionate en- 
 ergy were quickly satisfied, over, and forgotten. The 
 fever of the day no longer reached into the night, feeding 
 on receptions, operas, and soirees of rustling silks and 
 seductive shoulders. 
 
 For years he had viewed at close range the curious 
 union between business and sex. As a sales manager he 
 had quickly discovered the importance of the right enter- 
 tainment for visiting dealers and prospective dealers, 
 and had adroitly supplied their wants whether seats at 
 the opera, a concert, or burlesque, an evening of drinking
 
 GOLD SHOD 207 
 
 or dancing. And his dealings with government envoys 
 from Europe had proved to be much the same. At con- 
 ference by day, he found them astute and urbane. But 
 at night the open candor of their vulgar impulses often 
 filled him with disgust. 
 
 His withdrawal to the refuge each evening now left him 
 agreeably marooned from this after-glow of the day's 
 business. 
 
 "I have punctures in both lungs," wrote the Blas- 
 phemer. "I must have been running temperature for 
 months before I knew what I had. A string of hemor- 
 rhages followed by an X-Ray of the lungs left no doubt. 
 I'm down here blinking at more landscape than I ever saw 
 before in my life. If I get well, I shall be famous. If 
 I croak, some one else will say my say for me. 
 You might send me five hundred, if you've got it 
 handy." 
 
 Fielding wired a thousand dollars and sent a lung spe- 
 cialist down to make an examination. 
 
 "What do you find ?" asked Fielding, on the physician's 
 return. 
 
 "He may live from two to four months," replied the 
 physician after reporting the clinical character of the 
 case. 
 
 "Do you mean to say he can't survive?" 
 
 "It hardly seems possible." 
 
 Greatly depressed, Fielding resolved to pay the 
 Blasphemer an early visit. Had it not been for an im- 
 portant directors' meeting in Detroit, he would have gone 
 at once. 
 
 Fielding stood in his room at the Statler, looking at 
 the familiar outlines of Detroit. He noticed that the 
 intersecting paths of the parkway were the shape of an 
 enormous hour-glass ; pedestrians were slipping through 
 it like grains of sand, and seemed no more important. 
 He felt deeply changed since his last visit here. It no
 
 208 GOLD SHOD 
 
 longer seemed important to be providing people with cars, 
 nor to be sending ship-loads of supplies to the battle- 
 fronts. 
 
 He hardly talked to the company chauffeur as they 
 drove toward the Bennett plant. A flaring cafe recalled 
 the night he had taken Peggie there; an office building 
 reminded him of a certain robust brunette. One of the 
 banks revived memories of Bester, and the interview 
 with Frake. He caught a glimpse of a burlesque theater 
 where he had taken out-of-town dealers. A glimpse of 
 a sign "Everything to Wear" in front of a cheap clothing 
 store recalled a drunken dealer bent upon stealing the 
 sign and shipping it home to Montana. The Palms and 
 the Pasadena brought faded pictures of social calls with 
 Beth upon people of no consequence. Curious names of 
 Detroit streets flashed past St. Antoine, De Quindre, 
 Staubin, John R., Chene, Jos. Campeau, Serb, Iron, 
 Meldrum and Fielding remembered how strange these 
 names had seemed the first time he saw them ; these names 
 brought back patchy revivals of his earliest impressions 
 of the city's sparkle, with its attending spur to his own 
 inchoate ambitions and the emerging sense of alliance with 
 Beth. 
 
 The car fled on past the gas tanks, past the enormous 
 familiar kitchen range of a big stove factory, the tawdry 
 devices of the amusement parks ; past lunch counters, fruit 
 stores, peanut stands, drug stores with their "dyspepsia 
 tablet" signs, dentists' shingles offering "free examina- 
 tions," and the inevitable motion picture theaters. 
 There had been a time when all this enterprise pleased 
 him; it had meant an abundance of easy money, more 
 and more prosperity, and readier markets for Bennett 
 cars. 
 
 "Detroit keeps growing to beat the band," said the 
 driver with enthusiasm. "Some city!" 
 
 " 'Where life is worth living*, I believe," said Fielding, 
 cynically. 
 
 "You said it."
 
 GOLD SHOD 209 
 
 Fielding went briskly into his office and sent at once 
 for Pordek. 
 
 "Well, what have you been doing?*' he asked the engi- 
 neer, opening a folder marked "Production," and inspect- 
 ing its contents. "I see we've got to decide whether or 
 not to make these changes in the sub-assembly lines." 
 
 "The contracts have been let." 
 
 "By whose order?" 
 
 "Mine." 
 
 A look of doubt and questioning swept Fielding's eyes. 
 
 "You wrote me about an automatic machine for turn- 
 ing out screws, gaskets, small gears, and the like," he 
 continued. 
 
 "It is ordered. It will pay for itself in twenty-three 
 months and eight days." 
 
 "This memorandum about our forging facilities. What 
 was your thought as to that?" 
 
 "To double them. I'm doing it," said the engineer. 
 
 Fielding made no reply, but sent for his vice-president 
 of sales. 
 
 "What about this distributor mess out in Iowa? You 
 wanted my judgment as to whether to remove this man 
 from the organization, I believe?" he began. 
 
 "I went ahead and got rid of him," was the half-apolo- 
 getic answer. Fielding knew that he could have settled 
 the difficulty more amicably, but withheld his criticism. 
 "Then suppose we settle these proposed price re- 
 visions." 
 
 "I considered it a mistake to wait any longer, and 
 took it on myself to authorize the new price-list," said 
 the other a trifle uneasily. 
 
 "I'm glad you did," said Fielding with relief. "What 
 progress are we making with advertising plans for the 
 fall?" 
 
 "That couldn't wait. I'll have the color-proofs in here 
 to-day." 
 
 "You don't seem to need me around here any more." 
 
 "I wouldn't say that, Mr. Glinden," answered the vice-
 
 210 GOLD SHOD 
 
 president. "But you certainly have built a go-ahead or- 
 ganization here." 
 
 The vice-president withdrew, and Fielding sat looking 
 into space. A tranquil little smile hovered at the cor- 
 ners of his serious mouth. He was thinking again of the 
 refuge.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 SHE was brewing a pot of tea. Now that Fielding 
 knew her, it seemed inevitable to him that they should 
 finally have met. 
 
 "You like the name Olah, then?" she was asking. 
 
 "Very much." 
 
 "So do I. That's why I took it. It's one of the de- 
 lightful things about the stage. One is free to choose 
 a name that expresses one's self. How can parents give 
 a child a suitable name? At best, it can express only 
 something in themselves." 
 
 She handed him a cup of tea. 
 
 "We closed last nigh I," she said. "You did not care 
 for the piece?" 
 
 "It was unusual stuff." 
 
 "You don't think I did so badly, do you?" 
 
 "You were fascinating." 
 
 "But you saw me only once." 
 
 "I was afraid to go again." 
 
 "Afraid?" 
 
 "That I'd fall in love with you." 
 
 "And were you so terrified at the prospect?" laughed 
 the girl. "Listen," she said, going to her piano. "I 
 will play something for you." 
 
 She played a strange little air. 
 
 "Do you recognize it?" she asked. "It is something 
 of yours and mine. I have tried to catch the mood of 
 that lyric you showed me." 
 
 "You have!" he exclaimed, delighted. 
 
 "Did I succeed?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "We don't collaborate so badly then. Wouldn't it be 
 wonderful if you and I could collaborate on a play?" 
 
