Bentner walked in a daze from the bank manager’s office and called in at The Crooked Stick for a glass of Pinot to pull together the shattered fibers of his confidence. A glass of Pinot used to cost sixpence, but Ed Teller, the innkeeper, now charged eight pence and the wine had a distinctly weak taste, lacking the authority of genuine Pinot.
“Heavy condensation in the barrels, Mr. Bentner,” said Teller, seeing the Labor leader eying the glass of wine with distaste. And then Teller gave a wink of deepest meaning.
“You’ve been watering this stuff,” cried Bentner.
“People have been watering the money too,” said Teller. “What a shilling used to buy a year ago, one and sixpence won’t touch now. And you know something? I’m getting afraid of what’s going to happen when that next lot of money comes in.” He produced a cloth and started to polish some of the glasses taken from the bar behind him.
“I’m getting sick of the mention of money,” he said. “That’s all that people talk about here these days. You know what all that money did, to my way of thinking? It killed interest in life. There’s been many an evening here when I’ve listened with pleasure, while serving my customers, to three hours of good talk on shearing, wood carving, archery, gardening and—yes, treating colic in babies. It’s been a treat to be among my fellow human beings. I’m not a very religious man, Mr. Bentner, but listening to talk like that, kindly and good humored, I couldn’t doubt for a moment but that God Himself was right here listening with me and enjoying it just as much as me.
“And now look what’s happened! The talk is money, money, money. How much is there going to be? What’s going to be done with it? Who will get what? Who owes what to who? How much will go in taxes? It makes you sick. It’s killed living, in my view—killed it stone dead. It’s replaced it with something that isn’t worth having at all.
“I’ll give you a piece of plain advice, Mr. Bentner. If those Yanks offer you any more of that Gum Money, tell ’em to give it to their enemies because their friends don’t deserve to be abused by it. We had a good living here and a good way of making a living. And now it’s gone—or going. And money isn’t any substitute for what we’re losing, Mr. Bentner. No substitute at all. By God, you can’t make a nation out of dollar bills and it’s time the world realized that—and ourselves the first to do so.”
Moved, and deep in thought, Bentner went to the dartboard, picked up the three darts and stepped back to the line. He could put a pretty dart, as the saying went, and wanted to try for the double top.
“Used to be free,” said the innkeeper, busy with his glasses. “Cost a penny a dart now.”
Disgusted, Bentner put the darts down and strode out.
CHAPTER VII
People learn best when taught in the terms with which they are familiar. All the lectures of Mountjoy on inflation and cheap money when put together did not have as much effect on Bentner as having to pay a penny for each dart in a dart game and eight pence for a glass of watered wine. His confidence in money as a source of prosperity and of happiness was heavily shaken by these trifling incidents. And his mind had already been made uneasy by his conversation with Davis at the bank.
In the next several days he examined the problem over and over again, at times elated by the thought that the next outpouring of Gum Money would settle everybody’s financial troubles, at times made uneasy by warnings that matters would only be worse. It was, of course, easy for Mountjoy to talk of “getting rid of the money” because Mountjoy in his life had never needed for money. But Bentner had.
Bentner had known in his young days what it was to be short of a shilling. He had known the anguish which can come from the lack of a trifling sum. Money had for him an importance which lay in the fact that it was money. Pounds were pounds, dollars were dollars and shillings were shillings, and the more of these a man had, the better off he was. So he had always thought. Only painfully, slowly and with many hesitations, did he come to realize that it was possible to have a plentitude of money and still be badly off. Only by degrees did he come to realize that money was a very curious commodity, for it possessed no intrinsic value of its own. Its value depended on public confidence, which also decided whether a shilling would buy two gallons of milk or only a box of matches.
Bentner could not alone have taken the great step which the situation and Mountjoy demanded—refuse to let any more of the Gum Money come into the Duchy. He could not do this any more than a man who has once starved can throw away a loaf of bread. But he was beginning to discover that others, other than Mountjoy, were of the opinion (though often for purely emotional reasons) that the Duchy would be better off without the money.
The enthusiasm for the United States in the Duchy was beginning to wane as prices climbed and debts grew. Though it was grossly unfair, people began to attribute their misfortune to America and talk, quite without warrant, of the “money-grubbing Yanks.” One sheep farmer, whose request for a loan on the wool clip had been turned down, while on a trip to Marseilles considered it his duty to throw a brick through the window of the United States Consulate there.
He was arrested by the French police and turned over to the Consulate, where he got a kindly lecture on not throwing bricks through windows and was sent away with two huge envelopes full of material about United States foreign aid to nations in need. Returning to Grand Fenwick on the bus, he read through the material carefully and, when he got home, collected all his unpaid bills and mailed them to the Consulate, asking that they be settled for him and signing his letter “Arthur Greene—the man who threw the brick through your window.” By return mail he got the bills back plus another for the replacement of the glass. This demand, curiously, considerably restored American prestige in Grand Fenwick. “They’re not all daft,” people said on learning of the matter.
