American fiction -- 20th century; Short stories, American
That is what it said; and somehow it made my heart beat quick and little
like a linnet’s heart. I put in my contribution and closed the book. But
the words clung to me like ivy; I couldn’t free myself. In the end, they
haunted me to my resignation; and while I remained long enough to
share in the affair of the German Girl’s Diamonds, and in that of the
Filibusterer, when the hand of discovery fell upon Lorns and Quin, and
others of my one-time comrades, I was far away, facing innocent, if
sometimes dangerous, problems on our western plains.
“With a profound respect for you,” observed the Jolly Doctor to the
Sour Gentleman when that raconteur had ended, “and disavowing a least
imputation personal to yourself, I must still say that I am amazed by
the corruption which your tale discloses of things beyond our Customs
doors. To be sure, you speak of years ago; and yet you leave one to
wonder if the present be wholly free from taint.”
“It will be remarkable,” returned the Sour Gentleman, “when any arm of
government is exerted with entire integrity and no purpose save public
good, and every thought of private gain eliminated. The world never
has been so virtuous, nor is it like to become so in your time or mine.
Government and those offices which, like the works of a watch, are made
to constitute it, are the production of politics, and politics, mind
you, is nothing save the collected and harmonised selfishness of men.
The fruit is seldom better than the tree, and when a source is foul the
stream will wear a stain.” Here the Sour Gentleman sighed as though over
the baseness of the human race.
“While there’s to be no doubt,” broke in the Red Nosed Gentleman,
“concerning the corruption existing in politics and the offices and
office holders bred therefrom, I am free to say that I’ve encountered
as much blackness, and for myself I have been swindled oftener among
merchants plying their reputable commerce of private scales and counters
as in the administration of public affairs.”
The Red Nosed Gentleman here looked about with a challenging eye as one
who would note if his observation is to meet with contradiction. Finding
none, he relapsed into silence and burgundy.
“Speakin’ of politics,” said the Old Cattleman, who had listened to the
others as though he found their discourse instructive, “it’s the one
thing I’ve seen mighty little of. The only occasion on which I finds
myse’f immersed in politics is doorin’ the brief sojourn I makes in
Missouri, an’ when in common with all right-thinkin’ gents, I whirls in
for Old Stewart.”
“Would you mind,” remarked the Jolly Doctor in a manner so amiable it
left one no power to resist, “would you mind giving us a glimpse of that
memorable campaign in which you bore doubtless no inconsiderable part?
We should have time for it, before we retire.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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