The Four Fists

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

At the present time no one I know has the slightest desire tohit Samuel Meredith; possibly this is because a man over fiftyis liable to be rather severely cracked at the impact of ahostile fist, but, for my part, I am inclined to think that allhis hitable qualities have quite vanished. But it is certainthat at various times in his life hitable qualities were in hisface, as surely as kissable qualities have ever lurked in agirl's lips.I'm sure every one has met a man like that, been casuallyintroduced, even made a friend of him, yet felt he was the sortwho aroused passionate dislike--expressed by some in theinvoluntary clinching of fists, and in others by mutteringsabout "takin' a poke" and "landin' a swift smash in ee eye." Inthe juxtaposition of Samuel Meredith's features this quality wasso strong that it influenced his entire life.What was it? Not the shape, certainly, for he was a pleasant-looking man from earliest youth: broad-bowed with gray eyes thatwere frank and friendly. Yet I've heard him tell a room full ofreporters angling for a "success" story that he'd be ashamed totell them the truth that they wouldn't believe it, that itwasn't one story but four, that the public would not want toread about a man who had been walloped into prominence.It all started at Phillips Andover Academy when he was fourteen.He had been brought up on a diet of caviar and bell-boys' legsin half the capitals of Europe, and it was pure luck that hismother had nervous prostration and had to delegate his educationto less tender, less biassed hands.At Andover he was given a roommate named Gilly Hood. Gilly wasthirteen, undersized, and rather the school pet. From theSeptember day when Mr. Meredith's valet stowed Samuel's clothingin the best bureau and asked, on departing, "hif there washanything helse, Master Samuel?" Gilly cried out that thefaculty had played him false. He felt like an irate frog inwhose bowl has been put goldfish."Good gosh!" he complained to his sympathetic contemporaries,"he's a damn stuck-up Willie. He said, 'Are the crowd heregentlemen?' and I said, 'No, they're boys,' and he said agedidn't matter, and I said, 'Who said it did?' Let him get freshwith me, the ole pieface!"For three weeks Gilly endured in silence young Samuel's commentson the clothes and habits of Gilly's personal friends, enduredFrench phrases in conversation, endured a hundred half-femininemeannesses that show what a nervous mother can do to a boy, ifshe keeps close enough to him--then a storm broke in the aquarium.Samuel was out. A crowd had gathered to hear Gilly be wrathfulabout his roommate's latest sins."He said, 'Oh, I don't like the windows open at night,' he said,'except only a little bit,'" complained Gilly."Don't let him boss you.""Boss me? You bet he won't. I open those windows, I guess, butthe darn fool won't take turns shuttin' 'em in the morning.""Make him, Gilly, why don't you?""I'm going to." Gilly nodded his head in fierce agreement."Don't you worry. He needn't think I'm any ole butler.""Le's see you make him."At this point the darn fool entered in person and included thecrowd in one of his irritating smiles. Two boys said, "'Lo,Mer'dith"; the others gave him a chilly glance and went on talkingto Gilly. But Samuel seemed unsatisfied."Would you mind not sitting on my bed?" he suggested politely totwo of Gilly's particulars who were perched very much at ease."Huh?""My bed. Can't you understand English?"This was adding insult to injury. There were several comments onthe bed's sanitary condition and the evidence within it of animallife."S'matter with your old bed?" demanded Gilly truculently."The bed's all right, but---"Gilly interrupted this sentence by rising and walking up toSamuel. He paused several inches away and eyed him fiercely."You an' your crazy ole bed," he began. "You an' your crazy---""Go to it, Gilly," murmured some one."Show the darn fool---"Samuel returned the gaze coolly."Well," he said finally, "it's my bed--- "He got no further, for Gilly hauled of and hit him succinctly inthe nose."Yea! Gilly!""Show the big bully!"Just let him touch you--he'll see!"The group closed in on them and for the first time in his lifeSamuel realized the insuperable inconvenience of beingpassionately detested. He gazed around helplessly at theglowering, violently hostile faces. He towered a head tallerthan his roommate, so if he hit back he'd be called a bully andhave half a dozen more fights on his hands within five minutes;yet if he didn't he was a coward. For a moment he stood therefacing Gilly's blazing eyes, and then, with a sudden chokingsound, he