by Frank Norris
But Magnus was in every sense the “prominent man.” In whatever circle he moved he was the chief figure. Instinctively other men looked to him as the leader. He himself was proud of this distinction; he assumed the grand manner very easily and carried it well. As a public speaker he was one of the last of the followers of the old school of orators. He even carried the diction and manner of the rostrum into private life. It was said of him that his most colloquial conversation could be taken down in shorthand and read off as an admirable specimen of pure, well-chosen English. He loved to do things upon a grand scale, to preside, to dominate. In his good humour there was something Jovian. When angry, everybody around him trembled. But he had not the genius for detail, was not patient. The certain grandiose lavishness of his disposition occupied itself more with results than with means. He was always ready to take chances, to hazard everything on the hopes of colossal returns. In the mining days at Placerville there was no more redoubtable poker player in the county. He had been as lucky in his mines as in his gambling, sinking shafts and tunnelling in violation of expert theory and finding “pay” in every case. Without knowing it, he allowed himself to work his ranch much as if he was still working his mine. The old-time spirit of ‘49, hap-hazard, unscientific, persisted in his mind. Everything was a gamble — who took the greatest chances was most apt to be the greatest winner. The idea of manuring Los Muertos, of husbanding his great resources, he would have scouted as niggardly, Hebraic, ungenerous.
Magnus climbed into the buggy, helping himself with Harran’s outstretched hand which he still held. The two were immensely fond of each other, proud of each other. They were constantly together and Magnus kept no secrets from his favourite son.
“Well, boy.”
“Well, Governor.”
“I am very pleased you came yourself, Harran. I feared that you might be too busy and send Phelps. It was thoughtful.”
Harran was about to reply, but at that moment Magnus caught sight of the three flat cars loaded with bright-painted farming machines which still remained on the siding above the station. He laid his hands on the reins and Harran checked the team.
“Harran,” observed Magnus, fixing the machinery with a judicial frown, “Harran, those look singularly like our ploughs. Drive over, boy.”
The train had by this time gone on its way and Harran brought the team up to the siding.
“Ah, I was right,” said the Governor. “‘Magnus Derrick, Los Muertos, Bonneville, from Ditson & Co., Rochester.’ These are ours, boy.”
Harran breathed a sigh of relief.
“At last,” he answered, “and just in time, too. We’ll have rain before the week is out. I think, now that I am here, I will telephone Phelps to send the wagon right down for these. I started blue-stoning to-day.”
Magnus nodded a grave approval.
“That was shrewd, boy. As to the rain, I think you are well informed; we will have an early season. The ploughs have arrived at a happy moment.”
“It means money to us, Governor,” remarked Harran.
But as he turned the horses to allow his father to get into the buggy again, the two were surprised to hear a thick, throaty voice wishing them good-morning, and turning about were aware of S. Behrman, who had come up while they were examining the ploughs. Harran’s eyes flashed on the instant and through his nostrils he drew a sharp, quick breath, while a certain rigour of carriage stiffened the set of Magnus Derrick’s shoulders and back. Magnus had not yet got into the buggy, but stood with the team between him and S. Behrman, eyeing him calmly across the horses’ backs. S. Behrman came around to the other side of the buggy and faced Magnus.
He was a large, fat man, with a great stomach; his cheek and the upper part of his thick neck ran together to form a great tremulous jowl, shaven and blue-grey in colour; a roll of fat, sprinkled with sparse hair, moist with perspiration, protruded over the back of his collar. He wore a heavy black moustache. On his head was a round-topped hat of stiff brown straw, highly varnished. A light-brown linen vest, stamped with innumerable interlocked horseshoes, covered his protuberant stomach, upon which a heavy watch chain of hollow links rose and fell with his difficult breathing, clinking against the vest buttons of imitation mother-of-pearl.
