Even if the city can’t use it, somebody can.”
He was meaning to indicate a rival car line.
Cowperwood bristled internally.
“That’s all very well,” he said, preserving his surface composure, “but why make fish of one and flesh of another? The South Side company has a loop for which it never paid a dollar. So has the Chicago City Passenger Railway.
The North Side company is planning more extensive improvements than were ever undertaken by any single company before.
I hardly think it is fair to raise the question of compensation and a franchise tax at this time, and in connection with this one company only.”
“Um—well, that may be true of the other companies. The South Side company had those streets long ago.
They merely connected them up.
But this tunnel, now—that’s a different matter, isn’t it?
The city bought and paid for that, didn’t it?”
“Quite true—to help out men who saw that they couldn’t make another dollar out of it,” said Cowperwood, acidly.
“But it’s of no use to the city.
It will cave in pretty soon if it isn’t repaired.
Why, the consent of property-owners alone, along the line of this loop, is going to aggregate a considerable sum.
It seems to me instead of hampering a great work of this kind the public ought to do everything in its power to assist it.
It means giving a new metropolitan flavor to this down-town section.
It is time Chicago was getting out of its swaddling clothes.”
Mr. MacDonald, the younger, shook his head.
He saw clearly enough the significance of the points made, but he was jealous of Cowperwood and of his success.
This loop franchise and tunnel gift meant millions for some one.
Why shouldn’t there be something in it for him?
He called in Mr. Du Bois and went over the proposition with him.
Quite without effort the latter sensed the drift of the situation.
“It’s an excellent proposition,” he said.
“I don’t see but that the city should have something, though.
Public sentiment is rather against gifts to corporations just at present.”
Cowperwood caught the drift of what was in young MacDonald’s mind.
“Well, what would you suggest as a fair rate of compensation to the city?” he asked, cautiously, wondering whether this aggressive youth would go so far as to commit himself in any way.
“Oh, well, as to that,” MacDonald replied, with a deprecatory wave of his hand, “I couldn’t say.
It ought to bear a reasonable relationship to the value of the utility as it now stands.
I should want to think that over.
I shouldn’t want to see the city demand anything unreasonable.
Certainly, though, there is a privilege here that is worth something.”
Cowperwood flared inwardly.
His greatest weakness, if he had one, was that he could but ill brook opposition of any kind.
This young upstart, with his thin, cool face and sharp, hard eyes!
He would have liked to tell him and his paper to go to the devil.
He went away, hoping that he could influence the Inquirer in some other way upon the old General’s return.
As he was sitting next morning in his office in North Clark Street he was aroused by the still novel-sounding bell of the telephone—one of the earliest in use—on the wall back of him.
After a parley with his secretary, he was informed that a gentleman connected with the Inquirer wished to speak with him.
“This is the Inquirer,” said a voice which Cowperwood, his ear to the receiver, thought he recognized as that of young Truman MacDonald, the General’s son.
“You wanted to know,” continued the voice, “what would be considered adequate compensation so far as that tunnel matter is concerned.
Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” replied Cowperwood.
“Well, I should not care to influence your judgment one way or the other; but if my opinion were asked I should say about fifty thousand dollars’ worth of North Chicago Street Railway stock would be satisfactory.”
The voice was young, clear, steely.
“To whom would you suggest that it might be paid?” Cowperwood asked, softly, quite genially.
“That, also, I would suggest, might be left to your very sound judgment.”
The voice ceased.
The receiver was hung up.