CHAPTER XX
THE DEDICATION 1
Bunny was alone in the roaring city of New York—six or seven millions of people, and not many known to him. There were reporters, of course—it made a "human interest" story, fate snatching one of the oil magnates away from the Senate inquisitors. The country was near the end of a bitter presidential campaign, and the smallest item about the oil scandal was of importance. Also Bunny had cablegrams and telegrams of sympathy—from Verne and Annabelle, from Paul and Ruth, from Rachel and her father and brothers; yes, and one from the Princess Marescu, signing herself, with old-time nearness, "Vee-Vee." He purchased his ticket home, by way of Washington, and on the train he read the back newspapers, with the day by day account of what happened to his boyhood dream of a great oil field: enormous oceans of flame rolling over the earth, turning night into day with the glare, turning day into night with thunder clouds of smoke; rivers of blazing oil rushing down the valleys, and a gale of wind sweeping the fire from one hill to the next. A dozen great storage tanks had gone, and the whole refinery, with all its tanks, and some three hundred derricks, licked up and devoured in that roaring furnace. It was the worst oil fire in California history, eight or ten million dollars loss. In Washington was some one for Bunny to tell his troubles to— Dan Irving! They took a long walk, and the older man put his arm about Bunny and told him that he had done everything possible in a difficult situation. Dan could assure him that he didn't have to think of his father as a bad man; Dan had made it his business to know, and could confirm Bunny's judgment, American big business men all purchased government, they all justified the purchase of government. It was something that had shocked Dan in the beginning, but he had come to realize now that it was a system; without the purchase of government, American big business could not exist. You saw it written plain in the instinctive reaction of the whole business world to the oil scandals, the determination to damp them down, to make nothing of them, to indict and prosecute, not the criminals, but the exposers of the crime. So they got to talking politics, which was the best thing for Bunny, to divert his mind and get him back to his job. Dan had been doing what he could in this presidential campaign, but he was sick with the sense of impotence. The whole capitalist publicity machine had been set to work on a new job, to glorify "Cautious Cal" to the American people—this pitiful little man, a fifth-rate country politician, a would-be store-keeper, he was the great strong silent statesman and the plain people's hero! One thing, and one only, the business men expected of him, to cut down their income taxes; in everything else he would be a cipher. The newspaper men were disgusted by their job, but all were helpless, their papers at home would take only one kind of news. And here was poor Dan with his labor press service, a score or two of obscure papers, perhaps a hundred thousand circulation in all, and most of the time not enough money for the office rent. "That's what I want to talk to you about," said Bunny. "Before I left France, Dad gave me a million dollars in Ross Consolidated stock. I don't know what it'll be worth since the fire, but Verne says there's full insurance. I'm not going to touch the principal till I have time to think things over, but I'll put a thousand dollars a month of the income into your work, if that will help." "Help? My God, Bunny, that's more money than we've ever thought of! I've been trying to raise an extra hundred a month, so as to mail free copies where they would count." Said Bunny, "I'll turn the money over to you with only one provision—that you're to have two hundred a month salary. There's no reason why you should run yourself into debt financing the radical movement." Dan laughed. "No reason, except that there wouldn't be any radical movement if some didn't do that. You're the first really fat angel that has appeared in my sky." "Well, wait," said Bunny, "till I find out just how fat I'm going to be. I've an idea my friend Vernon Roscoe will do what he can to keep me lean. He knows that whatever I get will go to making trouble for him." "My gosh!" said Dan. "Have you seen the things we've been sending out about Roscoe's foreign concessions, and what the state department is doing to make him rich? That story would beat the Sunnyside lease, if we could get the Senate to investigate it!"