 211
 
 212 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "Immense !" exclaimed Fielding. "I'll go you. A play 
 with a star role in it for you that will put you on easy 
 street." He looked at the low, slanting ceilings of her 
 little living-room. 
 
 "You are thinking how poor I am," she said, following 
 his eyes. "Never mind. Wait until our play is pro- 
 duced. Besides, it has not been a hardship to me to 
 be poor. I rather like these bare spaces on my floors 
 and walls." 
 
 Fielding was thinking of the bare spaces in his own 
 apartment immediately below hers spaces that were 
 bare, not because he was poor, but because he was rich. 
 
 "For a writer," continued Olah, "you are much too 
 shy about your products. What a pity that you are not 
 more of a business man." 
 
 Fielding smiled without answering. 
 
 "You are twenty years behind the times," she said. 
 
 "That's the way I feel." 
 
 "I respect your sincerity and obscurity as an artist. 
 Never fear, your following will come to you." 
 
 Fielding sat gazing at his companion, thinking of the 
 difference between her and Beth. 
 
 "An artist does not choose," Olah was saying. "He 
 accepts the responsibility of doing what he has to do. 
 He doesn't reason it out. Sometimes he whimpers like 
 a coward. Sometimes he rushes crazily about, making 
 arrogant demands for what he considers his dues. At 
 times he lapses into a cad. And then come redeeming 
 periods of courage and understanding." 
 
 Her mood underwent a change. She rose, drew her- 
 self into an amusing pose, and began burlesquing one 
 of the Broadway stars. 
 
 "You fascinating devil," he said, watching her antics. 
 
 "Behold!" she cried. "I am now in the pictures." 
 
 She began a pantomime burlesque of a motion picture 
 vampire. 
 
 "How is that?'* she asked. 
 
 "You are spoiling me," he said.
 
 GOLD SHOD 213 
 
 "And why not? Has no one ever done you the kind- 
 ness to spoil you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You poor man ! Look, now we have musical comedy." 
 
 She mimicked the stilted movements, breathy tones, 
 and trembling chin of the prima donna in a current op- 
 eretta. 
 
 "Dine with me," he said. "You have earned the best 
 dinner the city affords." 
 
 "I am famished," she confessed. 
 
 "Good. Where shall it be? Ritz? St. Regis?" 
 
 She gave a cry of delight. "I have always wanted to 
 eat at the St. Regis. But wait. Can you afford such 
 extravagance ?" 
 
 "I can afford anything to-night." 
 
 "A fairy prince!" 
 
 He thought of sending for one of his cars, but instead 
 telephoned for a taxi. Together they rattled up-town. 
 New York looked different to Fielding. Life felt dif- 
 ferent. He felt suspended in a vapory billow of enchant- 
 ment. 
 
 "Look, it is raining," she said. 
 
 He told her of his long walk through the rain. 
 
 "It must have been a lark !" she replied. "We must do 
 that together sometime." 
 
 He led her into the subdued blaze of the elaborate dining- 
 room. Looking at her, it seemed to him that she must 
 be rooted in the strong, fertile earth this blossomed 
 thing. His eyes roved from her white hands to her 
 flaming lips, and lingered on the curving line of her flaw- 
 less neck and cheek. His glance came to a stop at her 
 eyes, dark with the smokes of melancholy but warm with 
 great expectations from life. Her tilted hat of black 
 velvet flamed with a slanting narrow band of scarlet. 
 
 Olah sat beside Fielding like a symbol of artistic fire 
 and temptation., She set buried bells in him to ringing. 
 
 "You belong to me," he said to her. 
 
 "I want to," she answered without resistance.
 
 214 GOLD SHOD 
 
 A roseate week passed before Fielding spent another 
 evening at home with Beth. She had had plans prepared 
 for an elaborate establishment she was building at Lake 
 George, and was telling him all about it. 
 
 "Aren't we fortunate to have been able to secure this 
 particular location?" she asked. She enumerated differ- 
 ent people of importance with places nearby. Then she 
 said suddenly: "You don't seem a bit interested,'* and 
 pushed the blue-prints away from her with an impatient 
 movement. 
 
 "You have everything so well in hand, my dear, that 
 there isn't anything for me to say except that I 
 thoroughly approve everything you've done. When were 
 you planning to return to the mountains ?" 
 
 "I thought I'd run up again on Thursday. Why don't 
 you motor up with me?" 
 
 "It catches me at a bad time. As you know, I've been 
 tied up evening after evening." 
 
 Beth looked at him searchingly. "I understand that 
 you've been 'tied up,' " she said. "You seem to be taking 
 your new ties quite seriously." 
 
 Fielding met her look, and waited. 
 
 "It seems that your attention has not been entirely 
 occupied with the new house," he said after a moment. 
 
 "Unfortunately, I've learned of your new apartment. 
 Why, you're almost a stranger in your own house. I'm 
 informed that you are practically living down in that pre- 
 posterous part of town. I suppose you thought you 
 had picked a place that wouldn't be discovered. Well, 
 it's discovered. You'd be surprised to find out how many 
 of our friends know it already." 
 
 "It's absolutely none of their business." 
 
 "And none of my business, I suppose?" Beth began 
 to bristle. 
 
 "I'm ready to concede that it concerns you." 
 
 "How nice of you. How very thoughtful." Her tone 
 was now one of carefully modulated irony. "I always 
 thought you too proud and too superior to expose Car-
 
 GOLD SHOD 215 
 
 ter and me to any such scandal. It has killed a cer- 
 tain feeling I had." 
 
 "I'm sorry to have caused you any pain." 
 
 "Sorry !" mimicked Beth, thrusting a tapestried has- 
 sock away from her with her slim foot. 
 
 Fielding rose, looked at Beth wearily for a moment, 
 and then crossed the room to the silver humidor. 
 
 "Cigarette?" he inquired. 
 
 "I should think you'd be ashamed of an affair like that," 
 said Beth. 
 
 "I took that apartment for one reason only to be able 
 to get a little rest now and then." 
 
 "Never mind the alibis." 
 
 "Alibis? I have nothing to deny and nothing to con- 
 ceal. All this damn luxury got on my nerves. I had to 
 have plain rooms around me for a change. But I don't 
 suppose you can grasp what I'm talking about." 
 
 " 'Plain living, high thinking' and a painted snip of 
 a Village actress," sneered Beth. 
 
 Fielding chose and lit a cigarette with the care he 
 might have bestowed on a cigar. His tone was suave 
 again. 
 
 "I seem to be very clumsy at engineering concealments 
 of this kind. I'm sorry, dear. I have not forgotten 
 that I was never to tell you about " 
 
 "About flower girls in Michigan and cheap soubrettes? 
 Why, I don't even live in the same world." 
 
 "No," drawled Fielding, "I don't think you do. She 
 happens to be a young woman of unusual cultivation and 
 refinement." 
 
 "Have you stooped to conquer any waitresses, Field- 
 ing?" 
 
 "It appears that to my other regrets I must now add 
 remorse that I have exposed a very fine woman to your 
 smutty remarks." 
 
 It was a blow before which Beth recoiled, rising and 
 moving dizzily to the door. Fielding started toward 
 her, but she waved him fiercely back.
 
 216 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "Don't talk to me. Don't come near me! I hate 
 you! Loathe you! Despise you!" She ended in a 
 scream. 
 