forced his way through the ring and rushed from theroom.The month following bracketed the thirty most miserable days ofhis life. Every waking moment he was under the lashing tonguesof his contemporaries; his habits and mannerisms became buttsfor intolerable witticisms and, of course, the sensitiveness ofadolescence was a further thorn. He considered that he was anatural pariah; that the unpopularity at school would follow himthrough life. When he went home for the Christmas holidays hewas so despondent that his father sent him to a nervespecialist. When he returned to Andover he arranged to arrivelate so that he could be alone in the bus during the drive fromstation to school.Of course when he had learned to keep his mouth shut every onepromptly forgot all about him. The next autumn, with hisrealization that consideration for others was the discreetattitude, he made good use of the clean start given him by theshortness of boyhood memory. By the beginning of his senior yearSamuel Meredith was one of the best-liked boys of his class--andno one was any stronger for him than his first friend andconstant companion, Gilly Hood.IISamuel became the sort of college student who in the earlynineties drove tandems and coaches and tallyhos betweenPrinceton and Yale and New York City to show that theyappreciated the social importance of football games. He believedpassionately in good form--his choosing of gloves, his tying ofties, his holding of reins were imitated by impressionablefreshmen. Outside of his own set he was considered rather asnob, but as his set was THE set, it never worried him. Heplayed football in the autumn, drank high-balls in the winter,and rowed in the spring. Samuel despised all those who weremerely sportsmen without being gentlemen or merely gentlemenwithout being sportsmen.He live in New York and often brought home several of hisfriends for the week-end. Those were the days of the horse-carand in case of a crush it was, of course, the proper thing forany one of Samuel's set to rise and deliver his seat to astanding lady with a formal bow. One night in Samuel's junioryear he boarded a car with two of his intimates. There werethree vacant seats. When Samuel sat down he noticed a heavy-eyedlaboring man sitting next to him who smelt objectionably ofgarlic, sagged slightly against Samuel and, spreading a littleas a tired man will, took up quite too much room.The car had gone several blocks when it stopped for a quartet ofyoung girls, and, of course, the three men of the world sprangto their feet and proffered their seats with due observance ofform. Unfortunately, the laborer, being unacquainted with thecode of neckties and tallyhos, failed to follow their example,and one young lady was left at an embarrassed stance. Fourteeneyes glared reproachfully at the barbarian; seven lips curledslightly; but the object of scorn stared stolidly into theforeground in sturdy unconsciousness of his despicable conduct.Samuel was the most violently affected. He was humiliated thatany male should so conduct himself. He spoke aloud."There's a lady standing," he said sternly.That should have been quite enough, but the object of scorn onlylooked up blankly. The standing girl tittered and exchangednervous glances with her companions. But Samuel was aroused."There's a lady standing," he repeated, rather raspingly. Theman seemed to comprehend."I pay my fare," he said quietly.Samuel turned red and his hands clinched, but the conductor waslooking their way, so at a warning nod from his friends hesubsided into sullen gloom.They reached their destination and left the car, but so did thelaborer, who followed them, swinging his little pail. Seeing hischance, Samuel no longer resisted his aristocratic inclination.He turned around and, launching a full-featured, dime-novelsneer, made a loud remark about the right of the lower animalsto ride with human beings.In a half-second the workman had dropped his pail and let fly athim. Unprepared, Samuel took the blow neatly on the jaw andsprawled full length into the cobblestone gutter."Don't laugh at me!" cried his assailant. "I been workin' allday. I'm tired as hell!"As he spoke the sudden anger died out of his eyes and the maskof weariness dropped again over his face. He turned and pickedup his pail. Samuel's friends took a quick step in his direction."Wait!" Samuel had risen slowly and was motioning back. Sometime, somewhere, he had been struck like that before. Then heremembered--Gilly Hood. In the silence, as he dusted himselfoff, the whole scene in the room at Andover was before his eyes--and he knew intuitively that he had been wrong again. Thisman's strength, his