I read somewhere once that
Voltaire--I think it was Voltaire--asked a man what he would do if, by
pressing a button on his table, he would be enormously rich and at the
same time would cause the death of a person away off at the other side of
the earth, unknown to him, and probably no more worthy to live, and with
no greater expectation of life or of happiness than the average sinful,
short-lived human being. I've often thought of that as I've watched our
great "captains of industry." Voltaire's dilemma is theirs. And they don't
hesitate; they press the button. I leave the morality of the performance to
moralists; to me, its chief feature is its cowardice, its sneaking, slimy
cowardice.
"You've done a grand two hours' work," said Joe.
"Grander than you think," replied I. "I've set the tiger on to fight the
bull."
"Galloway and Roebuck?"
"Just that," said I. And I laughed, started up, sat down again. "No, I'll
put off the pleasure," said I. "I'll let Roebuck find out, when the claws
catch in that tough old hide of his."
XXVII
A CONSPIRACY AGAINST ANITA
On about the hottest afternoon of that summer I had the yacht take me down
the Sound to a point on the Connecticut shore within sight of Dawn Hill,
but seven miles farther from New York.
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