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No, he would not go back to be Gossom's private mouthpiece at any price! He did not whine, Cairy never did that exactly; but he presented himself for sympathy. The odds had been against him from the start. And Isabelle was touched by this very need for sunshine in the emotional temperament of the man.
Cairy nursed his injured leg with a disgusted air. "Don't sniff, Tommy, there are lots of men who would like to be in your shoes." "I know.... Oh, I am not ungrateful for my daily bread. I kiss the hand that found it, the hand of power!" "Silly! Don't be literary with me. Perhaps I put the idea into old Noddy Gossom's head when he was here the other night.
It was shortly after Percy Woodyard's funeral. She had been to Lakewood with her mother, and having left her comfortably settled in her favorite hotel, had taken the train for New York. Tom was to go to the theatre with her that evening, and had suggested that they dine at a little down-town restaurant he used to frequent when he was Gossom's slave. He was to meet her at the ferry.
Cairy had already the atmosphere of success about him. He still limped in a distinguished manner, and his clothes marked him even in the company of well-dressed American men. He had grown stouter, was worried by the fear of flesh, as he confided to Vickers, and generally took himself with serious consideration. It was a far call from the days when he had been Gossom's ready pen.
The weaker ones if they had the hold would pluck at the windpipe of their oppressors.... Every man felt instinctively this spirit of fight, the lively young clerk at her side as well as the defendant before the bar, her husband; the paid writers for Mr. Gossom's patriotic magazine as well as the President and his advisers, all had it in their blood.
It was the spirit of our dominating race, fostered through the centuries, the spirit of achievement, of conquest. Mr. Gossom's clever writers, the President, and the "good element" generally, differed from their opponents only in manner and degree. "Gently, gently, gentlemen," they called. "Play according to the rules of the game.
An age of women's ideals, a literature by women for women! ... Isabelle bought a copy of Mr. Gossom's patriotic magazine for the People, and turned its fresh pages with a curiosity to see what it was like, and who was writing now. The sentimental novel by the popular English novelist that she had looked at when it first appeared came to its conclusion in this number.
As a whole the photographs might be those of any Modern Order of Redmen, consciously posed before the camera of Fame. But they gave that personal touch so necessary to please the democratic taste. Thus from Aeschylus to Mr. Gossom's "literature." ... It seemed no more real, no more a part of what life is in its essence, than the hotel and the sleek people thronging it.
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