rest, was the protection of his family. Hehad more use for his seat in the street-car than any young girl."It's all right," said Samuel gruffly. "Don't touch 'him. I'vebeen a damn fool."Of course it took more than an hour, or a week, for Samuel torearrange his ideas on the essential importance of good form. Atfirst he simply admitted that his wrongness had made himpowerless--as it had made him powerless against Gilly--buteventually his mistake about the workman influenced his entireattitude. Snobbishness is, after all, merely good breeding growndictatorial; so Samuel's code remained but the necessity ofimposing it upon others had faded out in a certain gutter.Within that year his class had somehow stopped referring to himas a snob.IIIAfter a few years Samuel's university decided that it had shonelong enough in the reflected glory of his neckties, so theydeclaimed to him in Latin, charged him ten dollars for the paperwhich proved him irretrievably educated, and sent him into theturmoil with much self-confidence, a few friends, and the properassortment of harmless bad habits.His family had by that time started back to shirt-sleeves,through a sudden decline in the sugar-market, and it had alreadyunbuttoned its vest, so to speak, when Samuel went to work. Hismind was that exquisite TABULA RASA that a university educationsometimes leaves, but he had both energy and influence, so heused his former ability as a dodging half-back in twistingthrough Wall Street crowds as runner for a bank.His diversion was--women. There were half a dozen: two or threedebutantes, an actress (in a minor way), a grass-widow, and onesentimental little brunette who was married and lived in alittle house in Jersey City.They had met on a ferry-boat. Samuel was crossing from New Yorkon business (he bad been working several years by this time) andhe helped her look for a package that she had dropped in the crush."Do you come over often?" he inquired casually."Just to shop," she said shyly. She had great brown eyes and thepathetic kind of little mouth. "I've only been married threemonths, and we find it cheaper to live over here.""Does he--does your husband like your being alone like this?"She laughed, a cheery young laugh."Oh, dear me, no. We were to meet for dinner but I must havemisunderstood the place. He'll be awfully worried.""Well," said Samuel disapprovingly, "he ought to be. If you'llallow me I'll see you home."She accepted his offer thankfully, so they took the cable-cartogether. When they walked up the path to her little house theysaw a light there; her husband had arrived before her."He's frightfully jealous," she announced, laughingly apologetic."Very well," answered Samuel, rather stiffly. "I'd better leaveyou here."She thanked him and, waving a good night, he left her.That would have been quite all if they hadn't met on FifthAvenue one morning a week later. She started and blushed andseemed so glad to see him that they chatted like old friends.She was going to her dressmaker's, eat lunch alone at Taine's,shop all afternoon, and meet her husband on the ferry at five.Samuel told her that her husband was a very lucky man. Sheblushed again and scurried off.Samuel whistled all the way back to his office, but about twelveo'clock he began to see that pathetic, appealing little moutheverywhere--and those brown eyes. He fidgeted when he looked atthe clock; he thought of the grill down-stairs where he lunchedand the heavy male conversation thereof, and opposed to thatpicture appeared another; a little table at Taine's with thebrown eyes and the mouth a few feet away. A few minutes beforetwelve-thirty he dashed on his hat and rushed for the cable-car.She was quite surprised to see him."Why--hello," she said. Samuel could tell that she was justpleasantly frightened."I thought we might lunch together. It's so dull eating with alot of men."She hesitated."Why, I suppose there's no harm in it. How could there be!"It occurred to her that her husband should have taken lunch withher--but he was generally so hurried at noon. She told Samuelall about him: he was a little smaller than Samuel, but, oh,MUCH better-looking. He was a book-keeper and not making a lotof money, but they were very happy and expected to be richwithin three or four years.Samuel's grass-widow had been in a quarrelsome mood for three orfour weeks, and through contrast, he took an accentuatedpleasure in this meeting; so fresh was she, and earnest, andfaintly adventurous. Her name was Marjorie.They made another engagement; in fact, for a month they lunchedtogether two or three times a week. When she was sure that herhusband would work late Samuel took her over to New