There's an awful lot of 'em buying bread all the time.Funny taste they have--I never cared for bread especially, except for a toasted cracker with the Roquefort.But we might find a few of 'em and chuck some of dad's cash back where it came from I'd feel better if I could.It seems tough for people to be held up for a soggy thing like bread.One wouldn't mind standing a rise in broiled lobsters or deviled crabs.Get to work and think, Ken.I want to pay back all that money I can.""There are plenty of charities," said Kenwitz, mechanically.
"Easy enough," said Dan, in a cloud of smoke."I suppose I could give the city a park, or endow an asparagus bed in a hospital.But I don't want Paul to get away with the proceeds of the gold brick we sold Peter.It's the bread shorts I want to cover, Ken."The thin fingers of Kenwitz moved rapidly.
"Do you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses of consumers during that corner in flour?" he asked.
"I do not." said Dan, stoutly."My lawyer tells me that I have two millions.""If you had a hundred millions," said Kenwitz, vehemently, "you couldn't repair a thousandth part of the damage that has been done.
You cannot conceive of the accumulated evils produced by misapplied wealth.Each penny that was wrung from the lean purses of the poor reacted a thousandfold to their harm.You do not understand.You do not see how hopeless is your desire to make restitution.Not in a single instance can it be done.""Back up, philosopher!" said Dan."The penny has no sorrow that the dollar cannot heal.""Not in one instance," repeated Kenwitz."I will give you one, and let us see.Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick Street.He sold bread to the poorest people.When the price of flour went up he had to raise the price of bread.His customers were too poor to pay it, Boyne's business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital--all he had in the world."Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist.
"I accept the instance," he cried."Take me to Boyne.I will repay his thousand dollars and buy him a new bakery.""Write your check," said Kenwitz, without moving, "and then begin to write checks in payment of the train of consequences.
Draw the next one for $50,000.Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the building from which he was about to be evicted.The loss amounted to that much.Boyne died in an asylum.""Stick to the instance," said Dan."I haven't noticed any insurance companies on my charity list.""Draw your next check for $100,000," went on Kenwitz."Boyne's son fell into bad way after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder.he was acquitted last week after a three years' legal battle, and the state draws upon taxpayers for that much expense.""Back to the bakery!" exclaimed Dan, impatiently."The Government doesn't need to stand in the bread line.""The last item of the instance is--come and I will show you," said Kenwitz, rising.
The Socialistic watchmaker was happy.He was a millionaire-baiter by nature and a pessimist by trade.Kenwitz would assure you in one breath that money was but evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watch needed cleaning and a new ratchet-wheel.
He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged, poverty-haunted Varick Street.Up the narrow stairway of a squalid brick tenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octupus.He knocked on a door, and a clear voice called to them to enter.
In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine.
She nodded to Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance.One little stream of sunlight through the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the color of an ancient Tuscan's shield.She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz and a look of somewhat flustered inquiry.
Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in heart-throbbing silence.Thus they came into the presence of the last item of the Instance.
"How many this week, Miss Mary?" asked the watchmaker.Amountain of coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor.
"Nearly thirty dozen," said the young woman cheerfully."I've made almost $4.I'm improving, Mr.Kenwitz.I hardly know what to do with so much money." Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan.A little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.
Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven.
"Miss Boyne," he said, "let me present Mr.Kinsolving, the son of the man who put bread up five years ago.He thinks he would like to do something to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act."The smile left the young woman's face.She rose and pointed her forefinger toward the door.This time she looked Kinsolving straight in the eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.
The two men went down Varick Street.Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism and rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the moneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words.Dan appeared to be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him warmly.
"I'm obliged to you, Ken, old man," he said, vaguely--"a thousand times obliged.""Mein Gott! you are crazy!" cried the watchmaker, dropping his spectacles for the first time in years.
Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway with a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the proprietor.
A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her.
"These loaves are ten cents," said the clerk.
"I always get them at eight cents uptown," said the lady."You need not fill the order.I will drive by there on my way home."The voice was familiar.The watchmaker paused.
"Mr.Kenwitz!" cried the lady, heartily."How do you do?"Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension on her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside.
"Why, Miss Boyne!" he began.
"Mrs.Kinsolving," she corrected."Dan and I were married a month ago."