The one immediate and beneficial result of the brick throwing was that the mail service to Grand Fenwick improved immensely. Salat, the bus driver, hearing of the incident, out of gratitude became utterly punctual both in delivering and in collecting mail from the Duchy and never failed to ask the border guards to pay his respects to the fine fellow who had heaved a brick through the window of the Americans.
This being the time when news of the Gum Money earned during the past year could be expected, the improvement in the mail service relieved everybody’s nerves for, of course, the whole population was awaiting the arrival of the letter, which, as a result of previous correspondence, now came from Balche and Company, of Port Elizabeth, New Jersey, finance agents for the Duchy in the United States, rather than from Bickster and Company, who merely manufactured the gum.
When the letter arrived, it was brought to the castle not by one man but by a whole delegation. It was addressed to the Count of Mountjoy, for Balche and Company were unaware that the royalties from chewing gum had brought about the collapse of the government of Grand Fenwick. Mountjoy knew perfectly well that the letter was intended for the Prime Minister, who at the time was David Bentner. But he opened it anyway without a scruple and in the presence of the delegation of some twenty or thirty people who had brought it to him and who certainly were not going to leave without some news of its contents.
The letter was very short. It consisted of but one paragraph of perhaps five lines, but out of these lines leaped a figure and the figure was $10,000,000. Grand Fenwick’s share of the Gum Money this time was to be $10,000,000. Mountjoy’s hand trembled as he read this figure and his mouth felt as if it had, on the moment, become full of chalk. He swallowed with difficulty and those who had crowded into his study, noticing the slight lessening of color in the Count’s cheeks, sensed that there was a terrible blow coming and braced themselves to receive it.
“How much, my lord?" asked one at last.
Mountjoy, summoning the courage of his forefathers to his aid, looked steadily at the man and said, “Almost nothing. Ten thousand dollars. That is all. Sales have fallen tremendously.” He thrust the letter into his pocket.
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p; “Ten thousand dollars?” cried someone, and another said, “We’ve been cheated,” and another cried, “Those Yanks are keeping it for themselves.” There was a little uproar of protest and of outrage, which Mountjoy allowed to continue for a while and then silenced with firm authority.
“My friends,” he said, “you are actually better off. We can return now to running our own businesses without upsetting influences from abroad. But now, excuse me, I beg of you. I must pass this letter on to your Prime Minister, Mr. Bentner. He should know of this matter immediately.”
When they had gone Mountjoy went from his study to his bedroom and for a while contemplated himself in a full-length mirror on the front of his wardrobe.
“Mountjoy, you dog,” he said, waving a finger at his own image, “you hazard big stakes. See you play well.” He then rang a little golden bell and sent his secretary to Bentner, asking whether he could call on him officially in half an hour. The secretary returned with a message that Bentner was on his way over. Mountjoy smiled. “It would be more proper if I called on him, since he is the Prime Minister,” he said.
“My lord,” said the secretary, “he has heard rumors that only ten thousand dollars is coming from America and he can scarcely contain himself between irritation at the amount and everybody else knowing of it before him.”
Bentner was furious when he strode into the Count’s study. “You,” he said, pointing a stubby finger at the Count, who had risen to meet him, “are guilty of opening and of making public documents which are the concern solely of the government. You can be impeached. Impeached. And by God, I’m going to see that you are.”
“Do that in public some time,” said Mountjoy calmly. “You are quite effective when you demonstrate outrage. As you will see from the envelope, the letter was addressed to me and I had every right to open it.”
“You knew perfectly well that it was meant for the Prime Minister, and that’s me,” said Bentner.
“Try proving that during impeachment proceedings,” said Mountjoy. “There is nothing in our constitution, written or unwritten, that demands that a man assume that a letter addressed to himself is actually intended for another.”
“As soon as you opened this letter you knew who it was for, but you let half the Duchy know its contents before passing it to me,” said Bentner.
“Did I really?” asked Mountjoy quietly. “Why don’t you read the letter yourself before you start making accusations?”
Bentner snatched the letter from the Count, ripped the single sheet of paper open and glanced rapidly through it. “What’s this?” he cried. “You made a mistake, Mountjoy. Ten million dollars. Not ten thousand. See for yourself.” He thrust the letter toward the Count, who, ignoring it, rose and went to the door to ensure that it was firmly shut.
“Really?” said Mountjoy mildly. “What a pity.”
“You told them ten thousand,” repeated Bentner.
“So I did.”
“You made a mistake.”
Mountjoy considered this for a while, meantime studying the face of Bentner, who was entirely elated by the huge sum available when he had been told there was nothing but petty cash.
“Perhaps I made a slight mistake in misreading the figure in the excitement of the moment,” said Mountjoy. “But are you quite sure that you are not making a much bigger mistake in announcing the true sum? Are you quite sure, my dear Prime Minister, in whose hands rests the future of the nation, that the bigger mistake would not be to tell the people that they are now the unhappy possessors of ten million unearned dollars?
