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Updated: June 5, 2025
Asa Waring and Phil Goodrich smiled as Wallis Plimpton, after a moment's hush, scrambled to his feet, his face pale, his customary easiness and nonchalance now the result of an obvious effort. He, too, tried to smile, but swallowed instead as he remembered his property in Dalton Street . . . . Nelson Langmaid smiled, in spite of himself. . . Mr.
Mr. Plimpton nodded. "Not that I am a patron," the lawyer explained somewhat hastily. "But I've seen the building, going home." "It looks to me as if it would burn down some day, Wallis." "I wish it would," said Mr. Plimpton. "If it's any comfort to you to us," Langmaid went on, after a moment, "Eldon Parr owns the whole block above Thirteenth, on the south side bought it three years ago.
Langmaid found himself going back to the days when his mother had taken him to church, and he could not bear to look at, Hodder. Since six o'clock that afternoon had his companions but known it he had passed through one of the worst periods of his existence.... After the regular business had been disposed of a brief interval was allowed, for the sake of decency, to ensue.
He had sold that night, for a mess of pottage, the friendship and respect of three generations. And he had fought, for pay, against his own people. And lastly, there was Langmaid, whose feelings almost defy analysis. He chose to walk through the still night the four miles that separated him from his home.
There had come a tempting offer, and a struggle just one: a readjustment on the plea that the world had changed since the days of Judge Goodrich, whose uncompromising figure had begun to fade: an exciting discovery that he, Nelson Langmaid, possessed the gift of drawing up agreements which had the faculty of passing magically through the meshes of the Statutes.
Parr got a corporation lawyer named Langmaid he's another one of your millionnaire crooks to fix it up and get around the law and keep him out of jail. And then they had to settle with Tim Beatty for something like three hundred thousand. You know who Beatty is he owns this city his saloon's around here on Elm Street. All the crooks had to be squared.
I, for one, gentlemen, do not, propose to have a socialist for the rector of the church which I attend and support. And I maintain the privilege of an American citizen to set my own standards, within the law, and to be the sole arbitrar of those standards." "Good!" muttered Gordon Atterbury. Langmaid moved uncomfortably. "I shall not waste words," the financier continued.
Nelson Langmaid. The lawyer, as he greeted them, seemed to be preoccupied, nor did he seek to relieve the tension with his customary joke. A few moments of silence followed, when Eldon Parr was seen to be standing in the doorway, surveying them. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said coldly, and without more ado went to his customary chair, and sat down in it.
Langmaid found himself going back to the days when his mother had taken him to church, and he could not bear to look at, Hodder. Since six o'clock that afternoon had his companions but known it he had passed through one of the worst periods of his existence. . . . After the regular business had been disposed of a brief interval was allowed, for the sake of decency, to ensue.
I'll bet he's got a list of Dalton Street property in his pocket right now." Mr. Plimpton groaned. "Thank God I don't own any of it!" said Langmaid. "What the deuce does he intend to do?" the other demanded. "Read it out in church," Langmaid suggested. "It wouldn't sound pretty, Wallis, to be advertised in the post on Monday morning as owning that kind of a hotel."
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