 He did not follow her out of the library. He was 
 wondering whether what he felt was relief that she was 
 gone, or disgust with her, or sympathy because of the 
 blow that had befallen her. 
 
 At luncheon with Hopewell the next day, Fielding again 
 heard echoes of the affair. 
 
 "What business is it of people's ?" he burst out angrily. 
 "Has New York suddenly become so damn pious that 
 they should lift their hands in horror at anything like 
 this? You're not such a saint yourself.'* 
 
 "It isn't that New York is pious," said Hopewell 
 with a smile. "It is merely that New York is bored and 
 nosey and insists upon being entertained. These things 
 never fail to prove entertaining. Then, too, old man, 
 you must admit that you have staged rather a good 
 show.** 
 
 "A good show!" growled Fielding. 
 
 "Oh, a rattling good show! I like your nerve. Why, 
 you've taken her everywhere your friends go. I saw you 
 together myself one evening." 
 
 "You did?" 
 
 "Yes, and I must compliment you on your taste. Too 
 bad your wife is taking it so to heart." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Mrs. Glinden was so upset that she felt in need of 
 the advice of a friend." 
 
 "You seem to have placed both of us under heavy 
 obligation to you,'* said Fielding sarcastically. 
 
 "Oh, I tried to laugh it off. I told her to forget it. 
 Assured her it was only a passing fancy, and reminded 
 her that she had been absent from the city rather con- 
 siderably during the past six months, and that men are 
 natural-born rovers." Hopewell stopped to glance at 
 the menu. "Let me see the French pastry," he said
 
 GOLD SHOD 217 
 
 to the waiter. Then he turned to Fielding: "Are you 
 hit pretty hard, old man?" 
 
 "The girl rests me," snapped Fielding. 
 
 "Naturally. She's as delightful as she can be. I'd 
 like to know her myself." 
 
 Fielding smiled again. "No doubt you would."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 DOVE-COLORED casement curtains spread their 
 tinted twilight in Carter's bedroom. The youngster 
 was asleep, thumb in mouth, after the first half-hour 
 of play with his father in a fortnight. Fielding had 
 growled like a wolf for him, barked like a dog, grunted 
 like a pig, and approached him on all fours like a bear. 
 Carter had pulled his father's hair ? listened with delight 
 to the ticking of his watch, shaken his head in solemn 
 imitation of the governess, and articulated all the words 
 and half words that had from day to day crept into his 
 vocabulary. 
 
 Fielding stood watching the sleeping child, thinking 
 of his own childhood. The smell of damp slates and dry 
 chalk recurred to him, and the smell of medicines that 
 had clung to his grandfather's clothes. He thought of 
 the Chatterbox, whose pictured pages had given him his 
 first awed impressions of the sea and of ships, of snow- 
 stormed London streets, of clowns and jockeys and giants, 
 of mysterious woods and castles, of generals and of 
 chimney-sweeps. He would have to find a Chatterbox 
 for Carter. 
 
 "Oh, you're here?" said Beth, discovering him. "May 
 I speak to you?" 
 
 They went down to the library in an atmosphere of 
 calm formality. 
 
 "I've been doing a great deal of thinking," she began, 
 switching on more lights. 
 
 "What have you concluded?" 
 
 Beth seated herself and began the characteristic tap- 
 ping with her foot. 
 
 "The first shock of knowing about your infidelity is 
 
 218
 
 GOLD SHOD 219 
 
 over," she continued. "I realize, of course, that that 
 sort of thing is not uncommon among men. Still, my 
 knowledge of what has happened will naturally make a 
 difference between us." 
 
 Beth was talking as though her sentences had been 
 rehearsed. "For Carter's sake, I am trying to view it 
 as sensibly as I can. I am starting for the mountains 
 again to-morrow with Carter and Mother. I shall be 
 glad to have you join us there when you can come back 
 to me again as your old self." 
 
 "Very well, Beth," said Fielding. 
 
 Beth's calmness suddenly gave way. A hurt look leapt 
 into her eyes. "Talk to me !" she cried. "Good heavens, 
 can't you talk to me?'* 
 
 "Please!'* begged Fielding. "There isn't anything to 
 say. Go on up to the lake and forget your troubles. 
 I'll be very glad to run up sometime soon for a week- 
 end." 
 
 "You*re not entirely indifferent to me any more, 
 are you?'* 
 
 "I'm always proud of you. You're a very remarkable 
 woman." 
 
 Beth went to him and put her arms about him. 
 
 "Come to us soon," she added softly. "Talk to me 
 again about your business. Let me share that with you 
 as I used to." 
 
 The old appeal, but. it did not move him now. 
 
 "I'm hungry to hear what you've been accomplishing," 
 she said. 
 
 "Oh, I'm sick of talking business." 
 
 "Then we'll talk about something else." 
 
 "But you'd be thinking of business," he said harshly. 
 "It seems to be impossible for vou to think of anything 
 else." 
 
 Beth drew back. "You hate me, don't you?" 
 
 "I don't know whether I do or not. I'm tired to death 
 making money for you. I'm exhausted. I'm nearly crazy. 
 This place of yours makes me want to dash out into the
 
 220 GOLD SHOD 
 
 dirt of the street. I ran away from here to a couple of 
 bare rooms, and you've pried into my privacy even there. 
 For God's sake, go on to the mountains and let me 
 alone!" 
 
 Beth's lips were gray. 
 
 "Are you through?" she asked, ominously quiet. 
 
 "I was never so through in all my life." 
 
 "Go wallow with your mistress, and damn you!" she 
 screamed and rushed from the room. 
 
 "What is it, child?" demanded Beth's mother a moment 
 later, looking fixedly at her tense face. 
 
 "I'm going to get out of this house to-night," sobbed 
 Beth. 
 
 "I told you to be nice to him," whined the older woman. 
 
 "I don't ever want to see him again. I can't live this 
 way. I'd rather jump out of the window.' 1 ' 
 
 "Be sensible. For God's sake be sensible!" Mrs. 
 Ellis dabbed the tears from her eyes. She was deter- 
 mined to keep this household together. Fielding was 
 too great an asset to relinquish. "You have too much 
 at stake to throw it all over. Think of the future. 
 Think of Carter. Think of me." 
 
 She paused to weep. 
 
 "You don't dare do anything silly. Just let him alone 
 for a while. He'll come back to you. They always do. 
 I'll stand right by you, my darling. Let me manage, 
 my precious pet. Don't cry so! Listen to your 
 mother !" 
 
 "It's cruel that this had to happen after all I've done 
 for him," moaned Beth between sobs. 
 
 "He'd have been nothing without you." 
 
 For a month now Fielding and Olah had been collaborat- 
 ing on their play. They had laboriously completed the 
 first act, and were toiling on the second. 
 
 "It's a pity you have only your evenings for writing," 
 she burst out once. "What do you do all day?"
 
 GOLD SHOD 221 
 
 "Earn my living." 
 
 "Poor man! If we can only find a producer. There's 
 some sparkling dialogue here." 
 
 "The only decent lines in the thing are yours. I 
 thought I had a dramatic sense, but I haven't." 
 
 "Hush." Olah silenced him with a kiss. "There's a 
 delightfully ironic touch to this final scene. Just let 
 me read it to you." 
 
 Another time she found him without coat or waistcoat, 
 laboring in the sultry heat of his room. 
 
 "Dear boy, you can't work on a night like this," she 
 protested. 
 
 "I never felt more like working in my life." 
 