Jersey onthe ferry, leaving her always on the tiny front porch, aftershe had gone in and lit the gas to use the security of hismasculine presence outside. This grew to be a ceremony--and itannoyed him. Whenever the comfortable glow fell out through thefront windows, that was his CONGE; yet he never suggested comingin and Marjorie didn't invite him.Then, when Samuel and Marjorie had reached a stage in which theysometimes touched each other's arms gently, just to show thatthey were very good friends, Marjorie and her husband had one ofthose ultrasensitive, supercritical quarrels that couples neverindulge in unless they care a great deal about each other. Itstarted with a cold mutton-chop or a leak in the gas-jet--andone day Samuel found her in Taine's, with dark shadows under herbrown eyes and a terrifying pout.By this time Samuel thought he was in love with Marjorie--so heplayed up the quarrel for all it was worth. He was her bestfriend and patted her hand--and leaned down close to her browncurls while she whispered in little sobs what her husband hadsaid that morning; and he was a little more than her best friendwhen he took her over to the ferry in a hansom."Marjorie," he said gently, when he left her, as usual, on theporch, "if at any time you want to call on me, remember that Iam always waiting, always waiting."She nodded gravely and put both her hands in his. "I know," shesaid. "I know you're my friend, my best friend."Then she ran into the house and he watched there until the gaswent on.For the next week Samuel was in a nervous turmoil. Somepersistently rational strain warned him that at bottom he andMarjorie had little in common, but in such cases there isusually so much mud in the water that one can seldom see to thebottom. Every dream and desire told him that he loved Marjorie,wanted her, had to have her.The quarrel developed. Marjorie's husband took to staying in NewYork until late at night came home several times disagreeablyoverstimulated, and made her generally miserable. They must havehad too much pride to talk it out--for Marjorie's husband was,after all, pretty decent--so it drifted on from onemisunderstanding to another. Marjorie kept coming more and moreto Samuel; when a woman can accept masculine sympathy at is muchmore satisfactory to her than crying to another girl. ButMarjorie didn't realize how much she had begun to rely on him,how much he was part of her little cosmos.One night, instead of turning away when Marjorie went in and litthe gas, Samuel went in, too, and they sat together on the sofain the little parlor. He was very happy. He envied their home,and he felt that the man who neglected such a possession out ofstubborn pride was a fool and unworthy of his wife. But when hekissed Marjorie for the first time she cried softly and told himto go. He sailed home on the wings of desperate excitement,quite resolved to fan this spark of romance, no matter how bigthe blaze or who was burned. At the time he considered that histhoughts were unselfishly of her; in a later perspective he knewthat she had meant no more than the white screen in a motionpicture: it was just Samuel--blind, desirous.Next day at Taine's, when they met for lunch, Samuel dropped allpretense and made frank love to her. He had no plans, nodefinite intentions, except to kiss her lips again, to hold herin his arms and feel that she was very little and pathetic andlovable. . . . He took her home, and this time they kissed untilboth their hearts beat high--words and phrases formed on his lips.And then suddenly there were steps on the porch--a hand triedthe outside door. Marjorie turned dead-white."Wait!" she whispered to Samuel, in a frightened voice, but inangry impatience at the interruption he walked to the front doorand threw it open.Every one has seen such scenes on the stage--seen them so oftenthat when they actually happen people behave very much likeactors. Samuel felt that he was playing a part and the linescame quite naturally: he announced that all had a right to leadtheir own lives and looked at Marjorie's husband menacingly, asif daring him to doubt it. Marjorie's husband spoke of thesanctity of the home, forgetting that it hadn't seemed very holyto him lately; Samuel continued along the line of "the right tohappiness"; Marjorie's husband mentioned firearms and thedivorce court. Then suddenly he stopped and scrutinized both ofthem--Marjorie in pitiful collapse on the sofa, Samuelharanguing the furniture in a consciously heroic pose."Go up-stairs, Marjorie," he said, in a different tone."Stay where you are!" Samuel countered quickly.Marjorie rose, wavered, and sat down, rose again and movedhesitatingly