though daylight appeared among his fellows hearty voiced, inexhaustible, spilling over with energy and vitality, deep down he was a very weary man. and sometime under the liquor drug, snatches of wisdom came to him far more lucidity than in his sober moments, as, for instance, one night, when he sat on the edge of the bed with one shoe in his hand and meditated on dede's aphorism to the effect that he could not sleep in more than one bed at a time. still holding the shoe, he looked at the array of horsehair bridles on the walls. then, carrying the shoe, he got up and solemnly counted them, journeying into the two adjoining rooms to complete the tale. then he came back to the bed and gravely addressed his shoe:—
"the little woman's right. only one bed at a time. one hundred and forty hair bridles, and nothing doing with ary one of them. one bridle at a time! i can't ride one horse at a time. poor old bob. i'd better be sending you out to pasture. thirty million dollars, and a hundred million or nothing in sight, and what have i got to show for it? there's lots of things money can't buy. it can't buy the little woman. it can't buy capacity. what's the good of thirty millions when i ain't got room for more than a quart of cocktails a day? if i had a hundred-quart-cocktail thirst, it'd be different. but one quart—one measly little quart! here i am, a thirty times over millionaire, slaving harder every day than any dozen men that work for me, and all i get is two meals that don't taste good, one bed, a quart of martini, and a hundred and forty hair bridles to look at on the wall."
he stared around at the array disconsolately. "mr. shoe, i'm sizzled. good night."
far worse than the controlled, steady drinker is the solitary drinker, and it was this that daylight was developing into. he rarely drank sociably any more, but in his own room, by himself. returning weary from each day's unremitting effort, he drugged himself to sleep, knowing that on the morrow he would rise up with a dry and burning mouth and repeat the program.
but the country did not recover with its wonted elasticity. money did not become freer, though the casual reader of daylight's newspapers, as well as of all the other owned and subsidised newspapers in the country, could only have concluded that the money tightness was over and that the panic was past history. all public utterances were cheery and optimistic, but privately many of the utterers were in desperate straits. the scenes enacted in the privacy of daylight's office, and of the meetings of his boards of directors, would have given the lie to the editorials in his newspapers; as, for instance, when he addressed the big stockholders in the sierra and salvador power company, the united water company, and the several other stock companies:—
"you've got to dig. you've got a good thing, but you'll have to sacrifice in order to hold on. there ain't no use spouting hard times explanations. don't i know the hard times is on? ain't that what you're here for? as i said before, you've got to dig. i run the majority stock, and it's come to a case of assess. it's that or smash. if ever i start going you won't know what struck you, i'll smash that hard. the small fry can let go, but you big ones can't. this ship won't sink as long as you stay with her. but if you start to leave her, down you'll sure go before you can get to shore. this assessment has got to be met that's all."
the big wholesale supply houses, the caterers for his hotels, and all the crowd that incessantly demanded to be paid, had their hot half-hours with him. he summoned them to his office and displayed his latest patterns of can and can't and will and won't.
"by god, you've got to carry me!" he told them. "if you think this is a pleasant little game of parlor whist and that you can quit and go home whenever you want, you're plumb wrong. look here, watkins, you remarked five minutes ago that you wouldn't stand for it. now let me tell you a few. you're going to stand for it and keep on standin's for it. you're going to continue supplying me and taking my paper until the pinch is over. how you're going to do it is your trouble, not mine. you remember what i did to klinkner and the altamont trust company? i know the inside of your business better than you do yourself, and if you try to drop me i'll smash you. even if i'd be going to smash myself, i'd find a minute to turn on you and bring you down with me. it's sink or swim for all of us, and i reckon you'll find it to your interest to keep me on top the puddle."
perhaps his bitterest fight was with the stockholders of the united water company, for it was practically the whole of the gross earnings of this company that he voted to lend to himself and used to bolster up his wide battle front. yet he never pushed his arbitrary rule too far. compelling sacrifice from the men whose fortunes were tied up with his, nevertheless when any one of them was driven to the wall and was in dire need, daylight was there to help him back into the line. only a strong man could have saved so complicated a situation in such time of stress, and daylight was that man. he turned and twisted, schemed and devised, bludgeoned and bullied the weaker ones, kept the faint-hearted in the fight, and had no mercy on the deserter.
