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Schools And Schools
I
Old Jerome Warren lived in a hundred-thousand-dollar house at 35 East Fifty-Soforth
Street. He was a down-town broker, so rich that he could afford to walk--for his health--a
few blocks in the direction of his office every morning, and then call a cab.
He had an adopted son, the son of an old friend named Gilbert--Cyril Scott could play
him nicely--who was becoming a successful painter as fast as he could squeeze the paint
out of his tubes. Another member of the household was Barbara Ross, a stepniece. Man is
born to trouble; so, as old Jerome had no family of his own, he took up the burdens of
others.
Gilbert and Barbara got along swimmingly. There was a tacit and tactical understanding
all round that the two would stand up under a floral bell some high noon, and promise the
minister to keep old Jerome's money in a state of high commotion. But at this point
complications must be introduced.
Thirty years before, when old Jerome was young Jerome, there was a brother of his
named Dick. Dick went West to seek his or somebody else's fortune. Nothing was heard
of him until one day old Jerome had a letter from his brother. It was badly written on
ruled paper that smelled of salt bacon and coffee-grounds. The writing was asthmatic and
the spelling St. Vitusy.
It appeared that instead of Dick having forced Fortune to stand and deliver, he had been
held up himself, and made to give hostages to the enemy. That is, as his letter disclosed,
he was on the point of pegging out with a complication of disorders that even whiskey
had failed to check. All that his thirty years of prospecting had netted him was one
daughter, nineteen years old, as per invoice, whom he was shipping East, charges
prepaid, for Jerome to clothe, feed, educate, comfort, and cherish for the rest of her
natural life or until matrimony should them part.
Old Jerome was a board-walk. Everybody knows that the world is supported by the
shoulders of Atlas; and that Atlas stands on a rail- fence; and that the rail-fence is built on
a turtle's back. Now, the turtle has to stand on something; and that is a board-walk made
of men like old Jerome.
I do not know whether immortality shall accrue to man; but if not so, I would like to
know when men like old Jerome get what is due them?
They met Nevada Warren at the station. She was a little girl, deeply sunburned and
wholesomely good-looking, with a manner that was frankly unsophisticated, yet one that
not even a cigar-drummer would intrude upon without thinking twice. Looking at her,
somehow you would expect to see her in a short skirt and leather leggings, shooting glass
 
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