“You have seen what one million unearned dollars did to our countrymen. Ten million would do at least twice, perhaps three or four times the damage. I will not weary you with arguments whose validity you have seen demonstrated in real life. Perhaps my little slip concerning the figure—unremedied—might provide you with the solution to the problem which now faces you.”
The leap from ten thousand dollars to ten million and then back to ten thousand again was too much for Bentner to take immediately. He boggled, his mind lumbering around here and there like a bull controlled by a skillful matador in the person of Mountjoy.
“You are still free to act in whatever manner you think the best,” said Mountjoy. “Far be it from me to usurp the privileges and indeed the duties of the Prime Minister. But, with a sense of duty to my country and with a desire to be of service to you in these particularly arduous circumstances, I have provided you with a choice among alternatives.
“Those alternatives are these. You can officially confirm the news that only ten thousand dollars has been received this year, which will make any public division of the money impossible for the whole amount will be swallowed in paying only a part of the national debt—a gift of your party to the nation, I might add.
“Or you can take the other alternative. You can say that I made a mistake or that I lied. You can announce the doleful news that the Duchy now has ten million dollars, that the national debt can be paid at one swoop and that everybody can expect to receive—after payment of taxes—well over the equivalent of several years’ wages. In which case you will have unending problems of which you have seen the beginning already.”
“Ten million dollars,” whispered Bentner in agony. “Ten million dollars. It’s more than we’ll see in the Duchy in ten years’ time. How can anyone turn down ten million dollars?”
“Not everyone can,” said Mountjoy smoothly. “Only those who, like myself, being accustomed to money, have perhaps less attachment to it. Which is why I decided to make it easy for you. The people couldn’t have turned it down. But they are not now expecting more than ten thousand. And you yourself—my dear Bentner—I do appreciate your difficulties. I know how hard it must be for a man from a working-class family to turn his back on a fortune.
“Money has been your master for so long that you have to jig at its bidding. It is not the nobility, of course, who are enemies of the working class, though working-class prejudices have always been directed against their betters. No, money is the enemy of the workingman, as I am sure you now appreciate. And so, in the name of the workingman whom you represent, I call on you to turn your back on the enemy of your class and have nothing to do with this ruinous treasure.”
“I don’t know that I can do it,” said Bentner. “I don’t know that I’ve got it in me.”
“You are not without aid,” said Mountjoy. “You can either pray or resign.”
It was the thought of resignation—not prayer—that provided the turning point. “Resign?” echoed Bentner. “And throw away the greatest majority my party ever had? Never.”
“Then I recommend that you go down on your knees and ask Our Maker, in the national interest, to give you the strength of character to turn away from ten million dollars.”
But the thought of resignation and the ruin of his party had stiffened Bentner’s resolve. “I’ll tell them ten thousand and not a penny more,” he said.
“Bravo,” cried Mountjoy. “I begin to believe, listening to you, that when the aristocracy have finally disappeared from the earth, there may be enough men of character among the common people for civilization to continue.”
“I was wondering, however,” said Bentner slowly, “whether, without anyone being a whit the wiser, we couldn’t take a little for ourselves—I have a few commitments. Mountjoy’s icy stare silenced him. He shrugged a little and said, “All right. Can’t hang a fellow for trying, can you?”
CHAPTER VIII
Both Mountjoy and Bentner, being now firmly of the opinion that the public should not be told the correct amount of the Gum Money, so recommended to Gloriana at a meeting of the Privy Council. To their dismay, Gloriana thought otherwise.
“You two must remember that this is a democracy,” she said. “You cannot impose your plans on the public by subterfuge, without destroying our democracy. That democracy is more valuable than the dollars you wish to hide.”
“My dear sovereign lady,” said Mount
joy, “even in a democracy a government must keep from the people certain secrets which, if published, would do untold harm because of the emotional reaction—unconnected with rational thinking—which they would generate. Governments, even democratic governments, must protect the people from themselves.”
“Quite right, Ma’am,” said Bentner. “Tell the people about this and they would go hog-wild. Why, they’d be ordering automobiles and demanding that we put in petrol stations and widen the roads. There’d be a surge of traffic deaths and accidents. We’d have to increase the police force, start fining our own people for speeding, set up courts to try cases. No end of trouble, Ma’am. Best say nothing about it, but just quietly get rid of the money some way.”
“And what about next year and the year after?” asked Gloriana. “Remember we are required to keep this chewing gum franchise in operation nine more years. Do you think it right to lie each year to the people about the earnings? And when the people find out—as they are bound to—that they have not only been lied to but what they regard as their legitimate dividends have been given away without their being consulted—what then? How would either of you two gentlemen be able to lead a party, let alone form a government, after an exposure like that?”
With such arguments Gloriana persuaded her Prime Minister and the leader of her Loyal Opposition that the real amount of the dollar earnings must officially be announced to the people through the Council of Freemen. “Do not distrust our people,” she said. “They are perhaps wiser than you give them credit for.”
Bentner made the announcement. He passed over the original statement of the Count’s that the amount was but ten thousand dollars and said that there were ten million dollars and he had every reason to believe that the royalties would amount to the equivalent of that sum, or more, in the years ahead.
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