the calicoes; “yes, as I thought, seven-eighths; too narrow—sorry.”
There were thirty cases of those goods in the loft. Boniface Newt groaned in soul. The unconscious small boy, who had not understood the peculiar look, and had brought the yard-stick, stood by.
“Mr. Newt,” said Hadley, stopping at another case, “that is very handsome.”
“Very, very; and that is the last case.”
“You have no other cases?”
“No.”
“Oh! well, send it round at once; for I am sure—”
“Mr. Newt,” said the unconscious boy, smiling with the satisfaction of one who is able to correct an error, “you are mistaken, Sir. There are a dozen more cases just like that up stairs.”
“Ah! then I don’t care about it,” said Mr. Hadley, passing on. The head of the large commission-house of Boniface Newt & Co. looked upon the point of apoplexy.
“Good-morning, Mr. Newt; sorry that I see nothing farther,” said Mr. Hadley, and he went out.
Mr. Newt turned fiercely to the unconscious boy.
“What do you mean, Sir, by saying and doing such things?” asked he, sharply.
“What things, Sir?” demanded the appalled boy.
“Why, getting the yard-stick when I winked to you not to find it, and telling of other cases when I said that one was the last.”
“Why, Sir, because it wasn’t the last,” said the boy.
“For business purposes it was the last, Sir,” replied Mr. Newt. “You don’t know the first principles of business. The tongue is always the mischief-maker. Hold your tongue, Sir, hold your tongue, or you’ll lose your place, Sir.”
Mr. Boniface Newt, ruffled and red, went into his office, where he found Abel reading the newspaper and smoking a cigar. The clerks outside were pale at the audacity, of Newt, Jun. The young man was dressed extremely well. He had improved the few weeks of his residence in the city by visits to Frost the tailor, in Maiden Lane; and had sent his measure to Forr, the bootmaker in Paris, artists who turned out the prettiest figures that decorated the Broadway of those days. Mr. Abel Newt, to his father’s eyes, had the air of a man of superb leisure; and as he sat reading the paper, with one leg thrown over the arm of the office-chair, and the smoke languidly curling from his lips, Mr. Boniface Newt felt profoundly, but vaguely, uncomfortable, as if he had some slight prescience of a future of indolence for the hope of the house of Newt.
As his father entered, Mr. Abel dropped by his side the hand still holding the newspaper, and, without removing the cigar, said, through the cloud of smoke he blew,
“Father, you were imparting your philosophy of life.”
The older gentleman, somewhat discomposed, answered,
“Yes, I was saying what a pity it is that men are such d——d rascals, because they force every body else to be so too. But what can you do? It’s all very fine to talk, but we’ve got to live. I sha’n’t be such an ass as to run into the street and say, ‘I gave ten cents a yard for those goods, but you must pay me twenty.’ Not at all. It’s other men’s business to find that out if they can. It’s a great game, business is, and the smartest chap wins. Every body knows we are going to get the largest price we can. People are gouging, and shinning, and sucking all round. It’s give and take. I am not here to look out for other men, I’m here to take care of myself—for nobody else will. It’s very sad, I know; it’s very sad, indeed. It’s absolutely melancholy. Ah, yes! where was I? Oh! I was saying that a lie well stuck to is better than the truth wavering. It’s perfectly dreadful, my son, from some points of view—Christianity, for instance. But what on earth are you going to do? The only happy people are the rich people, for they don’t have this eternal bother how to make money. Don’t misunderstand me, my son; I do not say that you must always tell stories. Heaven forbid! But a man is not bound always to tell the whole truth. The very law itself says that no man need give evidence against himself. Besides, business is no worse than every other calling. Do you suppose a lawyer never defends a man whom he knows to be guilty? He says he does it to give the culprit a fair trial. Fiddle-de-dee! He strains every nerve to get the man off. A lawyer is hired to take the side of a company or a corporation in every quarrel. He’s paid by the year or by the case. He probably stops to consider whether his company is right, doesn’t he? he works for justice, not for victory? Oh, yes! stuff! He works for fees. What’s the meaning of a retainer? That if, upon examination, the lawyer finds the retaining party to be in the right, he will undertake the case? Fiddle! no! but that he will undertake the case any how and fight it through. So ’tis all round. I wish I was rich, and I’d be out of it.”
Mr. Boniface Newt discoursed warmly; Mr. Abel Newt listened with extreme coolness. He whiffed his cigar, and leaned his head on one side as he hearkened to the wisdom of experience; observing that his father put his practice into words and called it philosophy.
CHAPTER XVII. — OF GIRLS AND FLOWERS.
Mr. Abel Newt was not a philosopher; he was a man of action.
He told his mother that he could not accompany her to the Springs, because he must prepare himself to enter the counting-room of his father. But the evening before she left, Mrs. Newt gave a little party for Mrs. Plumer, of New Orleans. So Miss Grace, of whom his mother had written Abel, and who was just about leaving school, left school and entered society, simultaneously, by taking leave of Madame de Feuille and making her courtesy at Mrs. Boniface Newt’s.
Madame de Feuille’s was a “finishing” school. An extreme polish was given to young ladies by Madame de Feuille. By her generous system they were fitted to be wives of men of even the largest fortune. There was not one of her pupils who would not have been equal to the addresses of a millionaire. It is the profound conviction of all who were familiar with that seminary that the pupils would not have shrunk from marrying a crown-prince, or any king in any country who confined himself to Christian wedlock with one wife, or even the son of an English duke—so perfect was the polish, so liberal the education.
Mrs. Newt’s party was select. Mrs. Plumer, Miss Grace Plumer and the Magots, with Mellish Whitloe, of course; and Mrs. Osborne Moultrie, a lovely woman from Georgia, and her son Sligo, a slim, graceful gentleman, with fair hair and eyes; Dr. and Mrs. Lush, Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Maundy, who came only upon the express understanding that there was to be no dancing, and a few other agreeable people. It was a Summer party, Abel said—mere low-necked muslin, strawberries and ice-cream.
The eyes of the strangers of the gentler sex soon discovered the dark, rich face of Abel, who moved among the groups with the grace and ease of an accomplished man of society, smiling brightly upon his friends, bowing gravely to those of his mother’s guests whom he did not personally know.
“Who is that?” asked Mrs. Whetwood Tully, who had recently returned with her daughter, one of Madame de Feuille’s finest successes, from a foreign tour.
“That is my brother Abel,” replied Miss Fanny.
“Your brother Abel?
