From the Improvement Era, May 1929 –

The Soul of John Dillon

By Charles F. Steele

John Dillon looked up from his morning’s mail with a frown. He was fingering nervously the stack of letters and it was plainly evident that this untimely interruption by one of the accountants was annoying.

“Well, what is it, Bradley?” he asked with emphasis.

“One of my kiddies has the ‘flu’ this morning, Mr. Dillon. He’s running a fever; we fear pneumonia.”

“Yes — go on.”

“I was wondering if I could get off for the day. Mrs. Bradley is not well herself, and I am really afraid to leave her alone with the boy.”

“This would make the third day off in as many weeks, Bradley.”

“I know that and I regret it, but it is this epidemic. Few homes have escaped. We are pretty well up in the office and Mr. Johnson says they can get along nicely today. Then, Mr. Dillon, I need not remind you that I have worked for you for fifteen years with very little time off. Fifteen years is a long time, Mr. Dillon.”

There was a look of thoughtful inquiry in the eyes of Blaine Bradley as he said this. He did not have to wait long for an answer.

“We can’t spare you — today. It’s impossible; out of the question. Coming to the point, Bradley, I might as well tell you now that I am tired of this eternal asking for days off. It is getting beyond all reason and I’m determined to put a stop to it all along the line.”

“But my family need me, Mr. Dillon,” reminded the younger man.

“True, they need you. But they need you at your work here, taking care of the job that means bread and butter to them. Don’t forget that point.”

“Mr. Dillon, I don’t understand this — I — ”

“You should. I think I made myself clear, Bradley.”

There was a strange note of defiance in Blaine Bradley’s answer to this curt observation and yet his words were not lacking in dignity.

“You were clear, Mr. Dillon, and I think I understand you. Yes, I understand you better this morning than I have ever done. Your real self — your soul — has been revealed.”

“Be careful, Bradley. I want no insolence.”

“I do not wish to be rude or unfair, but sometimes it is necessary to be outspoken. I know you are a power in business, that you are a rich man. I know you stand on the inside in politics and high in the Church. In a word, you are a big man to the public but not so big to the men who work for you, sir.”

“Bradley, you’re mad — I — ” cried John Dillon springing to his feet.

“I am not mad. I have hesitated about saying a few things for a long time, Mr. Dillon. It is out now and what I have said I mean. You have tried to brow-beat me, with my child in bed critically ill. You have tried to bully me, but it can’t be done. It is hypocrisy — nothing short of it — and I hate it. You are the Levite in the garb of the Samaritan. Now I am through. If you care to replace me you may do so.”

The door shut behind the accountant, and resuming his seat at his desk John Dillon turned slowly to his mail. It was chilly and quiet in the simply furnished office and heavy shades kept out much of the spring sunlight. Sounds from the street filtered through the windows in muffled waves, the clap, clap of a delivery horse on the paving; the throbbing and shrieking of motor cars and trucks; the distant rumble of a street-car; the shouts of children playing ball in a vacant lot across the avenue.

“The Levite in the garb of the Samaritan.”

This is what John Dillon repeated to himself half an hour later as he sat with much of his mail in front of him still unopened. His hands, clasped tightly together, were lying on the desk and his finely cut face, here and there lined a little from years of business strain, wore the faintest hint of a cloud. There was an atmosphere of loneliness, of futility about the still and solemn figure.

“The Levite in the garb of the Samaritan.”

The words continued to pound through the soul of John Dillon. Strange! This was the second time that morning he had heard the accusation and the first instance harrassed him quite as much as did the second, perhaps more. For the first rebuke had come from his own son — Bud Dillon. The boy had hurled the charge at the close of another of the many stormy “scenes” father and son had had in recent months. And the father recalled the words vividly as he sat at his desk, with stocks and bonds and credits for the moment forgotten.

“Dad,” Bud had cried, “you don’t practice what you preach. You are constantly nagging at me because I don’t go to church every Sunday. You never miss a service — I know that — but lots of times you play bridge afterwards. Well, I don’t do that. I have a much better way of spending my Sundays, but we won’t talk about it. You say you find a relaxation in bridge. Isn’t that just an excuse, dad? Again, you drive me mad with lectures, but how often do you ask me to go to church or anywhere else with you? You raise a row if I go out nights and if I stay home I never see you. Why? I needn’t tell you, but I will. You are always too busy to give any time to me, although I have often wanted to pal a little with you. You either have a business engagement or a book or magazine to read for hours at a stretch. No, dad, it doesn’t ring true and I’m going to run my own show in my own way and that’s that. Remember the old book of Bible stories that you and mumsy gave me when I was ten — my birthday? Well, there was a story in there I have never forgotten. You must know it, dad, the story of the Levite and the Samaritan. I am reminded of it right now. For you and a lot of other dads are like that. You are the Levite posing as the Samaritan. There now, I’ve said it — goodbye!”

