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Thus did he justify himself to himself, having looked at everything from a financial viewpoint for so long a time that he could not break himself of the habit.

"It'll wake 'em up some, I guess!" he chuckled.

Under the warming influence of this thought his enthusiasm rose higher.

"I'll give 'em five hundred dollars for books, too," he declared. "If that don't take their breath away, I'm a monkey!"

So far as this evidence goes, it was quickly demonstrated that Wesley Tate was not a monkey, for it did "take their breath away." And why not? He was known as a miser, who lived frugally, owned many ramshackle buildings, and was not, to say the least, exactly scrupulous in his business dealings. So far as local knowledge and tradition went he never before had had one generous impulse, while there were many stories of his heartlessness.

How could the people of Grantford know that there had been a change in the man, due to the sudden blossoming of an idea that had been germinating for a long time? How could they know that he aspired to becoming a prominent and respected citizen, having discovered that the mere possession of money would not give him that distinction? How could they know that he had hazily planned doing something of this sort "when he had enough," that he had become so interested in getting "enough" that he had failed to stop when he had it, and that the opportunity now presented had merely crystallized what had been an indefinite purpose before? How could they know that the thrill of satisfaction that had followed this determination had encouraged him to plan greater things for the future?

even

They could not know, of course. They could not understand how his early struggles and privations had developed the money-grubbing habit, the determination to get enough to provide for all contingencies of fickle fortune, and they could not realize that he had

suddenly awakened to the fact that he had enough. He was, to them, merely a stony-hearted, selfish, unprincipled miser. Besides, his amazing offer had upset the plans of some of the most distinguished and influential citizens of Grantford.

The concensus of opinion was that the city could not afford to accept any favors from Wesley Tate. There were many who dissented, as was to be expected, holding that even tainted wealth might properly be used for a good purpose, but those estimable citizens whose standing in the community gave their views the color of public sentiment were strenuously opposed to the idea. It would never do, they argued, for the city to put itself under obligations to a man who was always fighting his assessments and dodging his taxes. It would be, according to Mr. William Downer's emphatic declaration, both disgraceful and shortsighted, and Mr. Sidney Griscom, Mr. Anson Bates and Mr. Chas. Hatton Browne, concurred in this view. Mr. Griscom called attention to the fact that Tate as a property owner, was a notorious violator of the building and health laws; Mr. Bates recalled various stories of harshness and business trickery, and Browne intimated that some of his property was used for unlawful purposes. Others were almost as emphatic, although less specific, in their protests.

Wesley Tate, it was agreed, was an undesirable citizen, an opponent of progress, a blight upon the community, and no self-respecting municipality could accept favors from such a man. The city would find itself in a very awkward position in its future dealings with him, if it made this blunder, for he would certainly take advantage of the situation thus created to secure immunity for such infractions of the law as he found profitable. To reach for his gift with one hand and serve a warrant with the other would not be exactly consistent, and it was advisable, therefore, to leave the warrant hand free by refusing the gift.

All this, being fully reported and

A SPURNED GIFT

editorially discussed in the papers, came promptly to the attention of Tate, and was followed by a formal "regret" that circumstances made it inadvisable to accept his generous offer. The ensuing comments of Tate would have proved highly interesting, although hardly pleasing, to various prominent citizens.

"Downer," said Tate, "is trying to sell 'em a site that's so far out it's only good for cow-pasture. Griscom wants 'em to put the library next to his soda water drug store, so's it will bring him trade. Bates and Browne wants 'em to buy their sites at double what they was asking for 'em a month ago. But they're all ready to take a whack at me. That's all they can get together for-jest to take a whack at me!"

However, a site was finally selected and purchased, and the controversy as to whether the choice was or was not a wise one still rages intermittently. But that has nothing to do with the story.

Wesley Tate became more morose, more heartless, more miserly, more combative than ever before. "They

got it in for me," he reasoned bitterly, "and they don't want to give me no show at all. They won't even take money from me." That was what hurt the most. To be held in such contempt that even his money was spurned was enough to disturb the most calloused of mortals. Indeed, it seemed almost incredible to Tate that prejudice could go so far. They might, unquestionably did, dislike him; they might even hate and despise him; but that they should permit any such feeling to interfere with the acceptance of a gift was so at variance with his idea of human nature as to seem nonsensical.

Reasoning along these lines, he was able, presently, to convince himself that it was not so much his own unpopularity as it was the selfish aims of others that had inspired this action. This was a motive he could understand and with which he could consistently find no fault, having permitted it to rule pretty much all of his own life. And Tate was a man of dogged tenac

49

ity of purpose so long as there seemed any possibility of accomplishing whatever purpose he had in mind. He had been fighting for one thing or another, usually money in some form, all his life, and now he was equally eager for the approbation that was denied him— the more eager because it was denied him.

"I'll give 'em a park," he decided. "There won't nobody turn that down 'cause he has land to sell, for it would not help him to sell it."

