“You’ve written plays—got one in your pocket this minute, probably.”
“You don’t mean you are going to write plays!” Farson said disgustedly.
“No, my boy—not now. I tried it once. But I hope to make it possible for you and other young men to write their plays and get them put on the stage. I’m going to build theaters, here and in other cities. I shall found a national society of dramatic art. That’s the way I’m going to blow in the money from the sulfur stream as long as it flows!”
“Whew!” The magazine man whistled dubiously. “Another uplift movement for the poor drama?”
With much more eagerness than he had shown over his exploits with copper and sulfur, he sketched the story of his great idea, which had first taken possession of him that last night of his week’s stay in Paris, while he wandered through the silent streets. He told of the vision that had come to him in the snowy heights of the Arizona mountains, in the silence of earth and sky—a vision of beautiful art that might be created into reality by the aid of the wealth which he could give it. He had set himself earnestly to the task of getting the necessary gold out of the ground, and all through these years, in the vigils of his lonely nights in the mining camp, he had nursed his vision.
He poured out his heart freely to Farson, because he was young and a would-be dramatist, and could understand; and Farson, listening to the story of this idea, became warmed with the enthusiasm of the other and forgot his habitual journalistic skepticism.
“And now it will no longer be just an idea. It’s to become fact! I have the money—at least, it’s mine for the present.” Brainard corrected himself. “One can do something with half a million or so a year.”
“Half a million a year!” the young man gasped.
“More or less—at present rather more, I should say,” Brainard admitted carelessly. “Depends on the market for crude sulfur, you understand. It’s pretty strong just now. And there’s the copper to fall back upon, when the price of copper goes up. There’s no need to worry about the money.”
Just here they were interrupted by a boy with a card.
“Show the gentleman up!” Brainard exclaimed, glancing a second time at the card.
The magazine man rose reluctantly to go, saying: