"Well, that's just the way with Hatboro'. There is no old Hatboro' any
more; and there never was, as your father and mine could tell us if they
were here. They lived in a painfully transitional period, poor old fellows!
But, for all that, there is a difference. They lived in what was really a
New England village, and we live now in a sprawling American town; and by
American of course I mean a town where at least one-third of the people
are raw foreigners or rawly extracted natives. The old New England ideal
characterises them all, up to a certain point, socially; it puts a decent
outside on most of 'em; it makes 'em keep Sunday, and drink on the sly.
We got in the Irish long ago, and now they're part of the conservative
element. We got in the French Canadians, and some of them are our best
mechanics and citizens. We're getting in the Italians, and as soon as they
want something better than bread and vinegar to eat, they'll begin going to
Congress and boycotting and striking and forming pools and trusts just like
any other class of law-abiding Americans. There used to be some talk of the
Chinese, but I guess they've pretty much blown over. We've got Ah Lee and
Sam Lung here, just as they have everywhere, but their laundries don't seem
to increase. The Irish are spreading out into the country and scooping in
the farms that are not picturesque enough for the summer folks. You can buy
a farm anywhere round Hatboro' for less than the buildings on it cost. I'd
rather the Irish would have the land than the summer folks. They make an
honest living off it, and the other fellows that come out to roost here
from June till October simply keep somebody else from making a living
off it, and corrupt all the poor people in sight by their idleness and
luxury. That's what I tell 'em at South Hatboro'. They don't like it, but
I guess they believe it; anyhow they have to hear it. They'll tell you in
self-defence that J. Milton Northwick is a practical farmer, and sells his
butter for a dollar a pound. He's done more than anybody else to improve
the breeds of cattle and horses; and he spends fifteen thousand a year on
his place. It can't return him five; and that's the reason he's a curse and
a fraud."
"Who _is_ Mr. Northwick, Ralph?" Annie interposed. "Everybody at South
Hatboro' asked me if I'd met the Northwicks."
"He's a very great and good man," said Putney. "He's worth a million, and
he runs a big manufacturing company at Ponkwasset Falls, and he owns a
fancy farm just beyond South Hatboro'. He lives in Boston, but he comes out
here early enough to dodge his tax there, and let poorer people pay it.
He's got miles of cut stone wall round his place, and conservatories and
gardens and villas and drives inside of it, and he keeps up the town roads
outside at his own expense. Yes, we feel it such an honour and advantage to
have J. Milton in Hatboro' that our assessors practically allow him to fix
the amount of tax here himself. People who can pay only a little at the
highest valuation are assessed to the last dollar of their property and
income; but the assessors know that this wouldn't do with Mr. Northwick.
They make a guess at his income, and he always pays their bills without
asking for abatement; they think themselves wise and public-spirited men
for doing it, and most of their fellow-citizens think so too. You see it's
not only difficult for a rich man to get into the kingdom of heaven, Annie,
but he makes it hard for other people.