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The Four Million

Mammon And The Archer
Old Anthony Rockwall, retired manufacturer and proprietor of Rockwall's Eureka Soap,
looked out the library window of his Fifth Avenue mansion and grinned. His neighbour
to the right—the aristocratic clubman, G. Van Schuylight Suffolk-Jones—came out to his
waiting motor-car, wrinkling a contumelious nostril, as usual, at the Italian renaissance
sculpture of the soap palace's front elevation.
"Stuck-up old statuette of nothing doing!" commented the ex-Soap King. "The Eden
Musee'll get that old frozen Nesselrode yet if he don't watch out. I'll have this house
painted red, white, and blue next summer and see if that'll make his Dutch nose turn up
any higher."
And then Anthony Rockwall, who never cared for bells, went to the door of his library
and shouted "Mike!" in the same voice that had once chipped off pieces of the welkin on
the Kansas prairies.
"Tell my son," said Anthony to the answering menial, "to come in here before he leaves
the house."
When young Rockwall entered the library the old man laid aside his newspaper, looked at
him with a kindly grimness on his big, smooth, ruddy countenance, rumpled his mop of
white hair with one hand and rattled the keys in his pocket with the other.
"Richard," said Anthony Rockwall, "what do you pay for the soap that you use?"
Richard, only six months home from college, was startled a little. He had not yet taken
the measure of this sire of his, who was as full of unexpectednesses as a girl at her first
party.
"Six dollars a dozen, I think, dad."
"And your clothes?"
"I suppose about sixty dollars, as a rule."
"You're a gentleman," said Anthony, decidedly. "I've heard of these young bloods
spending $24 a dozen for soap, and going over the hundred mark for clothes. You've got
as much money to waste as any of 'em, and yet you stick to what's decent and moderate.
Now I use the old Eureka—not only for sentiment, but it's the purest soap made.
Whenever you pay more than 10 cents a cake for soap you buy bad perfumes and labels.
But 50 cents is doing very well for a young man in your generation, position and
condition. As I said, you're a gentleman. They say it takes three generations to make one.
They're off. Money'll do it as slick as soap grease. It's made you one. By hokey! it's
almost made one of me. I'm nearly as impolite and disagreeable and ill-mannered as these
 
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