“Really?” The inquiry was courteously vague, and Ham’s nod of response was solemn.

“Yes, sir.  There are various sorts of charities, Carl.  Some folks send silk hats and neckties to the heathen in their blindness, and some found hospitals for three-legged dogs.  My father does none of these impractical things.  He has dedicated himself to establishing a fund for supplying Havana cigars and motor cars to the Idle Rich.  Each day finds him waiting for a quorum up at the National Union Club.  When enough are gathered together for a rubber he makes it royal and doubles until everyone save his partner feels a warm glow of wealth stealing gratefully through his arteries.”  Hamilton broke off and smiled, shaking his head.  “Far be it from me to criticize my father,” he declared with mock plaintiveness, “but I sometimes wonder why the devil he doesn’t learn to play bridge or stop trying.”

Then the April change of mood came once more and his eyes darkened into seriousness.  “Well, if it amuses him, why not?” he demanded, almost as fiercely as though someone had contradicted old Tom Burton’s right to mellow into a self-indulgent decay.

“All his hard life until ten years ago he sweated and toiled for those he loved.  I thought recently it might amuse him to take charge of one of my country places—­to try farming with no hardships.  He was as much good there as an armless man in a billiard tournament.  All his farming had been done with calloused hands on the plowshare.  All he knew of dairies was nestling his head against the flank of a flea-bitten cow.  Let him take his pleasure as he fancies.  Thank God he can.”

CHAPTER IX

An imagination verging toward the figurative finds on entering the New York Stock-Exchange a strong suggestion of having penetrated a die with which Giants have been casting lots.  The first impression is one of cubical dimensions—­and unless the curb be drawn, a fancy so spurred will plunge to yet other conceits that bring home the cynical parallel.

On the particular morning when Hamilton Burton’s car had been pelted by agitators in Union square the opening gong sounded from the president’s gallery on every promise of a quiet day.  Here in Money’s cardinal nerve-center there had been inevitable rumblings of future eruptions from pent-up apprehensions of panic, but this morning the spring sun came laughing through the great windows at the east and the idle brokers laughed back.

The psychology of this mart where the world trades with neither counter nor show-case nor tangible wares is fitful.  It responds nervously and swiftly to the gloom of fog or the smile of sun, as well as to the pulse-beat of the telegraph.  Around the sixteen “posts” where the little army of operators drifted as idly as though they met there by chance, no urgency of business manifested itself.  But back of this tricky calm hung a cloud of anxiety.