toward the stairs."Come outside," said her husband to Samuel. "I want to talk toyou."Samuel glanced at Marjorie, tried to get some message from hereyes; then he shut his lips and went out.There was a bright moon and when Marjorie's husband came downthe steps Samuel could see plainly that he was suffering--buthe felt no pity for him.They stood and looked at each other, a few feet apart, and thehusband cleared his throat as though it were a bit husky."That's my wife," he said quietly, and then a wild anger surgedup inside him. "Damn you!" he cried--and hit Samuel in theface with all his strength.In that second, as Samuel slumped to the ground, it flashed tohim that he had been hit like that twice before, andsimultaneously the incident altered like a dream--he feltsuddenly awake. Mechanically he sprang to his feet and squaredoff. The other man was waiting, fists up, a yard away, butSamuel knew that though physically he had him by several inchesand many pounds, he wouldn't hit him. The situation hadmiraculously and entirely changed--a moment before Samuel hadseemed to himself heroic; now he seemed the cad, the outsider,and Marjorie's husband, silhouetted against the lights of thelittle house, the eternal heroic figure, the defender of his home.There was a pause and then Samuel turned quickly away and wentdown the path for the last time.IVOf course, after the third blow Samuel put in several weeks atconscientious introspection. The blow years before at Andoverhad landed on his personal unpleasantness; the workman of hiscollege days had jarred the snobbishness out of his system, andMarjorie's husband had given a severe jolt to his greedyselfishness. It threw women out of his ken until a year later,when he met his future wife; for the only sort of woman worthwhile seemed to be the one who could be protected as Marjorie'shusband had protected her. Samuel could not imagine his grass-widow, Mrs. De Ferriac, causing any very righteous blows on herown account.His early thirties found him well on his feet. He was associatedwith old Peter Carhart, who was in those days a national figure.Carhart's physique was like a rough model for a statue ofHercules, and his record was just as solid--a pile made for thepure joy of it, without cheap extortion or shady scandal. He hadbeen a great friend of Samuel's father, but he watched the sonfor six years before taking him into his own office. Heavenknows how many things he controlled at that time--mines,railroads, banks, whole cities. Samuel was very close to him,knew his likes and dislikes, his prejudices, weaknesses andmany strengths.One day Carhart sent for Samuel and, closing the door of hisinner office, offered him a chair and a cigar."Everything 0. K., Samuel?" he asked."Why, yes.""I've been afraid you're getting a bit stale.""Stale?" Samuel was puzzled."You've done no work outside the office for nearly ten years?""But I've had vacations, in the Adiron---"Carhart waved this aside."I mean outside work. Seeing the things move that we've alwayspulled the strings of here.""No " admitted Samuel; "I haven't.""So," he said abruptly "I'm going to give you an outside jobthat'll take about a month."Samuel didn't argue. He rather liked the idea and he made up hismind that, whatever it was, he would put it through just asCarhart wanted it. That was his employer's greatest hobby, andthe men around him were as dumb under direct orders as infantrysubalterns."You'll go to San Antonio and see Hamil," continued Carhart."He's got a job on hand and he wants a man to take charge."Hamil was in charge of the Carhart interests in the Southwest, aman who had grown up in the shadow of his employer, and withwhom, though they had never met, Samuel had had much officialcorrespondence."When do I leave?""You'd better go to-morrow," answered Carhart, glancing at thecalendar. "That's the 1st of May. I'll expect your report here onthe 1st of June."Next morning Samuel left for Chicago, and two days later he wasfacing Hamil across a table in the office of the Merchants'Trust in San Antonio. It didn't take long to get the gist of thething. It was a big deal in oil which concerned the buying up ofseventeen huge adjoining ranches. This buying up had to be donein one week, and it was a pure squeeze. Forces had been set inmotion that put the seventeen owners between the devil and thedeep sea, and Samuel's part was simply to "handle" the matterfrom a little village near Pueblo. With tact and efficiency theright man could bring it off without any friction, for it wasmerely a question of sitting at the wheel and keeping a firmhold. Hamil, with an astuteness many times valuable to hischief, had arranged