Under the warming influence of this generous idea he lost some of his moroseness and even showed occasional signs of human sympathy in certain details of his business relating to the collection of rents. But only a few tenants in hard luck knew of this.

"That'll help property that's near it," he reflected later, "and I'll have some near it, but there's others that it will help more than me."

The old habit of considering what advantage there might be for him in any and every proposition was still strong, but he had so far progressed that he did not even think of buying up the property of the others first, although the value of the land he purposed giving was very far in excess of any benefit that could accrue to him through the ownership of other land in the vicinity. It would be a small park, of course, but still it would represent a much larger investment than the lot he had offered for the library.

"And I'll give 'em some cash with the land," he declared, as his enthusiasm rose, "to help make a park of it.”

Wesley Tate was once again well satisfied with himself and disposed to look more cheerfully and benevolently upon the world in general than was his custom. He would show that he was a worthy citizen, that he had been misjudged; he would compel the respect and gratitude of the people. The failure of his previous effort in this direction was doubtless due to the fact that his offer conflicted with the plans and interests of others, but no such tagonism could be aroused this time.

an

He gloated over the project, meanwhile mentally perfecting the details. The opposition previously encountered only made him the more determined to attain what he had once thought could be easily purchased at any time. could be easily purchased with ease at any time.

however, for his case was even then being considered by some of the prominent citizens and public officials who had been primarily responsible for the rejection of his first offer. They did not know, of course, that he was planning an even greater gift to the city, and they did not like him. They never had liked him, for reasons already recounted, and they now liked him none the better because his one spasm of generosity had made an extremely awkward situation. Still, it is only fair to say that they were influenced more by his general record and disagreeable personality than by the annoyance his disconcerting offer had occasioned.

He had tried to bribe the city with a library site. This was enough to make all honest men indignant, and there was a general disposition to watch him more closely and prosecute him more vigorously than ever before. In no other way could they so emphatically resent and repudiate the humiliating implication underlying his offer.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, there was opportunity for immediate action that would make their attitude clear. He had been ordered, in conformity with the health laws, to make certain repairs and changes in some old tenement property within a specified time, and, instead of doing this, he had given the time to an effort to show that the building already met all legal requirements. It was customary in such cases, when there was controversy, to extend the time, but that was a matter that rested entirely in the discretion of the authorities, and, aside from any other consideration, their patience had been somewhat sorely tried in the past.

Wesley Tate was haled into court and fined for failure to comply with the health laws, and he was further

ordered to put the building in proper condition within ten days.

"They never done that to nobody else," muttered Tate, and he withheld the park plan that he was then just about ready to make public.

A week later, Wesley Tate was ordered to tear down a building that was pronounced dangerous. It had been cheaply patched up after a fire, and was then unoccupied, although tenants were just about to move in. Wesley demurred, wishing to argue the point. The city insisted, Wesley still demurred, and the fire department razed the building without further delay.

"They have got it in for me!" decided Tate bitterly, and the park plan was relegated to the limbo of forgotten things.

There followed in quick succession a fire-escape order, a paving order, two sidewalk repair orders, and a fine for failure to provide a proper receptacle for garbage at one of his tenements.

He was ordered to do nothing that ought not to have been done, but the city, usually rather lax in these matters, now became amazingly strict and decidedly drastic in its methods.

"They're booting me out," was the natural conclusion Tate reached. "They don't go after nobody but me. They want to drive me away. My taxes'll go up next."

It took no prophet to foresee this, for the tax question was already being discussed in the papers, the purchase of a library site having added something to the burden, and there was frequent reference to the evasions of "a certain local capitalist." But the climax came when he was prosecuted and fined for violation of the liquor laws. Tate did not drink. He was owner of some property leased for saloon purposes, and there was a bar in the hotel he owned, but he was interested only in the rentals. The hotel bar was raided for violating the midnight closing law. At the time, Tate was asleep upstairs, having retired at his usual early hour, but there was a law, designed to reach disorderly resorts, that made the owner of property jointly

A SPURNED GIFT

liable with the lessee for any unlawful use to which it might be put, and it was maintained that the sale of liquor after closing time was an unlawful use. Then, as Tate lived in the hotel, it was held that he should be, and probably was, cognizant of the conditions there. Even so, the law had to be stretched a little to fit the case, but the stretching was cheerfully done. It was rumored that the hotel was not all that could be desired in other ways, anyhow, and this might result in improving conditions.

Tate, never companionable, retired within himself and brooded. In what intercourse business compelled him to have with others he was bitter, caustic and usually insulting. In all business matters he was exacting, relentless, and, when opportunity offered, vindictive. Aside from business, he never returned a salutation nor answered a remark, seeking and securing a seclusion besides which his former isolation seemed like social diversion. And he engaged a lawyer to fight every order, ruling or ordinance that directly or indirectly affected him.

"When you can't beat 'em,” he instructed, "tie the thing up as long as you can."

