Octopus — Book II, Chapter 8, Part 2

In the end, Presley had been surprised to find that Shelgrim was still in.

It was already very late, after six o'clock, and the other offices in the building were in the act of closing.

Many of them were already deserted.

At every instant, through the open door of the ante-room, he caught a glimpse of clerks, office boys, book-keepers, and other employees hurrying towards the stairs and elevators, quitting business for the day.

Shelgrim, it seemed, still remained at his desk, knowing no fatigue, requiring no leisure.

“What time does Mr. Shelgrim usually go home?

” inquired Presley of the young man who sat ruling forms at the table in the ante-room.

“Anywhere between half-past six and seven,” the other answered, adding, “Very often he comes back in the evening.

” And the man was seventy years old.

Presley could not repress a murmur of astonishment.

Not only mentally, then, was the President of the P. and S.

W.

a giant.

Seventy years of age and still at his post, holding there with the energy, with a concentration of purpose that would have wrecked the health and impaired the mind of many men in the prime of their manhood.

But the next instant Presley set his teeth.

“It is an ogre's vitality,” he said to himself.

“Just so is the man-eating tiger strong.

The man should have energy who has sucked the life-blood from an entire People.

” A little electric bell on the wall near at hand trilled a warning.

The young man who was ruling forms laid down his pen, and opening the door of the President's office, thrust in his head, then after a word exchanged with the unseen occupant of the room, he swung the door wide, saying to Presley: “Mr. Shelgrim will see you, sir.

” Presley entered a large, well lighted, but singularly barren office.

A

well-worn carpet was on the floor, two steel engravings hung against the wall, an extra chair or two stood near a large, plain, littered table.

That was absolutely all, unless he excepted the corner wash-stand, on which was set a pitcher of ice water, covered with a clean, stiff napkin.

A man, evidently some sort of manager's assistant, stood at the end of the table, leaning on the back of one of the chairs.

Shelgrim himself sat at the table.

He was large, almost to massiveness.

An iron-grey beard and a mustache that completely hid the mouth covered the lower part of his face.

His eyes were a pale blue, and a little watery; here and there upon his face were moth spots.

But the enormous breadth of the shoulders was what, at first, most vividly forced itself upon Presley's notice.

Never had he seen a broader man; the neck, however, seemed in a manner to have settled into the shoulders, and furthermore they were humped and rounded, as if to bear great responsibilities, and great abuse.

At the moment he was wearing a silk skull-cap, pushed to one side and a little awry, a frock coat of broadcloth, with long sleeves, and a waistcoat from the lower buttons of which the cloth was worn and, upon the edges, rubbed away, showing the metal underneath.

At the top this waistcoat was unbuttoned and in the shirt front disclosed were two pearl studs.

Presley, uninvited, unnoticed apparently, sat down.

The assistant manager was in the act of making a report.

His voice was not lowered, and Presley heard every word that was spoken.

The report proved interesting.

It concerned a book-keeper in the office of the auditor of disbursements.

It seems he was at most times thoroughly reliable, hard-working, industrious, ambitious.

But at long intervals the vice of drunkenness seized upon the man and for three days rode him like a hag.

Not only during the period of this intemperance, but for the few days immediately following, the man was useless, his work untrustworthy.

He was a family man and earnestly strove to rid himself of his habit; he was, when sober, valuable.

In consideration of these facts, he had been pardoned again and again.

“You remember, Mr. Shelgrim,” observed the manager, “that you have more than once interfered in his behalf, when we were disposed to let him go.

I don't think we can do anything with him, sir.

He promises to reform continually, but it is the same old story.

This last time we saw nothing of him for four days.

Honestly, Mr. Shelgrim, I think we ought to let Tentell out.

We can't afford to keep him.

He is really losing us too much money.

Here's the order ready now, if you care to let it go.

” There was a pause.

Presley all attention, listened breathlessly.

The assistant manager laid before his President the typewritten order in question.

The silence lengthened; in the hall outside, the wrought-iron door of the elevator cage slid to with a clash.

Shelgrim did not look at the order.

He turned his swivel chair about and faced the windows behind him, looking out with unseeing eyes.

At last he spoke: “Tentell has a family, wife and three children.

How much do we pay him?

” “One hundred and thirty.

” “Let's double that, or say two hundred and fifty.

Let's see how that will do.

” “Why--of course--if you say so, but really, Mr. Shelgrim” “Well, we'll try that, anyhow.

” Presley had not time to readjust his perspective to this new point of view of the President of the P. and S. W.

before the assistant manager had withdrawn.

Shelgrim wrote a few memoranda on his calendar pad, and signed a couple of letters before turning his attention to Presley.

At last, he looked up and fixed the young man with a direct, grave glance.

He did not smile.

It was some time before he spoke.

At last, he said: “Well, sir.

” Presley advanced and took a chair nearer at hand.

Shelgrim turned and from his desk picked up and consulted Presley's card.

Presley observed that he read without the use of glasses.

“You,” he said, again facing about, “you are the young man who wrote the poem called 'The Toilers.'

” “Yes, sir.

” “It seems to have made a great deal of talk.

I've read it, and I've seen the picture in Cedarquist's house, the picture you took the idea from.

” Presley, his senses never more alive, observed that, curiously enough, Shelgrim did not move his body.

His arms moved, and his head, but the great bulk of the man remained immobile in its place, and as the interview proceeded and this peculiarity emphasised itself, Presley began to conceive the odd idea that Shelgrim had, as it were, placed his body in the chair to rest, while his head and brain and hands went on working independently.