a situation that would give a much greaterclear gain than any dealing in the open market. Samuel shookhands with Hamil, arranged to return in two weeks, and left forSan Felipe, New Mexico.It occurred to him, of course, that Carhart was trying him out.Hamil's report on his handling of this might be a factor insomething big for him, but even without that he would have donehis best to put the thing through. Ten years in New York hadn'tmade him sentimental and he was quite accustomed to finisheverything he began--and a little bit more.All went well at first. There was no enthusiasm, but each one ofthe seventeen ranchers concerned knew Samuel's business, knewwhat he had behind him, and that they had as little chance ofholding out as flies on a window-pane. Some of them wereresigned--some of them cared like the devil, but they'd talkedit over, argued it with lawyers and couldn't see any possibleloophole. Five of the ranches had oil, the other twelve werepart of the chance, but quite as necessary to Hamil's purpose,in any event.Samuel soon saw that the real leader was an early settler namedMcIntyre, a man of perhaps fifty, gray-haired, clean-shaven,bronzed by forty New Mexico summers, and with those clear steadyeye that Texas and New Mexico weather are apt to give. His ranchhad not as yet shown oil, but it was in the pool, and if any manhated to lose his land McIntyre did. Every one had rather lookedto him at first to avert the big calamity, and he had hunted allover the territory for the legal means with which to do it, buthe had failed, and he knew it. He avoided Samuel assiduously,but Samuel was sure that when the day came for the signatures hewould appear.It came--a baking May day, with hot wave rising off the parchedland as far as eyes could see, and as Samuel sat stewing in hislittle improvised office--a few chairs, a bench, and a woodentable--he was glad the thing was almost over. He wanted to getback East the worst way, and join his wife and children for aweek at the seashore.The meeting was set for four o'clock, and he was rathersurprised at three-thirty when the door opened and McIntyre camein. Samuel could not help respecting the man's attitude, andfeeling a bit sorry for him. McIntyre seemed closely related tothe prairies, and Samuel had the little flicker of envy thatcity people feel toward men who live in the open."Afternoon," said McIntyre, standing in the open doorway, withhis feet apart and his hands on his hips."Hello, Mr. McIntyre." Samuel rose, but omitted the formality ofoffering his hand. He imagined the rancher cordially loathedhim, and he hardly blamed him. McIntyre came in and sat downleisurely."You got us," he said suddenly.This didn't seem to require any answer."When I heard Carhart was back of this," he continued, "I gave up.""Mr. Carhart is---" began Samuel, but McIntyre waved him silent."Don't talk about the dirty sneak-thief!""Mr. McIntyre," said Samuel briskly, "if this half-hour is to bedevoted to that sort of talk---""Oh, dry up, young man," McIntyre interrupted, "you can't abusea man who'd do a thing like this."Samuel made no answer."It's simply a dirty filch. There just ARE skunks like him toobig to handle.""You're being paid liberally," offered Samuel."Shut up!" roared McIntyre suddenly. "I want the privilege oftalking." He walked to the door and looked out across the land,the sunny, steaming pasturage that began almost at his feet andended with the gray-green of the distant mountains. When heturned around his mouth was trembling."Do you fellows love Wall Street?" he said hoarsely, "orwherever you do your dirty scheming---" He paused. "I suppose youdo. No critter gets so low that he doesn't sort of love theplace he's worked, where he's sweated out the best he's had inhim."Samuel watched him awkwardly. McIntyre wiped his forehead with ahuge blue handkerchief, and continued:"I reckon this rotten old devil had to have another million. Ireckon we're just a few of the poor he's blotted out to buy acouple more carriages or something." He waved his hand towardthe door. "I built a house out there when I was seventeen, withthese two hands. I took a wife there at twenty-one, added twowings, and with four mangy steers I started out. Forty summersI've saw the sun come up over those mountains and drop down redas blood in the evening, before the heat drifted off and thestars came out. I been happy in that house. My boy was bornthere and he died there, late one spring, in the hottest part ofan afternoon like this. Then the wife and I lived there alonelike we'd lived before, and sort of tried to have a home, afterall, not a real home but nigh it--cause the boy always seemedaround