Jim Hegan
indulged himself in none of the pleasures of rich men. He had no
hobbies, and he seldom went into company. In his busy times it was
said that he would use a dozen secretaries, and wear them all out.
He was a gigantic engine which drove all day and all night--a
machine for the making of money.
Montague did not care much for money himself, and he wondered about
it. What did the man want it for? What did he expect to accomplish
by it? What was the moral code, the outlook upon life, of a man who
gave all his time to heaping up money? What reason did he give to
himself for his own career? Some reason he must have, or he could
not be so calm and cheerful. Or could it be that he had no thoughts
about it at all? Was it simply a blind instinct with him? Was he an
animal whose nature it was to make money, and who was untroubled by
any scruples? This last idea seemed rather uncanny to Montague; he
found himself watching Jim Hegan with a kind of awe; thinking of him
as some terrible elemental force, blind and unconscious, like the
lightning or the tornado.
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