WORLD'S END

Yes, that was it. The two stags had their horns locked, and each wanted to butt the other, drive him back, beat him to the earth, mash him into it; each would rather die than give an inch. It was an old, old grudge; they had fought like this when they had first met, more than twenty years ago. Lanny hadn't been there, Lanny hadn't been anywhere then, but his mother had told him about it. Now it had got started again; the two stags couldn't get their horns apart, and it might mean the death of one or both!

"You and your gutter-rats imagining you can run industry!" snarled Robbie.

"If you're so sure we can't, why are you afraid to see us try? Why don't you call off your mercenaries that are fighting us on twenty-six fronts?"

"Why don't you call off your hellions that are spreading treason and hate in every nation?"

"Listen, Uncle Jesse! You promised Robbie you'd let me alone, but you're not doing it."

"They don't let anybody alone," sneered the father. "They don't keep any promises. We're the bourgeoisie, and we have no rights! We're parasites, and all we're fit for is to be 'liquidated'!"

"If you put yourself in front of a railroad train, it's suicide, not murder," said the painter, with his twisted smile. He was keeping his temper, which only made Robbie madder.

Said he, addressing his son: "Our business is to clear the track and let a bunch of gangsters drive the train into a ditch. History won't be able to count the number they have slaughtered."

"Oh, my God!" cried Uncle Jesse - he too addressing the youth. "He talks about slaughter - and he's just finished killing ten million men, with weapons he made for the purpose! God Almighty couldn't count the number he has wounded, and those who've died of disease and starvation. Yet he worries about a few counter-revolutionists shot by the Bolsheviks!"

VII

Lanny saw that he hadn't accomplished anything, so he sat for a while, listening to all the things his father didn't want him to hear. This raging argument became to him a symbol of the world in which he would have to live the rest of his life. His uncle was the uplifted fist of the workers, clenched in deadly menace. As for Robbie, he had proclaimed himself the man behind the machine gun; the man who made it, and was ready to use it, personally, if need be, to mow down the clenched uplifted fists! As for Lanny, he didn't have to be any symbol, he was what he was: the man who loved art and beauty, reason and fair play, and pleaded for these things and got brushed aside. It wasn't his world! It had no use for him! When the fighting started, he'd be caught between the lines and mowed down.

"If you kill somebody," Uncle Jesse announced to the father, "that's law and order. But if a revolutionist kills one of your gangsters, that's murder, that's a crime wave. You own the world, you make the laws and enforce them. But we tell you we're tired of working for your profit, and that never again can you lead us out to die for your greed."

"You're raving!" said Robbie Budd. "In a few months your Russia will be smashed flat, and you'll never get another chance. You've shown us your hand, and we've got you on a list."

"A hanging list?" inquired the painter, with a wink at the son.

"Hanging's not quick enough. You'll see how our Budd machine guns work!"

Lanny had never seen his father in such a rage. He was on his feet, and kept turning away and then back again. He had had several drinks, and that made it worse; his face was purple and his hands clenched. A little more and it might turn into a physical fight. Seeing him getting started on another tirade, Lanny grabbed his uncle by the arm and pulled him from his seat. "Please go, Uncle Jesse!" he exclaimed. "You said you would let me alone. Now do it!" He kept on, first pulling, then pushing. The uncle's hat had been hung on a chair, and Lanny took it and pressed it into his hand. "Please don't argue any more - just go!"

"All right," said the painter, half angry, half amused. "Look after him - he's going to have his hands full putting down the Russian revolution!"

"Thanks," said Lanny. I’ll do my best."

"You heard what I had to say to him!"

"Yes, I heard it."

"And you see that he has no answer!"

"Yes, yes, please go!" Lanny kept shoving his exuberant relative out into the hall.

A parting shot: "Mark my words, Robbie Budd - it's the end of your world!"

"Good-by, Uncle Jesse!" and Lanny shut the door.

VIII

He came back into the room. His father was staring in front of him, frowning darkly. Lanny wondered: was the storm going to be turned upon him? And how much of it was left!

"Now, see here!" exclaimed the elder. "Have you learned your lesson from this?"

"Yes, indeed, Robbie; more than one lesson." Lanny's tone was full of conviction.

"You put yourself in the hands of a fanatic like that, and he's in a position to blackmail you, to do anything his crazy fancy may suggest."

"Please believe me, Robbie, I wasn't doing anything for Uncle Jesse. I was trying to help a friend."