A saucer of shelled filberts stood near his elbow, and from time to time he picked up one of these in a great thumb and forefinger and put it between his teeth.

“I've seen the picture called 'The Toilers,'” continued Shelgrim, “and of the two, I like the picture better than the poem.

” “The picture is by a master,” Presley hastened to interpose.

“And for that reason,” said Shelgrim, “it leaves nothing more to be said.

You might just as well have kept quiet.

There's only one best way to say anything.

And what has made the picture of 'The Toilers' great is that the artist said in it the BEST that could be said on the subject.

” “I had never looked at it in just that light,” observed Presley.

He was confused, all at sea, embarrassed.

What he had expected to find in Shelgrim, he could not have exactly said.

But he had been prepared to come upon an ogre, a brute, a terrible man of blood and iron, and instead had discovered a sentimentalist and an art critic.

No standards of measurement in his mental equipment would apply to the actual man, and it began to dawn upon him that possibly it was not because these standards were different in kind, but that they were lamentably deficient in size.

He began to see that here was the man not only great, but large; many-sided, of vast sympathies, who understood with equal intelligence, the human nature in an habitual drunkard, the ethics of a masterpiece of painting, and the financiering and operation of ten thousand miles of railroad.

“I had never looked at it in just that light,” repeated Presley.

“There is a great deal in what you say.

” “If I am to listen,” continued Shelgrim, “to that kind of talk, I prefer to listen to it first hand.

I would rather listen to what the great French painter has to say, than to what YOU have to say about what he has already said.

” His speech, loud and emphatic at first, when the idea of what he had to say was fresh in his mind, lapsed and lowered itself at the end of his sentences as though he had already abandoned and lost interest in that thought, so that the concluding words were indistinct, beneath the grey beard and mustache.

Also at times there was the faintest suggestion of a lisp.

“I wrote that poem,” hazarded Presley, “at a time when I was terribly upset.

I live,” he concluded, “or did live on the Los Muertos ranch in Tulare County--Magnus Derrick's ranch.

” “The Railroad's ranch LEASED to Mr. Derrick,” observed Shelgrim.

Presley spread out his hands with a helpless, resigned gesture.

“And,” continued the President of the P. and S. W.

with grave intensity, looking at Presley keenly, “I suppose you believe I am a grand old rascal.

” “I believe,” answered Presley, “I am persuaded----” He hesitated, searching for his words.

“Believe this, young man,” exclaimed Shelgrim, laying a thick powerful forefinger on the table to emphasise his words, “try to believe this--to begin with--THAT RAILROADS BUILD THEMSELVES.

Where there is a demand sooner or later there will be a supply.

Mr. Derrick, does he grow his wheat?

The Wheat grows itself.

What does he count for?

Does he supply the force?

What do I count for?

Do I build the Railroad?

You are dealing with forces, young man, when you speak of Wheat and the Railroads, not with men.

There is the Wheat, the supply.

It must be carried to feed the People.

There is the demand.

The Wheat is one force, the Railroad, another, and there is the law that governs them--supply and demand.

Men have only little to do in the whole business.

Complications may arise, conditions that bear hard on the individual--crush him maybe--BUT THE WHEAT WILL BE CARRIED TO FEED THE PEOPLE as inevitably as it will grow.

If you want to fasten the blame of the affair at Los Muertos on any one person, you will make a mistake.

Blame conditions, not men.

” “But--but,” faltered Presley, “you are the head, you control the road.

” “You are a very young man.

Control the road!

Can I stop it?

I can go into bankruptcy if you like.

But otherwise if I run my road, as a business proposition, I can do nothing.

I can not control it.

It is a force born out of certain conditions, and I--no man--can stop it or control it.

Can your Mr. Derrick stop the Wheat growing?

He can burn his crop, or he can give it away, or sell it for a cent a bushel--just as I could go into bankruptcy--but otherwise his Wheat must grow.

Can any one stop the Wheat?

Well, then no more can I stop the Road.

” Presley regained the street stupefied, his brain in a whirl.

This new idea, this new conception dumfounded him.

Somehow, he could not deny it.

It rang with the clear reverberation of truth.

Was no one, then, to blame for the horror at the irrigating ditch?

Forces, conditions, laws of supply and demand--were these then the enemies, after all?

Not enemies; there was no malevolence in Nature.

Colossal indifference only, a vast trend toward appointed goals.

Nature was, then, a gigantic engine, a vast cyclopean power, huge, terrible, a leviathan with a heart of steel, knowing no compunction, no forgiveness, no tolerance; crushing out the human atom standing in its way, with nirvanic calm, the agony of destruction sending never a jar, never the faintest tremour through all that prodigious mechanism of wheels and cogs.

He went to his club and ate his supper alone, in gloomy agitation.

He was sombre, brooding, lost in a dark maze of gloomy reflections.

However, just as he was rising from the table an incident occurred that for the moment roused him and sharply diverted his mind.

His table had been placed near a window and as he was sipping his after-dinner coffee, he happened to glance across the street.

His eye was at once caught by the sight of a familiar figure.

Was it Minna Hooven?

The figure turned the street corner and was lost to sight; but it had been strangely like.

On the moment, Presley had risen from the table and, clapping on his hat, had hurried into the streets, where the lamps were already beginning to shine.

But search though he would, Presley could not again come upon the young woman, in whom he fancied he had seen the daughter of the unfortunate German.

At last, he gave up the hunt, and returning to his club--at this hour almost deserted--smoked a few cigarettes, vainly attempted to read from a volume of essays in the library, and at last, nervous, distraught, exhausted, retired to his bed.