“A trust is its weakest point，” said Jeff Peters.
“That，” said I， “sounds like one of those unintelligibleremarks such as， ‘Why is a policeman？’”
“It is not，” said Jeff. “There are no relations between atrust and a policeman. My remark was an epitogram—anaxis—a kind of mulct’em in parvo. What it means is that atrust is like an egg， and it is not like an egg. If you want tobreak an egg you have to do it from the outside. The onlyway to break up a trust is from the inside. Keep sitting onit until it hatches. Look at the brood of young colleges andlibraries that’s chirping and peeping all over the country.
Yes， sir， every trust bears in its own bosom the seeds ofits destruction like a rooster that crows near a Georgiacolored Methodist camp meeting， or a Republicanannouncing himself a candidate for governor of Texas.”
I asked Jeff， jestingly， if he had ever， during his checkered，plaided， mottled， pied and dappled career， conducted anenterprise of the class to which the word “trust” had beenapplied. Somewhat to my surprise he acknowledged thecorner.
“Once，” said he. “And the state seal of New Jerseynever bit into a charter that opened up a solider and saferpiece of legitimate octopusing. We had everything in ourfavor—wind， water， police， nerve， and a clean monopolyof an article indispensable to the public. There wasn’t atrust buster on the globe that could have found a weakspot in our scheme. It made Rockefeller’s little kerosenespeculation look like a bucket shop. But we lost out.”
“Some unforeseen opposition came up， I suppose，” Isaid.
“No， sir， it was just as I said. We were self-curbed. Itwas a case of auto-suppression. There was a rift within theloot， as Albert Tennyson says.
“You remember I told you that me and Andy Tucker waspartners for some years. That man was the most talentedconniver at stratagems I ever saw. Whenever he saw a dollarin another man’s hands he took it as a personal grudge，if he couldn’t take it any other way. Andy was educated，too， besides having a lot of useful information. He hadacquired a big amount of experience out of books， andcould talk for hours on any subject connected with ideasand discourse. He had been in every line of graft fromlecturing on Palestine with a lot of magic lantern picturesof the annual Custom-made Clothiers’ Associationconvention at Atlantic City to flooding Connecticut withbogus wood alcohol distilled from nutmegs.
“One Spring me and Andy had been over in Mexico on aflying trip during which a Philadelphia capitalist had paidus 2，500 for a half interest in a silver mine in Chihuahua.
Oh， yes， the mine was all right. The other half interestmust have been worth two or three thousand. I oftenwondered who owned that mine.
“In coming back to the United States me and Andystubbed our toes against a little town in Texas on the bankof the Rio Grande. The name of it was Bird City； but itwasn’t. The town had about 2，000 inhabitants， mostlymen. I figured out that their principal means of existencewas in living close to tall chaparral. Some of ’em werestockmen and some gamblers and some horse peculatorsand plenty were in the smuggling line. Me and Andy putup at a hotel that was built like something between a roofgardenand a sectional bookcase. It began to rain the daywe got there. As the saying is， Juniper Aquarius was sureturning on the water plugs on Mount Amphibious.
“Now， there were three saloons in Bird City， thoughneither Andy nor me drank. But we could see thetownspeople making a triangular procession from one toanother all day and half the night. Everybody seemed toknow what to do with as much money as they had.
“The third day of the rain it slacked up awhile in theafternoon， so me and Andy walked out to the edge of townto view the mudscape. Bird City was built between theRio Grande and a deep wide arroyo that used to be theold bed of the river. The bank between the stream and itsold bed was cracking and giving away， when we saw it， onaccount of the high water caused by the rain. Andy looksat it a long time. That man’s intellects was never idle.
And then he unfolds to me a instantaneous idea that hasoccurred to him. Right there was organized a trust； andwe walked back into town and put it on the market.
“First we went to the main saloon in Bird City， called theBlue Snake， and bought it. It cost us 1，200. And then wedropped in， casual， at Mexican Joe’s place， referred to therain， and bought him out for 500. The other one cameeasy at 400.
“The next morning Bird City woke up and found itselfan island. The river had busted through its old channel，and the town was surrounded by roaring torrents. Therain was still raining， and there was heavy clouds in thenorthwest that presaged about six more mean annualrainfalls during the next two weeks. But the worst was yetto come.
“Bird City hopped out of its nest， waggled its pinfeathers and strolled out for its matutinal toot. Lo！
Mexican Joe’s place was closed and likewise the other little’dobe life saving station. So， naturally the body politicemits thirsty ejaculations of surprise and ports hellum forthe Blue Snake. And what does it find there？
“Behind one end of the bar sits Jefferson Peters，octopus， with a sixshooter on each side of him， ready tomake change or corpses as the case may be. There arethree bartenders； and on the wall is a ten foot sign reading：
‘All Drinks One Dollar.’ Andy sits on the safe in hisneat blue suit and gold-banded cigar， on the lookout foremergencies. The town marshal is there with two deputiesto keep order， having been promised free drinks by thetrust.
“Well， sir， it took Bird City just ten minutes to realizethat it was in a cage. We expected trouble； but therewasn’t any. The citizens saw that we had ’em. The nearestrailroad was thirty miles away； and it would be two weeksat least before the river would be fordable. So they beganto cuss， amiable， and throw down dollars on the bar till itsounded like a selection on the xylophone.
