The Genius by Theodore Dreiser

The matter was not difficult to arrange. Before Winfield had gone ten sentences, Eugene began to take the ideas out of his mind.

“I know something of that property,” he said, studying a little outline map which Winfield had prepared. “I’ve been out there duck shooting with Colfax and some others. It’s fine property, there’s no doubt of it. How much do they want for it?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I already own it,” said Winfield. “It cost me sixty thousand dollars five years ago when it was a vast, inaccessible swamp. Nothing has been done to it since, but I will turn it over to the company for what it is worth now—two hundred thousand dollars—and take a mortgage for my protection. Then the company can do what it pleases with it; but as president, of course, I should direct the line of development. If you want to make a fortune and have fifty thousand dollars to spare, here is your chance. This land has increased in value from sixty to two hundred thousand dollars in five years. What do you fancy it will be worth in ten years from now the way New York is growing? It has pretty near four million people now. In twenty-five years it is safe to say that there will be fourteen or fifteen millions scattered over this territory which lies within twenty-five miles. Of course, this is thirty-two miles away on a direct line, but what of it? The Long Island Railroad will be glad to put a spur in there which would bring this territory within one hour of the city. Think of it—one of the finest beaches on the Atlantic Ocean within one hour of New York! I expect to interest Mr. Wiltsie, the President of the Long Island, very heavily in this property. I come to you now because I think your advertising and artistic advice are worth something. You can take it or leave it, but before you do anything, I want you to come out and look over the property with me.”

All told, in stocks, land, free money in the banks, and what he might save in a year or two, Eugene had about fifty thousand dollars of good hard cash which he could lay his hands on at a pinch. He was well satisfied that Winfield was putting before him one of those golden opportunities which, prudently managed, would make him a rich man. Nevertheless, his fifty thousand was fifty thousand, and he had it. Never again, however, once this other thing was under way, if it were true, would he have to worry about a position, or whether he would be able to maintain his present place in society. One could not possibly say what an investment like this might not lead to. Winfield, so he told Eugene, expected eventually to clear six or eight million dollars himself. He was going to take stock in some of the hotels, casinos, and various other enterprises, which would be organized. He could clearly see how, later, once this land was properly drained and laid out, it would be worth from three to fifteen thousand dollars per lot of one hundred by one hundred feet—the smallest portions to be sold. There were islands which for clubs or estates should bring splendid returns. Think of the leases to yacht and boat clubs alone! The company would own all the land.

“I would develop this myself if I had the capital,” said Winfield, “but I want to see it done on a gigantic scale, and I haven’t the means. I want something here which will be a monument to me and to all connected with it. I am willing to take my chances pro rata with those who now enter, and to prove my good faith I am going to buy as many shares as I possibly can on the five-for-one basis. You or anyone else can do the same thing. What do you think?”

“It’s a great idea,” said Eugene. “It seems as though a dream which had been floating about in the back of my head for years had suddenly come to life. I can scarcely believe that it is true, and yet I know that it is, and that you will get away with it just as you are outlining it here. You want to be very careful how you lay out this property, though. You have the chance of a lifetime. For goodness’ sake, don’t make any mistakes! Let’s have one resort that will be truly, beautifully right.”

“That’s precisely the way I feel about it,” answered Winfield, “and that’s why I am talking to you. I want you to come in on this, for I think your imagination will be worth something. You can help me lay this thing out right and advertise it right.”

They talked on about one detail and another until finally Eugene, in spite of all his caution, saw his dreams maturing in this particular proposition. Fifty thousand dollars invested here would give him two thousand five hundred shares—one thousand preferred, and fifteen hundred common—whose face value, guaranteed by this magnificent piece of property, would be $250,000. Think of it, $250,000—a quarter of a million and that subject to a natural increase which might readily carry him into the millionaire class! His own brains would be of some value here, for Winfield was anxious to have him lay this out, and this would bring him in touch with not only one of the best real estate men in the city, but would bring him into contact with a whole host of financiers in business, people who would certainly become interested in this venture. Winfield talked easily of architects, contractors, railroad men, presidents of construction companies, all of whom would take stock for the business opportunities it would bring to them later and also of the many strings to be pulled which later would bring great gains to the company and save it from expenditures which would otherwise mean millions in outlay. Thus this proposed extension by the Long Island which would cost that railroad two hundred thousand dollars would cost the Sea Island Company nothing and would bring thousands of lovers of beauty there the moment conveniences were established to receive them. This was true of hotels to be built. Each would bring business for everything else. The company would lease the ground. The great hotel men would do their own building according to restrictions and plans laid down by the Sea Island Company. The only real expenditure would be for streets, sewers, lights, water, walks, trees, and the great one hundred foot wide boardwalk with concrete ornaments which would be the finest sea stroll in the world. But these could be undertaken by degrees.

Eugene saw it all. It was a vision of empire. “I don’t know about this,” he said cautiously. “It’s a great thing, but I may not have the means to dip into it. I want to think it over. Meanwhile, I’ll be glad to go out there and look over the ground with you.”

Winfield could see that he had Eugene fascinated. It would be an easy matter to land him once he had his plans perfected. Eugene would be the type of man who would build a house and come and live there in the summer. He would interest many people whom he knew. He went away feeling that he had made a good start, and he was not mistaken.

Eugene talked the matter over with Angela—his one recourse in these matters—and as usual she was doubtful, but not entirely opposed. Angela had considerable caution, but no great business vision. She could not really tell him what he ought to do. Thus far his judgment, or rather his moves, had been obviously successful. He had been going up apparently because he was valuable as an assistant, not because he was a born leader.

“You’ll have to judge for yourself, Eugene,” Angela finally said. “I don’t know. It looks fine. You certainly don’t want to work for Mr. Colfax all your life, and if, as you say, they are beginning to plot against you, you had better prepare to get out sometime. We have enough now, really, to live on, if you want to return to your art.”

Eugene smiled. “My art. My poor old art! A lot I’ve done to develop my art.”

“I don’t think it needs developing. You have it. I’m sorry sometimes I ever let you leave it. We have lived better, but your work hasn’t counted for as much. What good has it done you outside the money to be a successful publisher? You were as famous as you are now before you ever started in on this line, and more so. More people know you even now as Eugene Witla, the artist, than as Eugene Witla, the magazine man.”

Eugene knew this to be so. His art achievements had never forsaken him. They had grown in fame always. Pictures that he had sold for two hundred and four hundred had gone up to as high as three and four thousand in value, and they were still rising. He was occasionally approached by an art dealer to know if he never intended to paint any more. In social circles it was a constant cry among the elect, “Why don’t you paint any longer?” “What a shame you ever left the art world!” “Those pictures of yours, I can never forget them.”