II
Chicago, and more messages for Bunny. He had cabled Dad's secretary to ascertain if there was any will among Dad's papers. The secretary replied that nothing had been found, and neither the widow nor the daughter knew of such document. They were proceeding to Paris after the funeral, and the secretary would cable if anything was found there. So then to Angel City, and more cablegrams; the secretary advised that no will was among Mr. Ross's papers in Paris, and Bertie cabled, "I believe that infamous woman has destroyed Dad's will. Have you anything in Dad's writing or hers?" From which Bunny made note that death-bed repentances do not last very long—at least not when it's another person's death-bed! Bunny had nothing from Dad, except the order for the Ross stock, and that wouldn't bring much satisfaction to Bertie. He cabled to Al-yse, at her Paris hotel, reminding her that his father had stated the terms of their marriage to be that she was to receive one million dollars from the estate, and no more, and asking her to confirm that agreement. The reply which he received was from a firm of American lawyers in Paris, advising him on behalf of their client, Mrs. Alyse Huntington Forsythe Olivier Ross, that she knew of no such agreement as he had mentioned in his cablegram, and that she would claim her full rights in the estate. Bunny smiled grimly as he read. A clash between Spiritualism and Socialism! Also a clash between Capitalism and Socialism! Bunny went to call on his father's partner, at the office, where both could speak frankly; and they did. Verne's first statement was a knockout— Bunny's father had been mistaken in thinking that he had any Ross Consolidated Class B stock, and therefore his order upon Verne was worthless. All those street certificates had been sold some time ago at Dad's order; Dad's memory had evidently been failing since his illness—or perhaps he had not been watching his affairs since taking up with Spiritualism. His business was in a bad way. In the first place, the Ross Consolidated Operating Company, which had been Dad's choicest holding, was practically bankrupt. Verne had that day been notified by the fire insurance companies involved that they would not pay the claims, because they had evidence that the fires had been of incendiary origin; they didn't quite say it in plain English, but they implied that Verne or his agents had started the fires, because the company had an over-supply of oil and was caught with a failing market. "Good God!" said Bunny. "What's that, a bluff?" "No," said Verne, "that's a scheme of Mark Eisenberg, who runs the banking business in this city for the Big Five, to knock one of the independents out. They'll tie us up in the courts for Christ knows how many years. Ross Operating won't have the cash to develop that burned over field, and if it has to assess its stockholders for the money, your father's estate won't be able to finance its share without help. The Lobos River wells are played out, and the Prospect Hill field is filling with water. Of course your father's got shares in my foreign undertakings, but none of them will realize anything for a long time; so it looks as if you'll have to sell them out." "Who is to handle all this?" "Here's a copy of Jim's will—you can take it home and study it at your leisure. The executors are you and me and Fred Orpan, and you and Bertie are to divide the estate. Of course that's been knocked out by his marriage; unless he's made another will, the widow gets one half, and you and Bertie a quarter. I promised your father I'd do the executor's work, so I suppose it's up to me. Let me say this right away—that Paradise field bears your name, and if you want to take it over and run it, I won't stand in your way. You can sell some of your other holdings and buy me out at the market price and run the business for yourself. Do you want to be an oil man?" "No," said Bunny, promptly. "I do not." "Well, then, I'll have to buy out your father's stock; because the company is bankrupt, and I won't carry it unless I have control. You and me couldn't work together, Jim Junior—your ideals are too high." Verne laughed—but without his usual jollity. "If I hadn't promised your old man to do this job, I'd like to dump Ross Operating onto you and let it go bankrupt
on your hands, and see what you'd do. You didn't agree with your father about business men controlling the courts. Well, by Jees, you just be an upright public-spirited young citizen, and let the courts appoint a receiver for Ross Operating, without any bribery or undue influence of any sort—not pulling any political wires or making any threats or improper promises—and see how much you'd have left of the eight or ten millions, or whatever will be collected from the insurance companies a few years from now!"
