 | Tales of the jazz age |  |
I
John T. Unger came from a family that had been well
known in Hades—a small town on the Mississippi River
—for several generations. John's father had held the
amateur golf championship through many a heated contest;
Mrs. Unger was known "from hot-box to hot-bed,"
as the local phrase went, for her political addresses; and
young John T. Unger, who had just turned sixteen, had
danced all the latest dances from New York before he
put on long trousers. And now, for a certain time, he
was to be away from home. That respect for a New
England education which is the bane of all provincial
places, which drains them yearly of their most promising
young men, had seized upon his parents. Nothing
would suit them but that he should go to St. Midas'
School near Boston—Hades was too small to hold their
darling and gifted son.
Now in Hades—as you know if you ever have been
there—the names of the more fashionable preparatory
schools and colleges mean very little. The inhabitants
have been so long out of the world that, though they
make a show of keeping up to date in dress and manners
and literature, they depend to a great extent on hearsay,
and a function that in Hades would be considered
elaborate would doubtless be hailed by a Chicago beef-princess
as "perhaps a little tacky."
John T. Unger was on the eve of departure. Mrs.
Unger, with maternal fatuity, packed his trunks full of
linen suits and electric fans, and Mr. Unger presented
his son with an asbestos pocket-book stuffed with money.
"Remember, you are always welcome here," he said.
"You can be sure, boy, that we'll keep the home fires
burning."
"I know," answered John huskily.
"Don't forget who you are and where you come from,"
continued his father proudly, "and you can do nothing
to harm you. You are an Unger—from Hades."
So the old man and the young shook hands and John
walked away with tears streaming from his eyes. Ten
minutes later he had passed outside the city limits, and
he stopped to glance back for the last time. Over the
gates the old-fashioned Victorian motto seemed strangely
attractive to him. His father had tried time and time
again to have it changed to something with a little more
push and verve about it, such as "Hades—Your Opportunity,"
or else a plain "Welcome" sign set over a
hearty handshake pricked out in electric lights. The
old motto was a little depressing, Mr. Unger had thought
—but now. . . .
So John took his look and then set his face resolutely
toward his destination. And, as he turned away, the
lights of Hades against the sky seemed full of a warm
and passionate beauty.
St. Midas' School is half an hour from Boston in a
Rolls-Pierce motor-car. The actual distance will never
be known, for no one, except John T. Unger, had ever
arrived there save in a Rolls-Pierce and probably no
one ever will again. St. Midas' is the most expensive
and the most exclusive boys' preparatory school in the
world.
John's first two years there passed pleasantly. The
fathers of all the boys were money-kings and John spent
his summers visiting at fashionable resorts. While he
was very fond of all the boys he visited, their fathers
way he often wondered at their exceeding sameness.
When he told them where his home was they would
ask jovially, "Pretty hot down there?" and John would
muster a faint smile and answer, "It certainly is." His
response would have been heartier had they not all made
this joke—at best varying it with, "Is it hot enough
for you down there?" which he hated just as much.
In the middle of his second year at school, a quiet,
handsome boy named Percy Washington had been put
in John's form. The newcomer was pleasant in his manner
and exceedingly well dressed even for St. Midas',
but for some reason he kept aloof from the other boys.
The only person with whom he was intimate was John
T. Unger, but even to John he was entirely uncommunicative
concerning his home or his family. That he was
wealthy went without saying, but beyond a few such
deductions John knew little of his friend, so it promised
rich confectionery for his curiosity when Percy invited
him to spend the summer at his home "in the West."
He accepted, without hesitation.
It was only when they were in the train that Percy
became, for the first time, rather communicative. One
day while they were eating lunch in the dining-car and
discussing the imperfect characters of several of the
boys at school, Percy suddenly changed his tone and
made an abrupt remark.
"My father," he said, "is by far the richest man in
the world."
"Oh," said John, politely. He could think of no answer
to make to this confidence. He considered "That's
very nice," but it sounded hollow and was on the point
of saying, "Really?" but refrained since it would seem
to question Percy's statement. And such an astounding
statement could scarcely be questioned.
"By far the richest," repeated Percy.
"I was reading in the World Almanac," began John,
"that there was one man in America with an income of
over five million a year and four men with incomes of
over three million a year, and—"
"Oh, they're nothing." Percy's mouth was a half-moon
of scorn. "Catch-penny capitalists, financial
small-fry, petty merchants and money-lenders. My
father could buy them out and not know he'd done it."
"But how does he—"
"Why haven't they put down his income tax? Because
he doesn't pay any. At least he pays a little one
—but he doesn't pay any on his real income."
"He must be very rich," said John simply. "I'm
glad. I like very rich people.
"The richer a fella is, the better I like him." There
was a look of passionate frankness upon his dark face.
"I visited the Schnlitzer-Murphys last Easter. Vivian
Schnlitzer-Murphy had rubies as big as hen's eggs,
and sapphires that were like globes with lights inside
them—"
"I love jewels," agreed Percy enthusiastically. "Of
course I wouldn't want any one at school to know about
it, but I've got quite a collection myself. I used to
collect them instead of stamps."
"And diamonds," continued John eagerly. "The
Schnlitzer-Murphys had diamonds as big as walnuts—"
"That's nothing." Percy had leaned forward and
dropped his voice to a low whisper. "That's nothing
at all. My father has a diamond bigger than the Ritz-Carlton
Hotel."
| Tales of the jazz age | |