 "Don't be unreasonable. Come, let's take a bus ride. 
 Anything to get some air." 
 
 "How do you expect me to get any work done?" 
 
 "Oh, come on. You'll write nothing but gibberish to- 
 night." 
 
 "It's always gibberish," Fielding sighed. "As a play- 
 wright, I'm a rotten failure. All right, let's run. But 
 no bus. I propose to drown my dejection on the highest 
 and coolest roof-garden in town." 
 
 "Ooh, another one of the Cinderella nights!" 
 
 Half an hour later they were dancing and drinking 
 champagne. 
 
 "You are squandering your earnings recklessly," ob- 
 served Olah. 
 
 "We will dine every day for a week at the Dutch Oven 
 to make up for our spree," said Fielding, extending his 
 arms for another dance. 
 
 "Who's the distinguished-looking man who spoke to 
 you?" 
 
 "An automobile manufacturer." 
 
 "What is that job of yours, anyway? You seem to 
 know all sorts of people." 
 
 "It's a humdrum job of no importance. Talk to me 
 about something interesting." 
 
 Several nights later, Fielding threw his pencil on the
 
 222 GOLD SHOD 
 
 table and exclaimed: "It's no use. Every line I write 
 is wooden." 
 
 "Pick up that pencil and go back to work," ordered 
 Olah. "If authors wrote only when they felt like it, 
 I'd get no parts. It's like rehearsing, or any other job. 
 It has to go on, rain or shine." 
 
 Fielding gave her a weary look, sagged lower in his 
 chair and listened to the bedlam that rose from the play- 
 ground across the street. 
 
 "This room is like an oven to-night," he said. "My 
 brain feels as thick as a mattress." 
 
 "Then write a bedroom play," she laughed. 
 
 "I'm worthless to you as a collaborator," said Fielding 
 miserably. "When I feel like working, you won't let 
 me. And when you want me to, I can't." 
 
 "Cross-patch !" 
 
 Fielding caught himself looking at her with indiffer- 
 ence. His sluggish mind recalled, almost wistfully, the 
 sumptuous rows of books in his cool and quiet library. 
 Suddenly he was wondering whether the rule of this 
 temperamental creature was so very different from Beth's. 
 
 He saw Olah but once during the following week. Late 
 one night she burst in upon him with an unaccustomed 
 flush on her animated face. 
 
 "I must tell you the news," she began breathlessly. 
 
 "What news?" 
 
 "What do you think? I open in September on Broad- 
 way! I have found a backer. He has put up the 
 money. The contracts are signed. The play is being 
 written. I shall be starred." 
 
 A look of unnatural gayety flamed in her eyes. 
 
 "You did not know' I could be so practical, did you? 
 But you know it's the only door to stardom." 
 
 There was a catch in her voice. 
 
 "For a time, you drove all that out of my mind," she 
 resumed soberly. "You made me think of art as some- 
 thing finer. I seemed to have got cleansed." She looked 
 into space. "But Broadway is Broadway. Everything
 
 GOLD SHOD 223 
 
 has been arranged. My motor cars are ordered. Just 
 imagine ! My apartment reeks with luxury. He is very 
 rich made millions during the war a genuine profiteer. 
 He's the sort to exact every privilege. I'm to be his 
 property exclusively. But I shall be famous." 
 
 "Why in heaven's name didn't you tell me what you 
 wanted?" asked Fielding. "I could have done all this for 
 you." 
 
 Olah looked at him incredulously, unable to associate 
 the master of this meager room with any thought of 
 wealth. 
 
 "You could?" she said. 
 
 "Certainly. I've done my share of profiteering, too. 
 Do you like this fellow?" 
 
 "Oh, he's all right. When one needs a backer, one 
 can't always pick and choose." 
 
 "I didn't know you were so eager for luxury and for 
 fame," he said, studying her curiously. 
 
 "Did you think I was playing in that barn of a place 
 from choice? Naturally I wanted to be on Broadway. 
 But listen, if you can really finance me, it isn't too late." 
 
 "But you say you've reached an agreement with this 
 man,'* said Fielding with barely concealed relief. 
 
 "I don't have to carry it out. Good God, if I had 
 only known! I can't imagine what made me so stupid as 
 never to have suspected and after our Cinderella parties, 
 too ! I'll tell him it's all off. I insist." 
 
 "I don't think I'd better interfere much as I should 
 like to." 
 
 "Don't you want me any more?" asked Olah in a sud- 
 den depression. 
 
 "We've had a corking time together. YouVe been 
 very charming. I shall hate mightily to lose you." 
 
 "Then let me call off this agreement. I have only to 
 say that I've reconsidered. He doesn't expect me until 
 Saturday." 
 
 "No, it wouldn't be fair to the man," said Fielding 
 firmly.
 
 224 GOLD SHOD 
 
 During the remainder of the week, Olah waited anxiously 
 for him to re-appear at his rooms in St. Luke's Place. 
 She discovered the location of his office, and began to 
 besiege it frantically for an interview with him, but he 
 had gone to Washington, and at length her hopes 
 dwindled into despair. On Saturday she surrendered her- 
 self unhappily. 
 
 On Fielding's return, he found a distressful letter 
 from her, begging him to communicate with her. He read 
 it moodily, wondering if he should have abandoned her 
 in this manner. He liked her immensely, but could not 
 write when she was about, and already the determination 
 to forget the play, and to begin on a novel instead, had 
 taken masterful hold of him. 
 
 That night he wrapped up the unfinished manuscript 
 of their play, addressed it to her, and posted it. Then 
 he re-sharpened his pile of pencils of soft Siberian 
 graphite, and went vigorously to work.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 SO here you are?" said Wayland Emmett, staring at 
 the room and its occupant. 
 
 "Hello," replied Fielding. He put aside some pages 
 of manuscript. 
 
 "The simple life, eh?" said Emmett. 
 
 "Yes, I manage to get in a few hours of it now and 
 then. Sit down." 
 
 "This is a funny sort of a fad for you to be in- 
 dulging in. How did you ever find your way down 
 here? What the devil are you trying to do with your- 
 self?" 
 
 "Write something." 
 
 "Damn few writers making any money at it." 
 
 "I'm not trying to make any money at it." 
 
 "What then reform the world?" 
 
 "No, enjoy the world." 
 
 "What, in a barren dump like this? I'll swear I can't 
 understand you." 
 
 "No, I don't suppose you can." 
 
 "What are you driving at anyway?" 
 
 "Terms of expression, things I've hardly even taken 
 time to think about but why talk about it?" 
 
 "You always manage to express yourself pretty satis- 
 factorily down at the office, old man." 
 
 "Not myself," said Fielding, shaking his head. 
 
 "Mrs. Glinden wanted me to run in. She's worried. 
 Wants to know if you're comfortable." 
 
 "Can she think of nothing but comfort !" 
 
 "Any message you want to send her?" 
 
 "Tell her I hope she's comfortable." 
 
 Fielding's labors on his novel were accompanied by ex- 
 
 225
 
 226 GOLD SHOD 
 
 tensive reading. The trapeze-work of the clever story 
 writers, and the output of the sentimental confectioners 
 of fiction wearied him. He looked almost in vain for 
 simple verities and the true salt of romance among the 
 periodicals. He saw sugary, insipid sweets being shoved 
 by smirking merchandisers into the show-windows of the 
 magazines. He beheld floods of "realism" by morbid 
 poseurs, cut to the shallow measurements of female idlers 
 and of lustful, timorous males. Only here and there 
 among all these distorters and defamers of life did he 
 discern the shadowy outlines of greater figures with some- 
 thing real to say, figures with the stature to behold and 
 the power to speak. 
 