As a result of this, the city soon found itself in a maze of vexatious litigation, and it became evident that the agitation had merely served to intensify a fighting spirit that had been sufficiently troublesome before. Tate executed some disconcerting flank movements, too. Twice the city officials discovered that property against which they were directing their attacks had been sold, and it was necessary for them to modify their orders, if only to the extent of giving additional time for compliance, in justice to the new owners. For it was now really a fight between Tate and the city, and the officials overlooked no opportunity to make trouble for him.

Tate, however, was selling. Several plans to reach him miscarried because he sold the property in question before they had time to act. But there was some consolation in this.

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"We've got him on the run," they decided. "He's getting ready to quit."

Tate said nothing, morosely pursuing the even tenor of his way. Nothing but the tremendous activity of his lawyer indicated that he had the slightest interest in what was transpiring. If he felt the sting of this general antagonism—and he did—he kept it to himself. There was not a hint of any new or definite purpose, beyond fighting for what he believed to be his rights, until he walked into the office of the Grantford "Republican" one day. Downer and Griscom happened to be there for a conference with the editor.

"You folks set out to drive me away," he announced, "and you've done it. I'm going. Thought you might like to know I'm beat-driv out of the town I lived in 'most all my life."

He spoke bitterly, but the fact that he spoke at all was amazing. It was unlike Tate, the taciturn, to confide his troubles to any one, and it was especially surprising that he should admit defeat to those who would derive the most satisfaction from the confession. But their astonishment and gratification were too great to permit them to give this more than a passing thought.

"Hardly driven out!" objected the editor, who in the moment of victory was disposed to be conciliatory. "Your course in certain matters has hardly endeared you to our citizens, but I am

sure no one

Tate flared up for one brief moment, a most unusual thing for him to do. "Don't talk like a fool!" he interrupted.

Being thus adjured, the editor quickly turned to another phase of the subject. "When do you leave?" he asked.

"To-day," answered Tate.

"How about all the litigation?" queried Downer.

"I told the lawyer to straighten it out the quickest and best way he could," replied Tate. "I'm beat." "But you still have property interests here," suggested Griscom.

"All I got left goes on the market

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to-day-every cent of it," explained Tate. "I look to lose some money, for I got to let it go cheap to get rid of it quick, but I don't want no property in Grantford."

Griscom, Downer and the editor were troubled, and their faces showed it. The offer of so much property at prices under those previously prevailing, would unsettle the whole local real estate market, and it would be a long time before it recovered. The sacrifice of a little would do no harm, but the sacrifice of much would seriously affect values until it had all been absorbed.

across

"I'm a

Something very like a smile, although a grim one, flickered Tate's face and vanished. pretty close man," he went on, "but I ain't so close as some when it comes to paying for what I want. Losing money's the same as spending itsometimes.'

The three looked at him perplexedly. Coming from such a man, the remark was both sinister and significant, and this, coupled with the fact that he really was making sacrifices altogether foreign to his nature, suggested disquieting possibilities. His face, however, betrayed Standing by the door-no nothing. asked him to sit down-he was merely had a spiritless and beaten man.

one

"Where are you going?" asked the editor, after a pause.

"I ain't decided," answered Tate. "I'm looking for a likely place where they'll be glad to have the money I'm taking away from Grantford. I'll find it by the time the property's all sold."

That gave the three another twinge. It was a good deal of cash wealth to lose. Forlorn and dejected, Tate still seemed to be able to insert an occasional barb where it would hurt the most.

"There's a piece of property up on Elson street," remarked Griscom, "that I might buy myself if you don't ask too much for it."

"Oh, that's sold," returned Tate. "I

let it go to a man that wants to start a livery stable."

"A what!" cried the three in chorus. "A livery stable," repeated Tate. “I didn't get more'n half what it's worth, either."

"But that's a fine residence neighborhood!" expostulated Griscom. "Yes," said Tate; "yes, I know that."

The three were speechless for a moment; then Downer asked if he had done anything with the hotel prop

erty.

"Sold it to a brewery," replied Tate. "A brewery!" they roared.

"Yes," answered Tate, "a brewery! It's a good place for a brewery, and ought to be torn down." you was always saying the old hotel

"But we wanted a new hotel," sputtered Downer. "Why, the shopping district is pushing out that way, and joining property!" think what a brewery will do to ad

"Yes," said Tate, "yes, I thought of that."

There was a painful silence, as the full significance of this seeped into the minds of the three. Tate turned to the door, then turned back again. “You set out to drive me away," he exploded gloated, "I done you proper on the suddenly, "and you done it; but," he last turn. That's what I come here to tell you."

He was gone before any one of them could frame a suitable reply. Triumphant in the last moment, to the extent of a very complete revenge, he was, nevertheless, a wanderer, an outcast, an exile, with bitterness in his heart toward all men; and the city he left behind was long in filling the financial gap occasioned by the withdrawal of his investments, and the further fact that it cost more than the price of a library site to buy off the brewer and the livery man. Perhaps- But I refuse to search for the moral, which is sure to be dry and disagreeable, whether it applies to Grantford or Tate or both.

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