That is what Bud had said, said to his face; Bud, his own flesh and blood; and with it he had rushed from the house and down the street. And now Bradley, one of his oldest employees, had repeated it. Bradley, after fifteen years! And he had done right by Bradley as he had by Bud. What an age to live in! What madness! People had lost all sense of proportion and respect for authority. This was open rebellion, a menace of the most dangerous type.

“The Levite in the garb of the Samaritan!”

The face of the man of business changed. To bend to this challenge would be fatal to business, to the church, the home, and every other foundational institution of society. It spelt national decay. It was not more freedom that youth needed but less of it. Restraint had been thrown to the winds in this jazz age, and it remained for the saner people to apply the brakes. Thus reasoned John Dillon and reaching a decision he straightened up in his chair, adjusted his glasses and attacked his waiting mail with almost feverish vigor.

And the noises of the busy world outside — the world of spring sights and sounds — drifted to him through the shaded windows.

The telephone bell rang as John Dillon slipped his envelope opener along the edge of the last piece of mail.

“Hello!” he spoke into the ‘phone. “Oh, hello, Charlie — yes — yes — I’m driving to Lakeside today. A friend? — boy? Why, yes, of course, Charlie; send him along now for I’ll be leaving in twenty minutes, and I don’t want to be delayed. Consolidated Copper? Looks very good right now, Charlie — Babson is optimistic about all the metals, especially copper — first-rate buy I consider at $37.50. So long, Charlie, see you tonight at the Bond club dinner.”

Fifteen minutes later a youth of probably twenty years was shown into the office of the lumber magnate. He wore a worn tweed suit of last year’s model and carried a hat similarly antiquated. The young man’s coat did not conceal the pair of well-proportioned shoulders that impressed John Dillon the moment he eyed his expected traveling companion.

“You are on time. I like that,” said the business man. Then: “We’ll be leaving in five minutes. Will you not sit down?”

“Thank you, sir, but if you don’t mind I’ll wait in front of the building. It seems good to be outside this morning.”

“Very well. By the way, you did not tell me your name.”

“Brent — Lionel Brent.”

There was a pause in which the face of John Dillon was a study.

“Brent — Brent — You are not Fred Brent’s boy, are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s see, didn’t you get into a scrape of some sort? Sent down for theft — a jail term — if I remember correctly?”

“Yes, sir, I was released only this morning.”

John Dillon studied the youth critically then said: “And you come to my office with the smell of the cells still clinging to you.”

The boy flushed at this thrust but he let it pass and his voice was steady when he replied.

“Mr. Charles Humphreys said you might give me a ride — home. He was my lawyer, you know, and did his best, but he had a tough job — it was a frame-up, sir.”

“The old story, Brent, the old story! A frame-up! It’s always a frame-up when ‘flashing youth’ gets nabbed in some wild escapade.”

“Mr. Dillon, I was innocent. They — ”

“Oh, it’s all right, Brent, I’ll drive you to Lakeside, but Charlie Humphreys had his nerve. A frame-up. You’d better get another alibi for your father if I remember him, and I knew Fred Brent pretty well in the old days. He was always straight, but hard as a nail,” John Dillon mused reminiscently gazing across his desk.

“Yes — dad was hard, very hard. He’s — dead now, died while they had me inside.”

The boy’s head dropped.

“You might well drop your head, young man. Probably killed your father and ruined your own life. You young fellows nowadays are without natural affection. You have no consideration, no feeling for your parents. You are bold and demanding. But come along, we are wasting time.”

“Thank you, sir, I’m in a hurry, too. You see it happens to be mother’s birthday today and I want to surprise her. She doesn’t know I’m out.”

John Dillon, reaching for his topcoat, wheeled about on his heel. “Your mother is living then, is she? Almost a pity. Fine little woman, your mother. I feel for her, Brent.”

“But mother understands, Mr. Dillon, and believes in me and wants me to return home and make good.”

“I hope you do, young man. but I must confess that my faith in modern youth has about reached the vanishing point.”

With this confession the business man led the way to the automobile standing at the curb in front of the entrance to the towering Dillon Building.

The car rolled luxuriously over the hard-surfaced highway and the spring air swept the faces of the pair in the front seat with exhilarating keenness. The smell of growing things came to them through the lowered window of the car. The early wild flowers were bursting their buds along the roadway; the tender grass showed green in the meadows; the leaves were again clothing the trees; and the children were loitering along the way to school. Spring it was with all its message of new hope, new courage, new life!

“Nice day,” said John Dillon crisply as the car gracefully took a curve.

“Glorious!” exclaimed the young man at his side. The youth’s face was now eager and alert, and his eyes sparkled. “You can’t realize just how glorious it all is to me. These fields, these trees, these mountains! Everything is wonderful to one who has been — inside.”

“But they were good to you, weren’t they, Brent?”