close, somehow, and we expected a lot of nights to seehim runnin' up the path to supper." His voice was shaking so hecould hardly speak and he turned again to the door, his grayeyes contracted."That's my land out there," he said, stretching out his arm, "myland, by God--- It's all I got in the world--and ever wanted." Hedashed his sleeve across his face, and his tone changed as heturned slowly and faced Samuel. "But I suppose it's got to gowhen they want it--it's got to go."Samuel had to talk. He felt that in a minute more he would losehis head. So he began, as level-voiced as he could--in the sortof tone he saved for disagreeable duties."It's business, Mr. McIntyre," he said. "It's inside the law.Perhaps we couldn't have bought out two or three of you at anyprice, but most of you did have a price. Progress demands somethings---"Never had he felt so inadequate, and it was with the greatestrelief that he heard hoof-beats a few hundred yards away.But at his words the grief in McIntyre's eyes had changed to fury."You and your dirty gang of crooks!" be cried. "Not one of youhas got an honest love for anything on God's earth! You're aherd of money-swine!"Samuel rose and McIntyre took a step toward him."You long-winded dude. You got our land--take that for PeterCarhart!"He swung from the shoulder quick as lightning and down wentSamuel in a heap. Dimly he heard steps in the doorway and knewthat some one was holding McIntyre, but there was no need. Therancher had sunk down in his chair, and dropped his head in hishands.Samuel's brain was whirring. He realized that the fourth fisthad hit him, and a great flood of emotion cried out that the lawthat had inexorably ruled his life was in motion again. In ahalf-daze he got up and strode from the room.The next ten minutes were perhaps the hardest of his life. Peopletalk of the courage of convictions, but in actual life a man'sduty to his family may make a rigid corpse seem a selfishindulgence of his own righteousness. Samuel thought mostly ofhis family, yet he never really wavered. That jolt had brought himto.When he came back in the room there were a log of worried faceswaiting for him, but he didn't waste any time explaining."Gentlemen," he said, "Mr. McIntyre has been kind enough toconvince me that in this matter you are absolutely right and thePeter Carhart interests absolutely wrong. As far as I amconcerned you can keep your ranches to the rest of your days."He pushed his way through an astounded gathering, and within ahalf-hour he had sent two telegrams that staggered the operatorinto complete unfitness for business; one was to Hamil in SanAntonio; one was to Peter Carhart in New York.Samuel didn't sleep much that night. He knew that for the firsttime in his business career he had made a dismal, miserablefailure. But some instinct in him, stronger than will, deeperthan training, had forced him to do what would probably end hisambitions and his happiness. But it was done and it neveroccurred to him that he could have acted otherwise.Next morning two telegrams were waiting for him. The first wasfrom Hamil. It contained three words:"You blamed idiot!"The second was from New York:"Deal off come to New York immediately Carhart."Within a week things had happened. Hamil quarrelled furiouslyand violently defended his scheme. He was summoned to New Yorkand spent a bad half-hour on the carpet in Peter Carhart'soffice. He broke with the Carhart interests in July, and inAugust Samuel Meredith, at thirty-five years old, was, to allintents, made Carhart's partner. The fourth fist had done itswork.I suppose that there's a caddish streak in every man that runscrosswise across his character and disposition and generaloutlook. With some men it's secret and we never know it's thereuntil they strike us in the dark one night. But Samuel's showedwhen it was in action, and the sight of it made people see red.He was rather lucky in that, because every time his little devilcame up it met a reception that sent it scurrying down below ina sickly, feeble condition. It was the same devil, the samestreak that made him order Gilly's friends off the bed, thatmade him go inside Marjorie's house.If you could run your hand along Samuel Meredith's jaw you'dfeel a lump. He admits he's never been sure which fist left itthere, but he wouldn't lose it for anything. He says there's nocad like an old cad, and that sometimes just before making adecision, it's a great help to stroke his chin. The reporterscall it a nervous characteristic, but it's not that. It's so hecan feel again the gorgeous clarity, the lightning sanity ofthose four fists.

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