S. Behrman was the banker of Bonneville. But besides this he was many other things. He was a real estate agent. He bought grain; he dealt in mortgages. He was one of the local political bosses, but more important than all this, he was the representative of the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad in that section of Tulare County. The railroad did little business in that part of the country that S. Behrman did not supervise, from the consignment of a shipment of wheat to the management of a damage suit, or even to the repair and maintenance of the right of way. During the time when the ranchers of the county were fighting the grain-rate case, S. Behrman had been much in evidence in and about the San Francisco court rooms and the lobby of the legislature in Sacramento. He had returned to Bonneville only recently, a decision adverse to the ranchers being foreseen. The position he occupied on the salary list of the Pacific and Southwestern could not readily be defined, for he was neither freight agent, passenger agent, attorney, real-estate broker, nor political servant, though his influence in all these offices was undoubted and enormous. But for all that, the ranchers about Bonneville knew whom to look to as a source of trouble. There was no denying the fact that for Osterman, Broderson, Annixter and Derrick, S. Behrman was the railroad.
“Mr. Derrick, good-morning,” he cried as he came up. “Good-morning, Harran. Glad to see you back, Mr. Derrick.” He held out a thick hand.
Magnus, head and shoulders above the other, tall, thin, erect, looked down upon S. Behrman, inclining his head, failing to see his extended hand.
“Good-morning, sir,” he observed, and waited for S. Behrman’s further speech.
“Well, Mr. Derrick,” continued S. Behrman, wiping the back of his neck with his handkerchief, “I saw in the city papers yesterday that our case had gone against you.”
“I guess it wasn’t any great news to YOU,” commented Harran, his face scarlet. “I guess you knew which way Ulsteen was going to jump after your very first interview with him. You don’t like to be surprised in this sort of thing, S. Behrman.”
“Now, you know better than that, Harran,” remonstrated S. Behrman blandly. “I know what you mean to imply, but I ain’t going to let it make me get mad. I wanted to say to your Governor — I wanted to say to you, Mr. Derrick — as one man to another — letting alone for the minute that we were on opposite sides of the case — that I’m sorry you didn’t win. Your side made a good fight, but it was in a mistaken cause. That’s the whole trouble. Why, you could have figured out before you ever went into the case that such rates are confiscation of property. You must allow us — must allow the railroad — a fair interest on the investment. You don’t want us to go into the receiver’s hands, do you now, Mr. Derrick?”
“The Board of Railroad Commissioners was bought,” remarked Magnus sharply, a keen, brisk flash glinting in his eye.
“It was part of the game,” put in Harran, “for the Railroad Commission to cut rates to a ridiculous figure, far below a REASONABLE figure, just so that it WOULD be confiscation. Whether Ulsteen is a tool of yours or not, he had to put the rates back to what they were originally.”
“If you enforced those rates, Mr. Harran,” returned S. Behrman calmly, “we wouldn’t be able to earn sufficient money to meet operating expenses or fixed charges, to say nothing of a surplus left over to pay dividends — —”
“Tell me when the P. and S. W. ever paid dividends.”
“The lowest rates,” continued S. Behrman, “that the legislature can establish must be such as will secure us a fair interest on our investment.”
“Well, what’s your standard? Come, let’s hear it. Who is to say what’s a fair rate? The railroad has its own notions of fairness sometimes.”
“The laws of the State,” returned S. Behrma
n, “fix the rate of interest at seven per cent. That’s a good enough standard for us. There is no reason, Mr. Harran, why a dollar invested in a railroad should not earn as much as a dollar represented by a promissory note — seven per cent. By applying your schedule of rates we would not earn a cent; we would be bankrupt.”
“Interest on your investment!” cried Harran, furious. “It’s fine to talk about fair interest. I know and you know that the total earnings of the P. and S. W. — their main, branch and leased lines for last year — was between nineteen and twenty millions of dollars. Do you mean to say that twenty million dollars is seven per cent. of the original cost of the road?”
S. Behrman spread out his hands, smiling.
“That was the gross, not the net figure — and how can you tell what was the original cost of the road?” “Ah, that’s just it,” shouted Harran, emphasising each word with a blow of his fist upon his knee, his eyes sparkling, “you take cursed good care that we don’t know anything about the original cost of the road. But we know you are bonded for treble your value; and we know this: that the road COULD have been built for fifty-four thousand dollars per mile and that you SAY it cost you eighty-seven thousand. It makes a difference, S. Behrman, on which of these two figures you are basing your seven per cent.”