and in the end, when early summer was on, everything began to mend. came a day when daylight did the unprecedented. he left the office an hour earlier than usual, and for the reason that for the first time since the panic there was not an item of work waiting to be done. he dropped into hegan's private office, before leaving, for a chat, and as he stood up to go, he said:—
"hegan, we're all hunkadory. we're pulling out of the financial pawnshop in fine shape, and we'll get out without leaving one unredeemed pledge behind. the worst is over, and the end is in sight. just a tight rein for a couple more weeks, just a bit of a pinch or a flurry or so now and then, and we can let go and spit on our hands."
for once he varied his program. instead of going directly to his hotel, he started on a round of the bars and cafes, drinking a cocktail here and a cocktail there, and two or three when he encountered men he knew. it was after an hour or so of this that he dropped into the bar of the parthenon for one last drink before going to dinner. by this time all his being was pleasantly warmed by the alcohol, and he was in the most genial and best of spirits. at the corner of the bar several young men were up to the old trick of resting their elbows and attempting to force each other's hands down. one broad-shouldered young giant never removed his elbow, but put down every hand that came against him. daylight was interested.
"it's slosson," the barkeeper told him, in answer to his query. "he's the heavy-hammer thrower at the u.c. broke all records this year, and the world's record on top of it. he's a husky all right all right."
daylight nodded and went over to him, placing his own arm in opposition.
"i'd like to go you a flutter, son, on that proposition," he said.
the young man laughed and locked hands with him; and to daylight's astonishment it was his own hand that was forced down on the bar.
"hold on," he muttered. "just one more flutter. i reckon i wasn't just ready that time."
again the hands locked. it happened quickly. the offensive attack of daylight's muscles slipped instantly into defense, and, resisting vainly, his hand was forced over and down. daylight was dazed. it had been no trick. the skill was equal, or, if anything, the superior skill had been his. strength, sheer strength, had done it. he called for the drinks, and, still dazed and pondering, held up his own arm, and looked at it as at some new strange thing. he did not know this arm. it certainly was not the arm he had carried around with him all the years. the old arm? why, it would have been play to turn down that young husky's. but this arm—he continued to look at it with such dubious perplexity as to bring a roar of laughter from the young men.
this laughter aroused him. he joined in it at first, and then his face slowly grew grave. he leaned toward the hammer-thrower.
"son," he said, "let me whisper a secret. get out of here and quit drinking before you begin."
the young fellow flushed angrily, but daylight held steadily on.
"you listen to your dad, and let him say a few. i'm a young man myself, only i ain't. let me tell you, several years ago for me to turn your hand down would have been like committing assault and battery on a kindergarten."
slosson looked his incredulity, while the others grinned and clustered around daylight encouragingly.
"son, i ain't given to preaching. this is the first time i ever come to the penitent form, and you put me there yourself—hard. i've seen a few in my time, and i ain't fastidious so as you can notice it. but let me tell you right now that i'm worth the devil alone knows how many millions, and that i'd sure give it all, right here on the bar, to turn down your hand. which means i'd give the whole shooting match just to be back where i was before i quit sleeping under the stars and come into the hen-coops of cities to drink cocktails and lift up my feet and ride. son, that's that's the matter with me, and that's the way i feel about it. the game ain't worth the candle. you just take care of yourself, and roll my advice over once in a while. good night."
he turned and lurched out of the place, the moral effect of his utterance largely spoiled by the fact that he was so patently full while he uttered it.
still in a daze, daylight made to his hotel, accomplished his dinner, and prepared for bed.
"the damned young whippersnapper!" he muttered. "put my hand down easy as you please. my hand!"
he held up the offending member and regarded it with stupid wonder. the hand that had never been beaten! the hand that had made the circle city giants wince! and a kid from college, with a laugh on his face, had put it down—twice! dede was right. he was not the same man. the situation would bear more serious looking into than he had ever given it. but this was not the time. in the morning, after a good sleep, he would give it consideration.
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