The Tomahawk. [volume] (White Earth, Becker County, Minn.) 1903-192?, 1924-10-30
THICKER
THAN
WATER
By MARY B. WoODSON
&C. Doubleday. Page & Col

II ASA al TIC mdLc VI OluCeS, Oiu
John st. Clair sat and painted
- old, withered, bloodless John
st. Clair. Outside, the Offices
OF st. Clair & Co. hummed busily.
Telephones shrilled, office boys raced
madly, typewriters leaped and ratified !;
citizens of the United States, display
Ing large white waistcoats and dia-
monds, conversed earnestly with
other such citizens, behind brass rail-
ings, and became bulls or bears on
the spot; vast sums of money were
being handled-on paper, railroads
and small investors were being
bought and sold; stocks were being
watered, bricks gilded. And captains
OF commerce were coming with crlng-
ing knees to borrow old st. Clair's
gold, though widows and orphans
never got past the first office boy.
But here, in this inner office, where
old st. Clair sat like money-spider
In its web, 1t was still-very still
and suddenly very lonely. A minute
ago old st. Clair had been a little
king, despotically ruling his kingdom
by might of gold. Now he was only
a frightened old man. For his busy
brain, spinning endless webs Of tinan-
cial intrigue and piracy, had limped,
all at once. whirled, all but stopped.
Faster than the flood Of wealth rolled
in, the sands of life seemed run
ming out.
Tottering, staggering, almost whim-
pering, old John st. Clair got up sud-
denly and walked weakly back and
forth. Every day 1t was more effort
to get up and dress; every night there
was less strength in his weary body
to face nsomnia-inSomnia where
yesterdays door he had shut so long
ago and locked, would open. And
now this This loneliness, this fright
And the doctor telling him today that
he couldn't do thing for him with
all his money. Saying he'd played the
game too hard and he'd have to. pay
Nature heavy interest now. Abrupt
ly, old John st. Clair cackled and
feebly doubled bony fist. Fools
doctors. And what had he answered.
II need a tonic to give me some
backbone" he'd shouted. That's what
he'd said. And the fool doctor had
told him:
drop business. Get outdoors-live,
eat, sleep outdoors and be happy.
That's your tonic"
Happy! Suddenly old John st.
Clair was painting again. He glimpsed
the futility Of all he had. His hard
eyes were fear once more-fear and
pain. Happy! Fat chance, II money
wasn't being happy. If he dropped
business and remembered and thought
and yearned and fought it all over
again, now that he was old
ooh, bosh" painted old John st.
Clair, stubbornly, sitting down at his
desk again, dizzily taking up his pen,
wildly trying to marshal his thoughts.
1t was the third time he had said,
ooh, bosh!" lately. And it was once
too often.
The next day the prime minister of
John st. Glars little kingdom, pene-
trating respectfully into the spiders
quiet parlor, found the king crum-
pied, insensibfe body in the chair Of
state. Terrible minutes followed be-
fore the frail, yellow shell that held
the Pickering spirit of the great finan-
cler was finally carried secretly up to
the great art museum where he lived
alone, and where he fought his bit
ter battle-alone. True, his money
bought plenty of hired hands and SCI
ence and skill to keep the vital spark
Pickering in the worn old body, but
they alone, also, smoothed his pillows
and bathed his face. No living soul
Of kin was there to care.
And outside, the papers screamed
with headlines detailing the money
kings involuntary abdication, the mar
ket plunged like a mustang and there
was much noise and confusion, but in
that bedroom 1t was still and very
lonely, as the office had been while
days slid by in magnificent, solitary
defeat.
One evening, out Of oblivion, In the
midst Of his wealth, old John st. Clair
suddenly asked for a ''piece."
"Piece Of what, sir?" The nurse
In charge was matter-of-fact young
animal without Imagination.
Bread n butter" said old John
st. Clair. like little child.
So, promptly, he had neat oblongs
of bread, just the right size, just the
right age, with just the proper amount
Of butter, from which he turned away
peevishly, mutteringA ENORMOUSLY.
keenly disappointed. Presently he
wept strange, slow, hard tears. He
said hi wanted to 60 home. Then,
after long, long time, he whispered
about bread and butter again. Last |
Of all he blurted, "Marthy."
And after thar there was no stop
ping him. The art museum wasn't !