 He found himself drifting into prolonged periods of 
 introspection, scrutinizing his past, endeavoring to ac- 
 count for its conflicting impulses, and searching for his 
 impressions as a child. Often his mind swung back to 
 Carter. Looking within himself, he beheld half-cut 
 jungles of weakness, pools of passion, hothouses of trag- 
 edy what a mistake to have imposed these on Carter. 
 
 As he thought of his feeble scraping at the riddle of 
 existence, a consuming melancholy pervaded him. He 
 appraised the meager fractions of their longed-for lives 
 that those nearest him had been able to live the 
 broken hopes of his father and his grandfather and the 
 Blasphemer, the embers he had gathered from the ashes 
 of those lives and had added to the fires of his own 
 being. He thought of the sparks he had struck from 
 contact with his mother and Beth and Carter and Brenda 
 and Olah, with actors on vanished stages, with leaves of 
 forgotten books, with glistening mornings and starry 
 nights. He caught fugitive glimpses of the different 
 lives and mysterious impulses that had been patched to- 
 gether into his own, to make up the messages that he 
 fondly believed had become his to express. 
 
 He was increasingly aware of a clamor of voices that 
 cried to him, unfinished lives calling to him for completion, 
 fragments of lives laying hold of him with pale fingers,
 
 GOLD SHOD 227 
 
 demanding to live themselves on in his written pages. It 
 came to him all of a sudden why he was trying to write 
 it was to prolong and enlarge the lives of people, living 
 and dead, whose vital impulses had been suppressed or 
 mown down. He felt like the living street of multitudes, 
 like a pavement tramped by thousands of hungry feet. 
 Was this why he had always been moved by lamplit win- 
 dows glowing in silent walls, by ripples of music, by rusty 
 gates and sagging fences, by pinched faces in anonymous 
 crowds? He felt the pressure of a stream of boundless 
 pity for men and women and their tragedies. 
 
 Now it was the vehement spirit of the Blasphemer that 
 brooded over Fielding's workroom. Frequent letters ar- 
 rived from the sanatorium; the sick man rejoiced at 
 Fielding's new efforts. Once he wrote: "Now I envy 
 you, you disreputable pup. I can hear the rumble of 
 your pen. Write, damn you!" Again: "God, what a 
 kick you injected into your last letter! Hurry down 
 here with your bundle of manuscript. I am panting to see 
 your handiwork. What feed it will be for the bastard 
 swine of a reading public." Another time: "My un- 
 Christly cough is worse. Who the hell invented t.b. ? 
 Hurry here with your epic, for believe me, the greatest 
 bore in the world is to die." 
 
 Fielding kept promising himself a visit to the 
 Blasphemer directly his book should be completed. He 
 was impatient to place the manuscript before the judging 
 eyes of his friend. 
 
 A voice almost from the dead, these biting passages 
 in the Blasphemer's angular scrawl invariably spurred 
 Fielding into accelerated effort. Then came this astound- 
 ing news: 
 
 "Bacilli in retreat. Temperature normal. Pneumo- 
 thorax and tuberculin treatment doing great job." 
 
 Fielding was jubilant, and three weeks later was in 
 receipt of a letter from the physician-in-chief, confirming 
 the flash from the Blasphemer. And a little later the 
 patient wired:
 
 228 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "Medic says week in New York will do me good." 
 One sparkling October day brought a gust of blows 
 on the door in St. Luke's Place, and the Blasphemer strode 
 in, his thin face russet from curing in the sun. 
 
 "I feel like a jail-bird on a glorious tear!'* he cried. 
 "This burg of yours looks like heaven to me. Am I 
 alive or did I croak ? So this is your monk's cell ! How 
 did you ever get your feet off the Kermanshahs? By 
 the hallowed Zeus, no silk even at your windows! Give 
 me a drink!" 
 
 Till late at night Fielding had been reading aloud 
 to the Blasphemer from the manuscript of his novel. The 
 listener sat drinking and smoking steadily, a sympathetic 
 expression on his bony countenance. Thus far he had 
 offered no comments. 
 
 "That's as far as I've got," said Fielding at length. 
 
 "How does it strike you?" 
 
 The Blasphemer gazed at him sadly. 
 
 "Is it as bad as all that?" faltered Fielding. 
 
 "You've got some nice flashes of color and one or 
 two wallops of reality. But, you know, it takes years to 
 learn how to write. Your characters sit ground and 
 spout advertising copy at each other. Your women are 
 mail-order-house catalogue descriptions. I know how you 
 feel; but you've been chained for so long to your rock 
 that you've grown stiff and rusty. By God, you've had 
 vultures feeding on you ! They've had their beaks in the 
 artist in you for so long that there's damn little of it 
 left. You've machined a few puppets into existence, 
 and they creak and scrape. No, no, no, this fellow 
 wouldn't make love that way. If he loved the girl as 
 you say he does, wouldn't he try to get his hands on her? 
 He talks, but he doesn't do anything. Did you ever 
 jabber to any one about adamant?" 
 
 "Not that I know of." 
 
 "Ever see any adamant?" 
 
 "Probably not."
 
 GOLD SHOD 229 
 
 "Then don't have him harangue her about the stuff.*' 
 
 "Well, what else?" asked Fielding. 
 
 "This woman, now. If she blabbed to the neighbors, 
 she'd go next door on some plausible pretext and be a 
 damn sight more casual." 
 
 Fielding went to the window in silence, and dully 
 watched a Hudson Street trolley car as it clanged into 
 sight and disappeared. 
 
 "You're competing with people who have sweat blood 
 through their pens for years," the Blasphemer continued. 
 "You can't pick up a brush and paint portraits right 
 off. And you can't grab a pen and dash off a novel. 
 You've put it off a long time, you know." 
 
 "But when I begin a thing, I don't quit and I don't 
 fail. I'm not built that way," flared Fielding. 
 
 "You serve another god all day, and you're tuckered 
 out when you get here. You've got to choose which god 
 you will serve. You can't eat your pie and have it, too. 
 Oh, Christ, what a country this is ! Why, there isn't 
 another country in the world where men think because 
 they can do a good job at one thing, they can pitch 
 in and do the opposite thing just as well. Man, man, 
 you can't do a cosmic split keep one foot in the trough 
 and the other on Parnassus!" 
 
 Fielding smiled wistfully. "You think I'm wasting 
 my time?" 
 
 "You've waited too God damn long. You've kept your 
 soul in a forgotten bin in the stockroom. You've let it 
 get covered with cob-webs. You've let it rot." 
 
 A defiant glitter came into Fielding's eye. His face 
 flamed. "What the hell do you know about my soul?" 
 he cried. "Maybe I've written a lot of rot. I don't 
 know. But I'll tell you this. I'm not done. You watch 
 my smoke!" 
 
