“Not a better built house in town,” said Gant.
Nevertheless he refused to buy it with Eliza, and with an aching heart she saw it go to St. Greenberg, the rich junk-man, for $8, 500. Within a year he had sold off five lots at the back, on the Yancy Street side, for $1, 000 each, and was holding the house for $20, 000.
“We could have had our money back by now three times over,” Eliza fretted.
She did not have enough money at the time for any important investment. She saved and she waited.
Will Pentland’s fortune at this time was vaguely estimated at from $500, 000 to $700, 000. It was mainly in property, a great deal of which was situated—warehouses and buildings—near the passenger depot of the railway.
Sometimes Altamont people, particularly the young men who loafed about Collister’s drug-store, and who spent long dreamy hours estimating the wealth of the native plutocracy, called Will Pentland a millionaire. At this time it was a distinction in American life to be a millionaire. There were only six or eight thousand. But Will Pentland wasn’t one. He was really worth only a half million.
Mr. Goulderbilt was a millionaire. He was driven into town in a big Packard, but he got out and went along the streets like other men.
One time Gant pointed him out to Eugene. He was about to enter a bank.
“There he is,” whispered Gant. “Do you see him?”
Eugene nodded, wagging his head mechanically. He was unable to speak. Mr. Goulderbilt was a small dapper man, with black hair, black clothes, and a black mustache. His hands and feet were small.
“He’s got over $50, 000, 000,” said Gant. “You’d never think it to look at him, would you?”
And Eugene dreamed of these money princes living in a princely fashion. He wanted to see them riding down a street in a crested coach around which rode a teetering guard of liveried outriders. He wanted their fingers to be heavily gemmed, their clothes trimmed with ermine, their women coroneted with flashing
