JEFFERSON WORTH’S OPERATIONS,
The crowd that waited in front of the new hotel for
the arrival of the stage, the evening James Greenfield
came to Kingston, was unusually large. The King’s
Basin Messenger had announced the coming of the promoter
and president of The King’s Basin Land and Irrigation
Company and the pioneers had assembled to see the famous
capitalist whose power in the money world was making
possible the reclamation of the desert.
Mr. Greenfield’s greeting in the lobby, under
the perspiring efforts of Horace P. Blanton, soon
assumed the proportions of a public reception.
With his Manager to introduce the prominent citizens,
and Horace P., who was never farther than a yard from
the capitalist’s elbow to assist in receiving
them, the man from New York entered graciously into
the spirit of the occasion. And when the man in
the white vest, intoxicated by the atmosphere of greatness,
burst forth in a speech of welcome, setting forth
the wonders of The King’s Basin, the marvelous
growth and future of Kingston, the greatness of Greenfield
and—quite incidentally—the greatness
of Horace P, Blanton, all in behalf of the people,
the Easterner replied with a few modest remarks, in
which he hinted at even greater things to come, promising
by subtle suggestion unlimited wealth for all who
would invest their money and their lives in The King’s
Basin project.
Then Mr. Greenfield slipped away with Willard Holmes
to his room. The friendship between the engineer’s
own parents and his benefactor had been lifelong and
very close. It was a story, years ago forgotten
by the world, of how Grace Winton had chosen one of
the two college chums and why the other had never
married. In the repeated business failures of
his old schoolmate and the consequent loss of his
fortune the successful financier had proven himself
many times a friend in need, and through the long
illness of the man who had been successful in winning
the woman they both loved, Greenfield, with his wealth,
had been steadfast in his thoughtful care. When
baby Willard’s mother died soon after the death
of his father, she—knowing the heart of
the man whose love for her had kept him childless—committed
to him her only child, and Greenfield, accepting the
trust, had taken the boy into his life and heart as
his own son.
After the loss of William Greenfield, his only brother,
James Greenfield—whose power in the financial
world was steadily increasing—had no one
to intimately share his success but young Holmes,
and when Willard had finished his school and chosen
his profession the older man used the influence of
his own position to give the young engineer every
advantage.
As the two men faced each other now after the longest
separation they had ever known, the Company’s
president studied his chief engineer with interest.
“Well, Willard, my boy,” he said at last;
“how do you like it? Say, but you are looking
fine. You always were a handsome youngster but
you’re—you’re improving, young
man. I’m blessed if you don’t look
like a work of art done in bronze.” He laughed
with the pleasure of his own conceit and the other
laughed with him.