 The Blasphemer took a long drink and wiped his 
 lips with the back of his gaunt, knuckly hand before 
 he replied. Then: 
 
 "You poor hybrid. You're the product of two separate
 
 230 GOLD SHOD 
 
 and distinct species. So you're sterile. You were raised 
 on a soil that nourishes factories and starves artists. 
 In Europe you'd have been a genius. In America you 
 had to sell goods, manufacture goods, export goods. And 
 you've been ruled by women in whose eyes you could 
 shine only by making money for them. You're not to 
 blame, you're just the victim. Why, if I had had even a 
 spark of your gift for business, the women in my life 
 would have done the same with me. And because they 
 didn't have the material to work on, I'm nothing. No, 
 I'm not being sorry for myself; I've at least made my 
 try. But you they didn't even let you open your mouth. 
 And now it's too late,"
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 '.YIELDING called me up," said Beth victoriously. 
 A "Thank goodness he has come to his senses," re- 
 
 plied Mrs. Ellis, rising from the day-bed to embrace her 
 daughter. 
 
 "He will be here for dinner." 
 
 "I told you it wouldn't last long. It never does." 
 
 "How would you act?" 
 
 "Just as if nothing had happened. A man and his 
 flings are about as inseparable as a woman and her 
 headaches. Take the advice of an older woman and 
 forget it, my dear. Whatever you do, don't rake over 
 what is past. Don't embarrass him with questions." 
 
 "Do you know," said Beth thoughtfully, "I imagine 
 that woman angle wasn't all of it." 
 
 "What on earth else could there have been?" 
 
 "I hardly know. There are things in Fielding that 
 puzzle me. I've never quite understood him. There's 
 another side to him. It frightens me." 
 
 "Oh, pshaw, don't imagine things!" 
 
 When Fielding arrived, his appearance gave Beth a 
 shock. His face was pale; the skin looked drawn; there 
 were shadows under his eyes. Wisely she showed no 
 concern, but received him with gracious cordiality. 
 Toward the end of the dinner she remarked: 
 
 "I'm giving a little musical to-morrow night. Won't 
 you plan to be at home?" 
 
 "I've got to see a friend of mine off to a sanatorium, 
 but I'll try to run in late," said Fielding. 
 
 "A young pianist is to play. She's been giving bene- 
 fits for the Belgian children. Really a very fine musician, 
 and deserves to be encouraged. She's a former Detroiter, 
 too." 
 
 231
 
 232 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "Is she? I'll be happy to meet her." 
 A Miss Olgarth Brenda Olgarth, isn't it, Mother?'* 
 "Some funny-sounding foreign name like that," replied 
 Mrs. Ellis. 
 
 Against the silk, primrose walls of the music-room, 
 radiant with lamp-light, blossomed Brenda's figure at the 
 piano. Fielding^s eyes did not leave her, but roved 
 continuously between the mesmerizing boundaries of her 
 dark folds of hair, her snowy shoulders, the polished nails 
 of her hands, the sharply-indented arches of her silver 
 pumps. It was an amazing irony to him that Beth should 
 have brought Brenda to their house, for this was the 
 first time he had seen Brenda since they had skated to- 
 gether. A thousand times he had wondered whether she 
 remembered him. To-night, when they had been intro- 
 duced, her temperamental eyes had betrayed no signs of 
 recognition or remembrance. 
 
 "Bravo, Mademoiselle," he said, taking both her hands 
 after the final encore. "Come, I want you to sit down 
 beside me and tell me about yourself." 
 
 "Thank you. It was very charming of Mrs. Glinden 
 to extend the invitation," replied Brenda, taking his 
 arm. 
 
 "And more charming of you to come." They were 
 still within hearing of the guests. "You have been 
 abroad. How long?" 
 
 "Two years." 
 
 "Then I couldn't have found you in Boston," he said, 
 now that they had reached a secluded place. 
 
 "But you didn't try." 
 
 "You didn't want me to, did you?" 
 
 "I was afraid you might, and very glad you didn't." 
 
 "Delightful lady, I'm glad that you did me the honor 
 not to forget me," said Fielding. 
 
 "Do you still skate?" 
 
 "To have gone on the ice without you would have 
 been a grievous anti-climax."
 
 GOLD SHOD 233 
 
 Brenda merely shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "You played marvelously to-night," he added. 
 
 "I played very badly. I was frightfully nervous." 
 
 "Your fingers were bells and velvet!" 
 
 She regarded him quizzically. "You say such charm- 
 ing things even when they're brazen falsehoods." 
 
 "When do you play again?" 
 
 "A week from next Wednesday.** 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Carnegie Hall." 
 
 "That's a long time to make me wait. But," he added, 
 brightening, "you will be practicing in the meantime?" 
 
 "Every day.** 
 
 "May I come sometime?" 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 Brenda stood at the window of her studio, from which 
 she could see the sherry-brown turf and the patches of 
 deadened foliage that still clung to the trees of Cen- 
 tral Park. It was late in the afternoon, about the hour 
 when Fielding usually ran up if he was in town. She 
 was studying the pedestrians, distorted in perspective 
 from the height of eight stories, watching for Fielding's 
 rugged figure. The sky grew grayer, and twilight thick- 
 ened. A section of windowpanes in the apartment house 
 across the street blossomed into lemon-colored light 
 streaming through buff curtains. 
 
 Brenda switched on the light and resumed her place 
 before the piano. 
 
 In retrospection it seemed strangely unreal to her 
 Fielding Glinden's abrupt and brief appearance in her 
 life, her persistent wonder during these years whether 
 she would ever see him again, at length their meeting 
 in his own home, now this ! She knew she had never been 
 so happy before and yet all day an inexplicable mel- 
 ancholy had pervaded her, a feeling of unreasoning com- 
 passion for her companion of these twilight hours, a con- 
 suming sense of almost mothering care.
 
 234 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "Unhappy about anything?" asked Fielding. 
 
 "I was afraid you weren't coming, dear." 
 
 "Sorry to be late. A telephone call from Washington 
 detained me for nearly half an hour." 
 
 "You still come because you want to?" 
 
 "There's nothing I've ever wanted to do more." He 
 drew her close to him. 
 
 "What is there about me that makes you care for 
 me so?" 
 
 "A magic." 
 
 "Before that vanishes, we must say good-by. I'm 
 not going to let you acquire me as a habit." 
 
 "No danger. Every time I see you, you dawn upon 
 me like a glistening, unexpected adventure. It's that 
 quality of dawn about you. I never saw it in any one 
 else. What were you about to play when I came in?" 
 
 Brenda played one of the fragments he had listened 
 to on the night of their first meeting. ''You remember 
 that?" she asked. 
 
 "It's unforgettable." 
 
 "Do I play it any better now than I did then?" 
 
 "You played it perfectly then; you play it perfectly 
 now." 
 
 "Dear sentimentalist!" In her tone was an effort to 
 laugh commingled with an effort to subdue a sob. 
 
 "Brenda, what is it?" 
 
 "I don't know," she said unevenly. "I love you. And 
 I'm afraid " 
 
 "Of what are you afraid?" he asked tenderly. 
 
 "Dawns are so fragile and so brief." 
 
 "I'm awkward with my figures of speech. The kind 
 of life I have lived has made me inarticulate. Nothing 
 on earth can come between us. Do you think for a 
 minute that Mrs. Glinden means anything to me? We 
 should have been divorced long ago. Why, I've been 
 nothing but a cat's-paw in her hands." 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of that. We're as married now 
 as we ever can be. I love you too much to risk it."
 
 GOLD SHOD 235 
 
 "But you won't let me do anything for you !" 
 
 "You love me. You come to me." 
 
 "It's charming of you to feel that way about it. But 
 when you get started on this South American tour, you'll 
 forget all about me," said Fielding, depressed with fore- 
 bodings. 
 
 "Oh, I hope not!" 
 
