I play that choice wide open to win.
I get the automobiles, and the porterhouse steaks, and the soft beds.
"Number two: There ain't much difference between playing halfway robber like the railroad hauling that farmer's wheat to market, and playing all robber and robbing the robbers like I do.
And, besides, halfway robbery is too slow a game for me to sit in.
You don't win quick enough for me."
"But what do you want to win for?" Dede demanded.
"You have millions and millions, already.
You can't ride in more than one automobile at a time, sleep in more than one bed at a time."
"Number three answers that," he said, "and here it is: Men and things are so made that they have different likes.
A rabbit likes a vegetarian diet. A lynx likes meat.
Ducks swim; chickens are scairt of water.
One man collects postage stamps, another man collects butterflies.
This man goes in for paintings, that man goes in for yachts, and some other fellow for hunting big game.
One man thinks horse-racing is It, with a big I, and another man finds the biggest satisfaction in actresses.
They can't help these likes.
They have them, and what are they going to do about it?
Now I like gambling.
I like to play the game.
I want to play it big and play it quick.
I'm just made that way.
And I play it."
"But why can't you do good with all your money?"
Daylight laughed.
"Doing good with your money!
It's like slapping God in the face, as much as to tell him that he don't know how to run his world and that you'll be much obliged if he'll stand out of the way and give you a chance.
Thinking about God doesn't keep me sitting up nights, so I've got another way of looking at it.
Ain't it funny, to go around with brass knuckles and a big club breaking folks' heads and taking their money away from them until I've got a pile, and then, repenting of my ways, going around and bandaging up the heads the other robbers are breaking?
I leave it to you.
That's what doing good with money amounts to.
Every once in a while some robber turns soft-hearted and takes to driving an ambulance.
That's what Carnegie did.
He smashed heads in pitched battles at Homestead, regular wholesale head-breaker he was, held up the suckers for a few hundred million, and now he goes around dribbling it back to them.
Funny?
I leave it to you."
He rolled a cigarette and watched her half curiously, half amusedly.
His replies and harsh generalizations of a harsh school were disconcerting, and she came back to her earlier position.
"I can't argue with you, and you know that.
No matter how right a woman is, men have such a way about them well, what they say sounds most convincing, and yet the woman is still certain they are wrong.
But there is one thing—the creative joy.
Call it gambling if you will, but just the same it seems to me more satisfying to create something, make something, than just to roll dice out of a dice-box all day long.
Why, sometimes, for exercise, or when I've got to pay fifteen dollars for coal, I curry Mab and give her a whole half hour's brushing.
And when I see her coat clean and shining and satiny, I feel a satisfaction in what I've done.
So it must be with the man who builds a house or plants a tree.
He can look at it.
He made it. It's his handiwork.
Even if somebody like you comes along and takes his tree away from him, still it is there, and still did he make it.
You can't rob him of that, Mr. Harnish, with all your millions.
It's the creative joy, and it's a higher joy than mere gambling.
Haven't you ever made things yourself—a log cabin up in the Yukon, or a canoe, or raft, or something?
And don't you remember how satisfied you were, how good you felt, while you were doing it and after you had it done?"