“That all may show obstinacy, Harran,” observed S. Behrman vaguely, “but it don’t show common sense.”
“We are threshing out old straw, I believe, gentlemen,” remarked Magnus. “The question was thoroughly sifted in the courts.”
“Quite right,” assented S. Behrman. “The best way is that the railroad and the farmer understand each other and get along peaceably. We are both dependent on each other. Your ploughs, I believe, Mr. Derrick.” S. Behrman nodded toward the flat cars.
“They are consigned to me,” admitted Magnus.
“It looks a trifle like rain,” observed S. Behrman, easing his neck and jowl in his limp collar. “I suppose you will want to begin ploughing next week.”
“Possibly,” said Magnus.
“I’ll see that your ploughs are hurried through for you then, Mr. Derrick. We will route them by fast freight for you and it won’t cost you anything extra.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Harran. “The ploughs are here. We have nothing more to do with the railroad. I am going to have my wagons down here this afternoon.”
“I am sorry,” answered S. Behrman, “but the cars are going north, not, as you thought, coming FROM the north. They have not been to San Francisco yet.”
Magnus made a slight movement of the head as one who remembers a fact hitherto forgotten. But Harran was as yet unenlightened.
“To San Francisco!” he answered, “we want them here — what are you talking about?”
“Well, you know, of course, the regulations,” answered S. Behrman. “Freight of this kind coming from the Eastern points into the State must go first to one of our common points and be reshipped from there.”
Harran did remember now, but never before had the matter so struck home. He leaned back in his seat in dumb amazement for the instant. Even Magnus had turned a little pale. Then, abruptly, Harran broke out violent and raging.
“What next? My God, why don’t you break into our houses at night? Why don’t you steal the watch out of my pocket, steal the horses out of the harness, hold us up with a shot-gun; yes, ‘stand and deliver; your money or your life.’ Here we bring our ploughs from the East over your lines, but you’re not content with your long-haul rate between Eastern points and Bonneville. You want to get us under your ruinous short-haul rate between Bonneville and San Francisco, AND RETURN. Think of it! Here’s a load of stuff for Bonneville that can’t stop at Bonneville, where it is consigned, but has got to go up to San Francisco first BY WAY OF Bonneville, at forty cents per ton and then be reshipped from San Francisco back to Bonneville again at FIFTY-ONE cents per ton, the short-haul rate. And we have to pay it all or go without. Here are the ploughs right here, in sight of the land they have got to be used on, the season just ready for them, and we can’t touch them. Oh,” he exclaimed in deep disgust, “isn’t it a pretty mess! Isn’t it a farce! the whole dirty business!”
S. Behrman listened to him unmoved, his little eyes blinking under his fat forehead, the gold chain of hollow links clicking against the pearl buttons of his waistcoat as he breathed.
“It don’t do any good to let loose like that, Harran,” he said at length. “I am willing to do what I can for you. I’ll hurry the ploughs through, but I can’t change the freight regulation of the road.”
“What’s your blackmail for this?” vociferated Harran. “How much do you want to let us go? How much have we got to pay you to be ALLOWED to use our own ploughs — what’s your figure? Come, spit it out.”
“I see you are trying to make me angry, Harran,” returned S. Behrman, “but you won’t succeed. Better give up trying, my boy. As I said, the best way is to have the railroad and the farmer get along amicably. It is the only way we can do business. Well, s’long, Governor, I must trot along. S’long, Harran.” He took himself off.
But before leaving Guadalajara Magnus dropped into the town’s small grocery store to purchase a box of cigars of a certain Mexican brand, unprocurable elsewhere. Harran remained in the buggy.
While he waited, Dyke appeared at the end of the street, and, seeing Derrick’s younger son, came over to shake hands with him. He explained his affair with the P. and S. W., and asked the young man what he thought of the expected rise in the price of hops.
“Hops ought to be a good thing,” Harran told him. “The crop in Germany and in New York has been a dead failure for the last three years, and so many people have gone out of the business that there’s likely to be a shortage and a stiff advance in the price. They ought to go to a dollar next year. Sure, hops ought to be a good thing. How’s the old lady and Sidney, Dyke?”
“Why, fairly well, thank you, Harran. They’re up to Sacramento just now to see my brother. I was thinking of going in with my brother into this hop business. But I had a letter from him this morning. He may not be able to meet me on this proposition. He’s got other business on hand. If he pulls out — and he probably will — I’ll have to go it alone, but I’ll have to borrow. I had thought with his money and mine we would have enough to pull off the affair without mortgaging anything. As it is, I guess I’ll have to see S. Behrman.”
“I’ll be cursed if I would!” exclaimed Harran.
“Well, S. Behrman is a screw,” admitted the engineer, “and he is ‘railroad’ to his boots; but business is business, and he would have to stand by a contract in black and white, and this chance in hops is too good to let slide. I guess we’ll try it on, Harran. I can get a good foreman that knows all about hops just now, and if the deal pays — well, I want to send Sid to a seminary up in San Francisco.”
“Well, mortgage the crops, but don’t mortgage the homestead, Dyke,” said Harran. “And, by the way, have you looked up the freight rates on hops?”
“No, I haven’t yet,” answered Dyke, “and I had better be sure of that, hadn’t I? I hear that the rate is reasonable, though.”
“You be sure to have a clear understanding with the railroad first about the rate,” Harran warned him.
When Magnus came out of the grocery store and once more seated himself in the buggy, he said to Harran, “Boy, drive over here to Annixter’s before we start home. I want to ask him to dine with us to-night. Osterman and Broderson are to drop in, I believe, and I should like to have Annixter as well.”
Magnus was lavishly hospitable. Los Muertos’s doors invariably stood open to all the Derricks’ neighbours, and once in so often Magnus had a few of his intimates to dinner.
As Harran and his father drove along the road toward Annixter’s ranch house, Magnus asked about what had happened during his absence.
He inquired after his wife and the ranch, commenting upon the work on the irrigating ditch. Harran gave him the news of the pas
t week, Dyke’s discharge, his resolve to raise a crop of hops; Vanamee’s return, the killing of the sheep, and Hooven’s petition to remain upon the ranch as Magnus’s tenant. It needed only Harran’s recommendation that the German should remain to have Magnus consent upon the instant. “You know more about it than I, boy,” he said, “and whatever you think is wise shall be done.”
Harran touched the bays with the whip, urging them to their briskest pace. They were not yet at Annixter’s and he was anxious to get back to the ranch house to supervise the blue-stoning of his seed.
“By the way, Governor,” he demanded suddenly, “how is Lyman getting on?”
Lyman, Magnus’s eldest son, had never taken kindly toward ranch life. He resembled his mother more than he did Magnus, and had inherited from her a distaste for agriculture and a tendency toward a profession. At a time when Harran was learning the rudiments of farming, Lyman was entering the State University, and, graduating thence, had spent three years in the study of law. But later on, traits that were particularly his father’s developed. Politics interested him. He told himself he was a born politician, was diplomatic, approachable, had a talent for intrigue, a gift of making friends easily and, most indispensable of all, a veritable genius for putting influential men under obligations to himself. Already he had succeeded in gaining for himself two important offices in the municipal administration of San Francisco — where he had his home — sheriff’s attorney, and, later on, assistant district attorney. But with these small achievements he was by no means satisfied. The largeness of his father’s character, modified in Lyman by a counter-influence of selfishness, had produced in him an inordinate ambition. Where his father during his political career had considered himself only as an exponent of principles he strove to apply, Lyman saw but the office, his own personal aggrandisement. He belonged to the new school, wherein objects were attained not by orations before senates and assemblies, but by sessions of committees, caucuses, compromises and expedients. His goal was to be in fact what Magnus was only in name — governor. Lyman, with shut teeth, had resolved that some day he would sit in the gubernatorial chair in Sacramento.