“Yes, and I’m not complaining, sir. The warden was white, but some of the guards were tough. They let us play baseball and gave us a movie once in a while, and the meals were decent. But it was prison, sir, the dark, little cells, the bare walls, the tramp of the guards, the monotony of it all — the long, weary days and weeks and months. It’s terrible to a boy, Mr. Dillon, and I hope they’ll make it a bit brighter for the chaps some day. They’re not all bad, you know.”

There was another pause.

“How long were you in?” asked John Dillon, after he had steered the car through one of the many pleasant hamlets along the road to Lakeside.

“A year.”

“A year. That is a long time. Did you have many visitors in that time, Lionel?”

Lionel! There was a touch of tenderness, of understanding in the word dropped by the man at the wheel. And it did not miss the youth, hungry for kindness.

“Thanks, Mr. Dillon.”

“For what?”

“You called me Lionel, sir, and it sounded — good.”

John Dillon moved uneasily in his seat but made no reply.

Later, however, he renewed the conversation by repeating a former question: “Did you have many callers, Lionel?”

“Not many, Mr. Dillon, the world pretty much forgets the chaps — inside. The Salvation Army captain — a real man — came every week, rain or shine. Our bishop came once — with mother. Mother visited me three times after that — alone.”

“Your father — did he see you before he died?”

“No. Father was hard, as you said, and when I got into this scrape he dropped me. I tried to think it was his sickness that made him like he was, sir. He died of a heart attack six months after they sent me down.”

“Did anyone else call, Lionel?”

“Yes — a friend. I played basketball against him in our high school days. One time I tripped him and he missed a pass that meant much but he said nothing and came back smiling. I was ashamed and gave him my apology. Well, we became buddies after that, although we didn’t see a great deal of each other. Yes, he came to see me every two weeks without fail, usually on Sunday. He brought fruit or candy and always some fresh magazines and newspapers, and often some writing material. And best of all, he brought the news of the town and state, especially college sports. Gee, a fellow inside gets hungry for news! It was mother and Bud who helped me keep up my courage, to keep my chin up, Mr. Dillon. Bud said I could still make good in business, that if a fellow could ‘hit the ball’ there would be no questions asked. I hope he’s right.”

John Dillon’s face wore a puzzled look and when he spoke again there was a new mellowness in his voice.

“Lionel, you said your friend’s name was Bud.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And his last name?”

“Dillon.”

“Not Bud Dillon — not my boy?”

“Yes, sir, your son and you should be mighty proud of him, Mr. Dillon, because Bud’s genuine right through,” said Lionel Brent warmly.

John Dillon’s hand tightened on the wheel and his face was white.

“The Levite in the garb of the Samaritan!”

The words, etched as it seemed in fire, were again mocking him. For a moment he dared not, could not trust his voice to answer. Then with an effort that gave his troubled soul relief he exclaimed:

“I am proud of him, Lionel, and grateful.”

The car picked up speed as it moved over the smooth highway. The sun was now bathing the mountains and valleys in a flood of warmth. The sky was clear and radiant.

“A glorious day, Lionel, my boy!” said John Dillon.

“It’s heaven to me, Mr. Dillon.” Then: “But they say there’s a lot of ‘flu’ around again; I hope mother is well.” This the boy said with anxiety in his voice.

“I understand there is some ‘flu,’ but somehow I think your mother will be well and waiting for you as you said. Mothers are like that, Lionel.”

Another mile brought them to the outskirts of Lakeside.

“You’ll soon be home now,” said John Dillon, as the machine passed scenes familiar to both.

“Yes, it’s minutes now, sir. I’ve longed for this hour, Mr. Dillon.”

“I’ve just been thinking, Lionel, that you’ll be needing a job soon.”

“Yes, Mr. Dillon, I’m going to look for work at once. I don’t want mother to have to worry any more. It has been hard for her. Do you think — do you think what Bud said is true — that if a fellow could ‘hit the ball’ they won’t hold his past against him? Do you think he’s right, Mr. Dillon? You should know.”

“Yes, Lionel, Bud was right. He’s been right all along. You can still make good. It’s up to you.”

“Mr. Dillon, it’s great to hear you say that. You know, I’d like to go to work tomorrow.”

“You would?” laughed John Dillon. The enthusiasm of the young man was contagious.

“Yes — tomorrow !”

“No, Lionel, don’t go to work tomorrow. Spend a full day with your mother, you’ll both enjoy it. But come to our office the day after. Report at eight o’clock. We have a place for you on our staff; there is a promotion due one of our older men.”

“Why. Mr. Dillon — I — ” stammered Lionel Brent.

“That’s all right, Lionel. I think you’ll fit into our organization and then I have a notion that Bud will be glad to have you around. Remember, eight o’clock sharp. I like punctuality.”

“I’ll be there at eight, Mr. Dillon.”

“I know you will,” replied John Dillon, as the automobile slowed up in front of the Brent cottage.

And he was.