 "Are you determined on South America?" 
 
 "Yes, it's aU settled." 
 
 "Your career means a great deal to you, doesn't it?" 
 
 "It means everything." 
 
 "I can't even comfort myself with the knowledge of 
 having contributed to your musical education or placing 
 you on the concert stage. If I had only found you again 
 in time to engage some 'swine' of a manager to boom 
 you!" 
 
 "How is your Blasphemer, and when am I to meet 
 him?" asked Brenda. "But, really, there is no end to 
 artists who would give body and soul for even a very 
 little boom. Help some of them." 
 
 "Yes, I have at least that comfort to look forward 
 to." Fielding's tone was bitter. "A patron of art, a 
 collector of books and pictures, a backer of musicians and 
 plays and publishers yes, I can still do that. I can 
 endow a few libraries and present a few statues to needy 
 parks. I can sign my name to checks if not to poems. 
 All I can do is line up with the other philanthropic fat- 
 heads who have served Mammon and served him well!" 
 
 Brenda was looking at Fielding with boundless pity; 
 now she understood the unreasoning intuitive compassion 
 she had felt for him. 
 
 "Sometimes you seem to be an artist to your finger- 
 tips," she said thoughtfully. 
 
 Fielding replied only with a sardonic smile. 
 
 "Why don't you try your hand at something, Field- 
 ing? Why don't you write?" 
 
 "Write !" he exclaimed, then mastered his mood. "My 
 dear, it's too late. Wanting to is one thing. Doing is
 
 236 GOLD SHOD 
 
 another. You've had to work for years at your piano." 
 
 "That's different it's largely muscles and nerves. 
 The writing technique is less taxing. It has a line of much 
 less resistance between the idea and its expression. Why 
 don't you do a novel?" 
 
 "I may as well tell you, Brenda. I've tried." 
 
 "I wondered if you hadn't been up to something! Let 
 me see it!" 
 
 "It's no good." 
 
 "Who says it isn't?" 
 
 "The Blasphemer." 
 
 "One man's opinion only. He's not infallible. Please 
 let me see it." 
 
 "I don't even know where it is." 
 
 "You haven't destroyed it!" 
 
 "Oh, I guess it's somewhere about." 
 
 "Then bring it to me. Please !" 
 
 A few days later, Fielding asked Brenda hesitantly, 
 "Have you had a chan,ce to look at any of that stuff 
 of mine?" 
 
 "I've read it all with great care. How you must have 
 worked !" 
 
 "Like a hod-carrier," said Fielding, "and I managed 
 to record only a lot of drivel," he said grimly. 
 
 "I wouldn't say that. Your writing is a little stilted, 
 perhaps. The main difficulty is that it isn't you. You 
 didn't get your force, your charm, your personality 
 into it. Something is missing I'm not critic enough 
 to know what. I should be curious to hear what your 
 Blasphemer said." 
 
 "My Blasphemer!" Fielding looked at Brenda for a 
 moment with startled eyes. "You've hit it exactly. The 
 only thing I have succeeded in doing has been to surround 
 myself with those who can do the things for me that 
 with all my yearning I can never hope to do for myself. 
 My Blasphemer blasphemes for me. My Brenda plays 
 for me, nourishing me with the things my grandfather
 
 GOLD SHOD 237 
 
 played when I was a little boy. I pay golden throats 
 to sing for me while I sit like a knot on a log with a 
 lot of other corn-fed box-holders. I myself am a non- 
 descript. I'm not even a thoroughbred business man, 
 or I should never have let this terrible distraction get 
 into my blood. I'm neither business nor artist. The 
 Blasphemer calls me a hybrid." 
 
 "Hush! What was the Blasphemer's opinion of the 
 book?" 
 
 "That I had only machined a few dreary puppets into 
 existence. That I can't 'keep one foot in the trough and 
 the other on Parnassus.' That I've hid tny soul in a 
 forgotten bin in the stockroom and let it decay." 
 
 "I don't like his vigor," protested Brenda. But she 
 recognized a secret feeling of disillusion. 
 
 "But you're too much of an artist not to agree with 
 the truth of what he says. I wanted you to see my stuff, 
 for I knew that if there was anything in it, you could 
 find it." 
 
 Brenda reached sympathetically for his hand. "Poor 
 boy," she said, "it's a crime that your temperament got 
 so misdirected. You're so full of it. I saw it the first 
 time we met. I never could think of you but as a poet 
 or composer. Every time I improvise, I find myself 
 playing things that I imagine you might have com- 
 posed " 
 
 "Don't. I can't stand it!" 
 
 "And if it makes you suffer, be thankful that you 
 can suffer. It takes a kind of greatness to have the ca- 
 pacity really to suffer. Listen." She began to play. "I 
 know you so well that I can express what you feel, even 
 if you can't write it or say it." 
 
 In the sincerity of her playing, Brenda did not foresee 
 just yet that her affection for Fielding could scarcely 
 survive to-day's disillusioning.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE President of the United States summoned Field- 
 ing to confer with him at the White House. 
 
 Emerging with a roar from the tunnels, the 'Con- 
 gressional Limited took up its flight across the waving 
 marsh-grass of the New Jersey flats, while Fielding sat 
 staring at the sullen pointed blades, and thought of the 
 multitude of new swords which had been drawn, now that 
 America had at last entered the World War. 
 
 For a moment, Fielding wondered vaguely just what 
 the President wanted with him, then he lapsed once more 
 into his reveries. Brenda's departure for Buenos Aires 
 had been a torturing wrench to him. If only he could 
 have had her love to shield him during his groping, 
 youthful days, his life might have been vastly different; 
 factories would never have taken possession of him, 
 balance-sheets and exports would not have obsessed him, 
 the President would scarcely be sending for him now 
 because he was known as a driver of men. Had he found 
 Brenda earlier, the glamor of his early dreams would not 
 have escaped him, he would not have ridden down the artist 
 in him, gold shod. 
 
 Suddenly his thoughts returned to the Blasphemer. 
 He had not seen his friend again after the sick man's brief 
 visit to New York; the blaspheming was over; the final 
 thunderbolt was flung. "Light your lantern ; mine is 
 going out," had been the last bracing but ironic mes- 
 sage from the sanatorium. 
 
 To-night the lower end of Pennsylvania Avenue was 
 even more disappointing to Fielding than usual, crowded 
 with its cheap lunch rooms and saloons, photograph gal- 
 leries, peanut stands, and tawdry souvenir shops. The 
 
 238
 
 GOLD SHOD 239 
 
 sidewalks were alive with soldiers, and flags flapped from 
 nearly every building. A column in khaki swung past, 
 heavy foot-gear beating time to the tense measures of 
 the drums and fifes. From his cab, Fielding watched 
 all this with a sense of unreality. He cast a quick look 
 backward at the Capitol, gray and luminous in its flood- 
 lights, and strove to adjust himself to an appropriate 
 emotional attitude toward his country at war, but could 
 think only of Brenda's departure, of his own wasted 
 years. 
 
 At ten the next morning, Fielding was passed into 
 the President's inner anteroom. Here there were thirty 
 or more men, most of them standing about, Senators, 
 Representatives, diplomats. Some stood with arms tightly 
 folded; one was tapping his teeth with the tips of his 
 fingers; Fielding regarded their active eyes and ready 
 smiles, the comfortable square-toed shoes, the posing 
 strut and demeanor of politicians. These were the men, 
 he reflected, who ran the government; he imagined there 
 were few among them he would even consider having in 
 his own organizations. 
 