III
From these ugly problems Bunny had a refuge—his little paper. He had arrived on a Sunday, and Rachel had met him at the train, with a dozen of the Ypsels, their faces shining. There was a cheer at sight of him—just as if he had been a moving picture star! There were handshakes all round—he and Rachel had several extra shakes, they were so glad to be together. The young people knew that Bunny would be sad over his father's death, and possibly also the burning of his oil field; so they crowded round, and told him all the news at once, and Rachel produced the proofs of a new issue of "The Young Student," also last week's issue, and several others that he might not have received. The little office was home—the only home Bunny had, because the mansion his father had rented had been subleased, and their personal belongings put in storage before Aunt Emma came to Europe. The office was only one room, but quite impressive with files and records accumulating; they had a subscription list of over six thousand now, and were printing eight thousand this week. But Rachel still had only one assistant—the Ypsels did the wrapping and addressing, evenings and Saturdays and Sundays. They hadn't got mobbed or arrested any more; the Socialists were supporting LaFollette for president, and that gave them the right to be let alone for a while. And then Ruth. Bunny went to call on her, in the same little cottage. Paul had not got home yet; he had stopped in Chicago for a party conference, and now was coming by way of the northwest, speaking every night. He was having good meetings, because of the prominence his arrests had given him. The story of his expulsion from France had been in the papers all over the country, and Ruth showed Bunny letters telling about this and other adventures with police and spies. Ruth had made Paul promise to write her a postcard every single day; and when she didn't get one, then right away she began to imagine him in some police dungeon, getting the third degree. Bunny watched her face as she talked. Her words were cheerful— she was a graduate nurse now, and able to earn good money, and save some if Paul should be in need. But she was pale, and her face was strained. There were Communist papers and magazines on the table, and Bunny could see at a glance what was happening. These papers came for Paul; and Ruth, sitting here alone many and many an evening, had read them, looking for news about her brother; so she had absorbed all the horrors about the torturing and maiming and shooting of political prisoners, and it had been exactly as if Paul had been in battle. Ruth hadn't what you would call a theoretical mind; you never heard her talk about party tactics and political developments and things like that. She was instinctive, yet with class consciousness all the more intense and passionate for that. She had been through two strikes, and the things she had seen with her own eyes had been all the lessons in economics she would ever need. She knew that the workers in big industry are wage slaves, fighting for their very lives. And this war was not like capitalist wars—this one had to be, because the masters made it. But even thus believing in Paul's work, Ruth could not help being in a tension of anxiety. Also—a strange and perplexing thing—Ruth was angry with Rachel and "The Young Student"! It appeared that the Socialists had been getting up meetings all over the country for a so-called Social-revolutionary from Russia, a lecturer who made the imprisonment of his partisans in Russia the pretext for attacks on the Soviet Government. The Social-revolutionaries were the people who had tried to assassinate Lenin, and who had taken the money of capitalist governments to stir up civil war inside Russia. How could Bunny's paper give support to them? Bunny went back to Rachel and the Ypsels, who declared that this man was a Socialist, opposing the partisans of violence; the Communists had come to the meeting and tried to howl him down, and there had been almost a fight. So here was poor Bunny, facing with dismay the same internal warfare in the movement, which had so distressed him in Paris and Berlin and Vienna! He had been so profoundly impressed by Paul and his account of Russia, but he found that Rachel had not moved an inch from her position. She would defend the right of the Russians to work out their own destiny, she would defend their right to be heard in America—even though they would not defend her right. But she would have nothing to do with the Third International, and no talk about dictatorships—unless it was her own dictatorship, that was going to see to it that "The Young Student" didn't give the post office authorities or the district attorney's office any pretext for a raid! No, they were going to stand for a democratic solution of the social problem; and Bunny, as usual, was going to be bossed by a woman! It was a curious thing—the nature of women! They seemed so gentle and impressionable; but it was the pliability of rubber, or of water—that comes right back the way it was before! From the very first—look at Eunice Hoyt, so set upon having her own way! And even little Rosie Taintor—if he had married her, he would have discovered that she had a fixed religious conviction as to the proper style of window curtains, and how often they had to be laundered! And Vee Tracy, who had given up her happiness—she would not be happy with a Roumanian prince, Bunny knew. And Ruth and Grandma, in the matter of the war! And Bertie, so hellbent upon getting into fashionable society, in spite of having been born a mule-driver's daughter! And now here was Rachel Menzies, and Bunny knew exactly the situation—it would break her heart to give up the little paper, she had adopted it with the passion of a mother for a child;, but she would walk out of the office in a moment, if ever Bunny should fall victim to the Communist process of "boring from within."
