He went right in with him,as far as Dryfoos would let him,and glad of the chance;and they were working the thing for all it was worth when Istruck Moffitt.Old Dryfoos wanted me to go out and see the Dryfoos &Hendry Addition--guess he thought maybe I'd write it up;and he drove me out there himself.Well,it was funny to see a town made:streets driven through;two rows of shadetrees,hard and soft,planted;cellars dug and houses put up-regular Queen Anne style,too,with stained glass-all at once.Dryfoos apologized for the streets because they were hand-made;said they expected their street-making machine Tuesday,and then they intended to push things."Fulkerson enjoyed the effect of his picture on March for a moment,and then went on:"He was mighty intelligent,too,and he questioned me up about my business as sharp as I ever was questioned;seemed to kind of strike his fancy;I guess he wanted to find out if there was any money in it.He was making money,hand over hand,then;and he never stopped speculating and improving till he'd scraped together three or four hundred thousand dollars,they said a million,but they like round numbers at Moffitt ,and I guess half a million would lay over it comfortably and leave a few thousands to spare,probably.Then he came on to New York."Fulkerson struck a match against the ribbed side of the porcelain cup that held the matches in the centre of the table,and lit a cigarette,which he began to smoke,throwing his head back with a leisurely effect,as if he had got to the end of at least as much of his story as he meant to tell without prompting.
March asked him the desired question."What in the world for?"Fulkerson took out his cigarette and said,with a smile:"To spend his money,and get his daughters into the old Knickerbocker society.Maybe he thought they were all the same kind of Dutch.""And has he succeeded?"
"Well,they're not social leaders yet.But it's only a question of time --generation or two--especially if time's money,and if Every Other Week is the success it's bound to be.""You don't mean to say,Fulkerson,"said March,with a half-doubting,half-daunted laugh,"that he's your Angel?""That's what I mean to say,"returned Fulkerson."I ran onto him in Broadway one day last summer.If you ever saw anybody in your life;you're sure to meet him in Broadway again,sooner or later.That's the philosophy of the bunco business;country people from the same neighborhood are sure to run up against each other the first time they come to New York.I put out my hand,and I said,'Isn't this Mr.Dryfoos from Moffitt?'He didn't seem to have any use for my hand;he let me keep it,and he squared those old lips of his till his imperial stuck straight out.Ever see Bernhardt in 'L'Etrangere'?Well,the American husband is old Dryfoos all over;no mustache;and hay-colored chin-whiskers cut slanting froze the corners of his mouth.He cocked his little gray eyes at me,and says he:'Yes,young man;my name is Dryfoos,and I'm from Moffitt.But I don't want no present of Longfellow's Works,illustrated;and I don't want to taste no fine teas;but I know a policeman that does;and if you're the son of my old friend Squire Strohfeldt,you'd better get out.''Well,then,'said I,'how would you like to go into the newspaper syndicate business?'He gave another look at me,and then he burst out laughing,and he grabbed my hand,and he just froze to it.I never saw anybody so glad.
"Well,the long and the short of it was that I asked him round here to Maroni's to dinner;and before we broke up for the night we had settled the financial side of the plan that's brought you to New York.I can see,'t said Fulkerson,who had kept his eyes fast on March's face,"that you don't more than half like the idea of Dryfoos.It ought to give you more confidence in the thing than you ever had.You needn't be afraid,"he added,with some feeling,"that I talked Dryfoos into the thing for my own advantage.""Oh,my dear Fulkerson!"March protested,all the more fervently because he was really a little guilty.
"Well,of course not!I didn't mean you were.But I just happened to tell him what I wanted to go into when I could see my way to it,and he caught on of his own accord.The fact is,"said Fulkerson,"I guess I'd better make a clean breast of it,now I'm at it,Dryfoos wanted to get something for that boy of his to do.He's in railroads himself,and he's in mines and other things,and he keeps busy,and he can't bear to have his boy hanging round the house doing nothing,like as if he was a girl.
I told him that the great object of a rich man was to get his son into just that fix,but he couldn't seem to see it,and the boy hated it himself.He's got a good head,and he wanted to study for the ministry when they were all living together out on the farm;but his father had the old-fashioned ideas about that.You know they used to think that any sort of stuff was good enough to make a preacher out of;but they wanted the good timber for business;and so the old man wouldn't let him.
You'll see the fellow;you'll like him;he's no fool,I can tell you;and he's going to be our publisher,nominally at first and actually when I've taught him the ropes a little."
XII.
Fulkerson stopped and looked at March,whom he saw lapsing into a serious silence.Doubtless he divined his uneasiness with the facts that had been given him to digest.He pulled out his watch and glanced at it.
"See here,how would you like to go up to Forty-sixth street with me,and drop in on old Dryfoos?Now's your chance.He's going West tomorrow,and won't be back for a month or so.They'll all be glad to see you,and you'll understand things better when you've seen him and his family.Ican't explain."