 Fielding's entrance was not unobserved. A Senator 
 nodded to him pompously. An Interstate Commerce Com- 
 missioner paused on his way out to shake hands. An 
 Assistant Attorney-General spoke to him. 
 
 Fielding found the scene less impressive than -he had ex- 
 pected: his own anterooms were conspicuously superior. 
 Against the white woodwork and green walls rose a 
 homely mahogany clothes-press. The large flat-top desk 
 of the Secretary to the President was loaded with papers ; 
 the pile of twenty or more newly sharpened pencils re- 
 minded Fielding of the row of Siberian graphite pencils 
 that once had lain on his now-abandoned table in St. 
 Luke's Place. On a small table in a corner was a silver 
 water-pitcher, and near it, in an ordinary glass con- 
 tainer, were sanitary drinking cups, and on the floor a 
 cheap waste-basket and a white porcelain cuspidor. The
 
 240 GOLD SHOD 
 
 broad windows were open; from the sunny lawns, past 
 blossoming trees and clumps of shrubs, blew a mild breeze, 
 bringing faint echoes of distant drums. 
 
 "Mr. Glinden," said the Secretary briskly. 
 
 Fielding rose and was conducted through the long 
 narrow corridor that ran to the Executive Office. 
 
 The President came graciously toward him, his hand 
 extended. "I am very happy to meet you, Mr. Glinden," 
 he said. 
 
 "It is a distinguished honor to meet you, Mr. Presi- 
 dent." 
 
 "Please sit down." 
 
 Fielding was aware of an amiable warmth, of an in- 
 gratiating and magnetic personality he had not expected 
 to find, for he had formed hostile notions of the Presi- 
 dent, and had expected to behold a chilly, autocratic per- 
 sonality, rather than this unmistakable charm, this pleas- 
 ing questioning, and grave asking for advice. Fielding 
 was only vaguely aware of the curving bookcases and 
 open windows. The critical mood in which he had been 
 scanning the details of the outer office vanished. He was 
 talking mass-production with an authority, unfolding 
 darkness-cleaving answers to worried inquiries. 
 
 At length the care-worn Executive said: "I am very 
 grateful to you for these facts. I had been advised that 
 you were the man to look to, and now I am quite con- 
 vinced of it. If I may make the proposal, and if it is 
 agreeable to you, I should like to appoint you in charge 
 of all of our war purchases. Your experience is exactly 
 what we require. May I look to you to relieve me of 
 this responsibility?" 
 
 "Provided the sole authority rests with me." 
 
 "That is clearly understood. Divided responsibility 
 would be fatal." 
 
 "Then I accept," said Fielding. 
 
 "Thank you. The Secretary of War will see you at 
 once. He is waiting for you. His office is directly across 
 the street from here," added the President.
 
 GOLD SHOD 241 
 
 When Fielding awoke the next morning he was famous, 
 and within twenty-four hours his name was known from 
 one end of the country to the other. Newspapers dis- 
 played his picture and published elaborate accounts of 
 his career and of the distinguished qualifications which 
 so eminently fitted him for the duties to which the Presi- 
 dent had appointed him. The New York papers ran 
 lengthy editorials on his rapid rise from obscure origins, 
 praising the singleness of purpose that had governed him 
 since his first appearance in the motor car business in 
 Detroit, and referring to the fact that he never even 
 took time to play a game of golf. The newspapers held 
 him to be gifted with a prodigious ability to concen- 
 trate continuously upon business, and made much of the 
 scrupulous integrity and brilliant opportunism that had 
 carried him at thirty-eight into this exalted responsibility 
 for the expenditure of more money than had ever before 
 fallen to the lot of one man. And, finally, his private 
 life was reported to be blameless. 
 
 Fielding read these articles, and as he read, a satiric 
 smile wavered, now and then, to his lips. So this was his 
 crown of bay! 
 
 And now the war was over. Fielding was president 
 of a powerful New York bank, and chairman of the board 
 of a steel concern. 
 
 One day his secretary brought him a card bearing 
 the name of a brilliant young sculptor. 
 
 "You have that board meeting, you know," said the sec- 
 retary. 
 
 "I'll see this man first." 
 
 There was a glow of the open about the caller. "I'm 
 glad you remember me, Mr. Glinden," he said deferen- 
 tially. 
 
 "I've been reading about your fame as an ace," said 
 Fielding. 
 
 "Thank you," was the modest reply. "But it's great 
 to get back to my clay!"
 
 242 GOLD SHOD 
 
 "No doubt." 
 
 "Perhaps you recall being good enough several years 
 ago to speak of commissioning me to do the bronze you 
 were going to present to the public library." 
 
 "I haven't forgotten." 
 
 "Well, I'm ready!" said the sculptor with eager en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 Fielding regarded him with sudden wistfulness. Cur- 
 rents of the old unquenchable longing welled up in him. 
 
 "What was your thought regarding the statue?" asked 
 the visitor. "What is your opinion of something like 
 this?" He produced a rough pencil-sketch. "You see, 
 an heroic figure at a desk. An idealized conception of a 
 modern business executive. I don't think it's ever been 
 done. It's been growing on me. Does it appeal to 
 you?" 
 
 Fielding shook his head. "No, I shouldn't bother 
 with anything like that. It wouldn't be any satisfaction 
 to me." 
 
 "What did you have in mind?" 
 
 "Make your figure an artist of some sort. I'll let you 
 have a picture of a chap I used to know. I used to call 
 him 'the Blasphemer.' Died of tuberculosis before he 
 could ever accomplish anything. Wanted to write. Sup- 
 pose you make your figure look like him. Get longing 
 into it, a sort of feverish melancholy, perhaps, to symbolize 
 effort that never gets by, latent, inexpressible, unrecog- 
 nized genius, and that sort of thing." 
 
 At dinner, Fielding spoke of the returned sculptor. 
 
 "Isn't he a handsome thing?" said Beth. "He would 
 have been a real catch for some one. What a pity he 
 didn't marry into some prominent family!" 
 
 Nights, when Fielding was unable to sleep, he would 
 leave his bed, put on a silk dressing-gown and a pair of 
 slippers, and go to his tranquil library. Then he would 
 turn to the yellowed pages of books that had been va- 
 riously possessed and loved by Keats, by Shelley, by Poe.
 
 GOLD SHOD 243 
 
 Here he would give himself over to ripened reveries that 
 revolved soothingly through his mind. 
 
 He would think of the numerous women who had ap- 
 pealed to his increasingly fastidious taste since Brenda 
 had disappeared from his life. What an old woman- 
 chaser he was getting to be, he reflected, as he visualized 
 successive forms and faces. Well, why not? New York 
 was so full of women, and so many of them were beauti- 
 ful. He did not regret his transgressions. He found 
 comfort in the thought of the opera singers and actresses 
 he had backed. 
 
 It was fine to be able to do these things. It wasn't 
 every one who could make a name for himself as a patron 
 of the arts. And then he would think of the paintings 
 he had bought, the statues he had given, the chairs of 
 literature and of music he had endowed, the publishing 
 house he was financing, the honorary degrees that had 
 been conferred upon him. 
 
 He realized that, after all, life had not treated him so 
 badly. And after a while, soothed by his meditations, 
 he would return to his bedroom, filled with a mellow and 
 gratifying glow. 
 
 THE END
 
 A 000127116 2
 
 
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