The Cheerful Smugglers
I
THE FENELBY TARIFF
Bobberts was the baby, and ever since Bobberts was born – and that was nine months next Wednesday, and just look what a big, fat boy he is now! – his parents had been putting all their pennies into a little pottery pig, so that when Bobberts reached the proper age he could go to college. The money in the little pig bank was officially known as “Bobberts’ Education Fund,” and next to Bobberts himself was the thing in the house most talked about. It was “Tom, dear, have you put your pennies in the bank this evening?” or “I say, Laura, how about Bobberts’ pennies to-day. Are you holding out on him?” And then, when they came to count the contents of the bank, there were only twenty-three dollars and thirty-eight cents in it after nine months of faithful penny contributions.
That was how Fenelby, who had a great mind for such things, came to think of the Fenelby tariff. It was evident that the penny system could not be counted on to pile up a sum large enough to see Bobberts through Yale and leave a margin big enough for him to live on while he was getting firmly established in his profession, whatever that profession might be. What was needed in the Fenelby family was a system that would save money for Bobberts gently and easily, and that would not be easy to forget nor be too palpable a strain on the Fenelby income. Something that would make them save in spite of themselves; not a direct tax, but what you might call an indirect tax – and right there was where and how the idea came to Fenelby.
“That’s the idea!” he said to Mrs. Fenelby. “That is the very thing we want! An indirect tax, just as this nation pays its taxes, and the tariff is the very thing! It’s as simple as A B C. The nation charges a duty on everything that comes into the country; we will charge a duty on everything that comes into the house, and the money goes into Bobberts’ education fund. We won’t miss the money that way. That’s the beauty of an indirect tax: you don’t know you are paying it. The government collects a little on one thing that is imported, and a little on another, and no one cares, because the amount is so small on each thing, and yet look at the total – hundreds of millions of dollars!”
“Goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Fenelby. “Can we save that much for Bobberts? Of course, not hundreds of millions; but if we could save even one hundred thousand dollars – ”
“Laura,” said Mr. Fenelby, “I don’t believe you understand what I mean. If you would pay a little closer attention when I am explaining things you would understand better. A tariff doesn’t make money out of nothing. How could we save a hundred thousand dollars out of my salary, when the whole salary is only twenty-five hundred dollars a year, and we spend every cent of it?”
“But, Tom dear,” said Mrs. Fenelby, “how can I help spending it? You know I am just as economical as I can be. You said yourself that we couldn’t live on a cent less than we are spending. You know I would be only too glad to save, if I could, and I didn’t get that new dress until you just begged and begged me to get it, and – ”
“I know,” said Mr. Fenelby, kindly. “I think you do wonders with that twenty-five hundred. I don’t see how you do it; I couldn’t. And that is just why I say we ought to have a domestic tariff. I don’t see how we can ever save enough to send Bobberts to college unless we have some system. We spend every cent of my twenty-five hundred dollars every year, and we could never in the world take two hundred and fifty dollars out of it at one time and put it in the bank for Bobberts, could we? We never have two hundred and fifty dollars at one time. And yet two hundred and fifty dollars is only ten per cent. of my yearly salary. But if I buy a cigar for ten cents it would be no hardship for me to put a cent in the bank for Bobberts, would it? Not a bit! And if you buy an ice cream soda; it would not cramp our finances to put a cent in the bank for each soda, would it? And yet a cent is ten per cent. of a dime.”
“That is very simple and very easy,” said Mrs. Fenelby, “and I think it would be a very good plan. I think we ought to begin at once.”
“So do I,” said Mr. Fenelby. “But we don’t want to begin a thing like this and then let it slip from our minds after a day or two. If the government did that the nation’s revenue would all fade away. We ought to go at it in a business-like way, just as the United States would do it. We ought to write it down, and then live up to it. Now, I’ll write it down.”
Mr. Fenelby went to his desk and took a seat before it. He opened the desk and pulled from beneath the pile of loose papers and tissue patterns with which it was littered the large blankbook in which Mrs. Fenelby, in one of her spurts of economical system, had once begun a record of household expenditures – a bothersome business that lasted until she had to foot up the first week’s figures, and then stopped. There were plenty of blank leaves in the book. Mr. Fenelby dipped his pen in the ink. Mrs. Fenelby took up her sewing, and began to stitch a seam. Bobberts lay asleep on the lounge at the other side of the room.
Mr. Fenelby was not over thirty. His chubby, smiling face radiated enthusiasm, and if he was not very tall he had a noble forehead that rounded up to meet the baldness that began so far back that his hat showed a little half-moon of baldness at the back. He looked cheerfully at the world through rather strong spectacles, and everyone said how much he looked like Bobberts. Mrs. Fenelby was younger, but she took a much more matter-of-fact view of life and things, and Mr. Fenelby never ceased congratulating himself on having married her. “My wife Laura,” he would say to his friends, “has great executive ability. She is a wonder. I let her attend to the little details.” The truth was that she managed him, and managed the house, and managed all their affairs. She took to the management naturally and Mr. Fenelby did not know that he was being managed. They were very happy.
Mr. Fenelby turned toward his wife suddenly, still holding his pen in his hand. He had not written a word, but his face glowed.
“I tell you, Laura!” he exclaimed. “This is the best idea we have had since we were married! It is a big idea! What we ought to do – what we will do – is to have a family congress and adopt this tariff in the right way, and write it down. That is what we will do – and then, any time we want to change the tariff we will have a session of the family congress, and vote on it.”
“That will be nice, Tom,” said Mrs. Fenelby, biting off her thread, but not looking up. Mr. Fenelby turned back to his blankbook. He dipped his pen in the ink again, and hesitated.
“How would it do,” he asked, turning to Laura again, “to call it the ‘United States of Fenelby?’ Or the ‘Commonwealth of Fenelby?’ No!” he exclaimed, “I’ll tell you what we will call it – we will call it the ‘Commonwealth of Bobberts,’ for that is what it is. ‘The Domestic Tariff of the Commonwealth of Bobberts!’”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Fenelby, holding up her sewing and looking at it with her head tilted to one side, “that will be nice.”
Mr. Fenelby wrote it in his blankbook, at the top of the first blank page.
“Fine!” said Mr. Fenelby, growing more enthusiastic as the idea expanded in his mind. “And the congress will be composed of everyone in the family. No taxation without representation, you know – that is the American way of doing things. Everything that comes into the house has to pay a duty, so everyone in the family has a vote, and every so often the congress will meet in the parlor here – ”
“Does Bobberts have a vote?” asked Mrs. Fenelby.
“Ah – well, Bobberts is hardly old enough, you know,” said Mr. Fenelby hesitatingly. “We will – No,” he said with sudden inspiration, “Bobberts will not have a vote. Bobberts will be a Territory! That is it. Grown-ups will be States and infants will be Territories. Bobberts can’t vote, but he can attend the meetings of congress and he can have a voice in the debates. He can oppose any measure with his voice – ”
“I should think he could!” said Mrs. Fenelby.
Mr. Fenelby turned to his desk and wrote in the book a brief outline of the Constitution of the Commonwealth of Bobberts. Mrs. Fenelby creased a tuck into the little dress she was making. She did it by pinning one end of the sheer linen to her knee and then running her thumb up and down the folded tuck. Suddenly the door opened and Bridget entered with aggressive quietness. She was a plain faced Irishwoman, and the way she wore her hair, straight back from her brow, had in itself an air of