The Air Trust. George Allan England
Читать онлайн.| Название | The Air Trust |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | George Allan England |
| Жанр | Языкознание |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Языкознание |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 4057664602114 |
GEORGE ALLAN ENGLAND.
Boston, Mass., November 1, 1915.
THE AIR TRUST
CHAPTER I.—THE BIRTH OF AN IDEA
CHAPTER III.—THE BAITING OF HERZOG
CHAPTER VI.—OXYGEN, KING OF INTOXICATORS
CHAPTER VIII.—ONE UNBIDDEN, SHARES GREAT SECRETS
CHAPTER X.—A GLIMPSE OF THE PARASITES
CHAPTER XI.—THE END OF TWO GAMES
CHAPTER XII.—ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY
CHAPTER XIII.—CATASTROPHE
CHAPTER XIV.—THE RESCUE
CHAPTER XV.—AN HOUR AND A PARTING
CHAPTER XVI.—TIGER WALDRON "COMES BACK"
CHAPTER XVII.—THOUGHTS
CHAPTER XVIII.—FLINT AND WALDRON PLAN
CHAPTER XIX.—CATHERINE'S DEFIANCE
CHAPTER XX.—THE BILLIONAIRE'S PLOT
CHAPTER XXI.—GABRIEL, GOOD SAMARITAN
CHAPTER XXII.—THE TRAP IS SPRUNG
CHAPTER XXIII.—THE BEAST GLOATS
CHAPTER XXIV.—CATHERINE'S SUPREME DECISION
CHAPTER XXV.—THROUGH STEEL BARS
CHAPTER XXVI.—"GUILTY"
CHAPTER XXVII.—BACK IN THE SUNLIGHT
CHAPTER XXVIII.—IN THE REFUGE
CHAPTER XXIX.—"APRÈS NOUS LE DÉLUGE!"
CHAPTER XXX.—TRAPPED!
CHAPTER XXXI.—ESCAPE!
CHAPTER XXXII.—OMINOUS DEVELOPMENTS
CHAPTER XXXIII.—"NOW COMES THE HOUR SUPREME"
CHAPTER XXXIV.—THE ATTACK
CHAPTER XXXV.—TERROR AND RETREAT
CHAPTER XXXVI.—THE STORMING OF THE WORKS
CHAPTER XXXVII.—DEATH IN THE PIT OF STEEL
CHAPTER XXXVIII.—VISIONS
THE AIR TRUST
CHAPTER I.
THE BIRTH OF AN IDEA.
Sunk far back in the huge leather cushions of his morris chair, old Isaac Flint was thinking, thinking hard. Between narrowed lids, his hard, gray eyes were blinking at the morning sunlight that poured into his private office, high up in the great building he had reared on Wall Street. From his thin lips now and then issued a coil of smoke from the costly cigar he was consuming. His bony legs were crossed, and one foot twitched impatiently. Now and again he tugged at his white mustache. A frown creased his hard brow; and, as he pondered, something of the glitter of a snake seemed reflected in his pupils.
"Not enough," he muttered, harshly. "It's not enough—there must be more, more, more! Some way must be found. Must be, and shall be!"
The sunlight of early spring, glad and warm over Manhattan, brought no message of cheer to the Billionaire. It bore no news of peace and joy to him. Its very brightness, as it flooded the metropolis and mellowed his luxurious inner office, seemed to offend the master of the world. And presently he arose, walked to the window and made as though to lower the shade. But for a moment he delayed this action. Standing there at the window, he peered out. Far below him, the restless, swarming life of the huge city crept and grovelled. Insects that were men and women crowded the clefts that were streets. Long lines of cars, toy-like, crept along the "L" structures. As far as the eye could reach, tufted plumes of smoke and steam wafted away on the April breeze. The East River glistened in the sunlight, its bosom vexed by myriad craft, by ocean liners, by tugs and barges, by grim warships, by sailing-vessels, whose canvas gleamed, by snow-white fruitboats from the tropics, by hulls from every port. Over the bridges, long slow lines of traffic crawled. And, far beyond to the dim horizon, stretched out the hives of men, till the blue depths of distance swallowed all in haze.
And as Flint gazed on this marvel, all created and maintained by human toil, by sweat and skill and tireless patience of the workers, a hard smile curved his lips.
"All mine, more or less," said he to himself, puffing deep on his cigar. "All yielding tribute to me, even as the mines and mills and factories I cannot see yield tribute! Even as the oil-wells, the pipe-lines, the railroads and the subways yield—even as the whole world yields it. All this labor, all this busy strife, I have a hand in. The millions eat and drink and buy and sell; and I take toll of it—yet it is not enough. I hold them in my hand, yet the hand cannot close, completely. And until it does, it is not enough! No, not enough for me!"
He pondered a moment, standing there musing at the window, surveying "all the wonders of the earth" that in its fulness, in that year of grace, 1921, bore tribute to him who toiled not, neither spun; and though he smiled, the smile was bitter.
"Not enough, yet," he reflected. "And how—how shall I close my grip? How shall I master all this, absolutely and completely, till it be mine in truth? Through light? The mob can do with less, if I squeeze too hard! Through food? They can economize! Transportation? No, the traffic will bear only a certain load! How, then? What is it they all must have, or die, that I can control? What universal need, vital to rich and poor alike? To great and small? What absolute necessity which shall make my rivals in the Game as much my vassals as the meanest slave in my steel mills? What can it be? For power I must have! Like Caesar, who preferred to be first in the smallest village, rather than be second at Rome, I can and will have no competitor. I must rule all, or the game