Bertie arrived in Angel City a week behind her brother, and afforded him still more evidence of the unchangeable nature of femininity. Bertie had come to get her share of the estate, and she went after it with the single-mindedness of a rabbit-hound. Bertie knew a lawyer—her kind of lawyer, another rabbit-hound—and she saw him the day of her arrival; and then Bunny must come to this lawyer's office, and with the help of Bertie and a stenographer have the insides of his mind turned out and recorded: exactly what Dad had said about his arrangements with Mrs. Alyse Huntington Forsythe Olivier—Dad hadn't said a word about it to Bertie, alas, nor to anyone else; he had made a will, of course, and that infamous woman had destroyed it—Bertie knew that with the certainty of God. And then, everything else about Dad's affairs that Bunny could recall; where he had kept his money and his papers, what secret hiding-place for stocks and bonds he may have had, what he had spent, so far as Bunny could guess, who had been in his confidence. And then the statements which Vernon Roscoe rendered; and all the files of Dad's correspondence with Verne; and the trusted young executives—Boiling and Heimann and Simmons and the rest; and the bankers and their clerks; and Dad's secretary whom Bertie had brought back from Paris with her—a veritable mountain of detail, and Bunny was required to attend all the sessions, and be just as much a rabbit-hound as the rest. He told himself that it was his duty to the movement, which so badly needed the aid of a "fat angel"! Right at the outset, there was one bitter pill that Bertie had to swallow. Her lawyer advised her that there was no chance of depriving Mrs. Alyse Ross of her half of the estate. Bunny's testimony was worth, in law, precisely nothing; and so, unless there should be found another will, they must accept the inevitable, and combine with the widow to get as much as possible out of Vernon Roscoe. Mrs. Ross's Paris lawyers had named some very high priced lawyers in Angel City as their representatives, and Bertie had to swallow her rage and admit these men to their counsels. There were troubles enough to need the very highest-priced lawyers. Accountants were put to work on the books of J. Arnold Ross, and on the statements rendered by his partner, and in a few days there began to emerge out of the tangle one colossal fact: over and above all the mon
ey that Dad had put into new business ventures with Verne and others, above all the cash which he had handled through his bank, there was more than ten million dollars' worth of stocks and bonds which had disappeared without a trace. Verne declared that these securities had been taken by Dad, and used by him for purposes unknown; and Bertie declared that was idiocy, and that Vernon Roscoe was the biggest thief in all history. Having access to Dad's safe deposit box, he had simply helped himself to the contents. And with rage Bertie turned upon her brother, asserting that he was to blame—Verne knew that Bunny would use his money to try to overturn society, and so it was only common sense to keep him down. Nor could Bunny deny that this sounded reasonable. It was easy to imagine Verne saying to himself that Bunny was a social danger, and Bertie a social waster, and the widow a poor half-wit, while he, Verne, was a capable business man, who would use those securities for the proper purpose—to bring more oil out of the ground. Learning of Dad's death, Verne had quietly transferred the securities from Dad's strong box to his own, before the state inheritance tax commissioner came along to make his records! Verne wouldn't consider that stealing, but simply common sense— the same as taking the naval reserves away from a government which hadn't intelligence enough to develop them. Now Bertie wanted to start a law-suit against her father's partner, and put him on the stand and make him tell everything about his affairs; and Bunny, with the help of the lawyers, had to argue with her, and bear the brunt of her rage. So far, Verne had been careful to put nothing into writing; and when he took the stand, he would have a story fixed up to leave them helpless. He could say that Dad had given him the securities, and how could they disprove it? He could say that Dad had taken the securities, unknown to his partner, and lost the money on the stock market— how could they disprove that? Even if they traced the sales of Dad's securities through Verne's brokers, they would gain nothing, because Verne could say that he had turned over the money to Dad, or that he had been authorized to invest it, and had lost it—