in the private office of the bank. That was Madeira's way. Besides
Salver, the Joplin man, and the superintendent, there were at the
conference Larriman, a man who counted his acres by the thousands in
We-all Prairie; Heinkel, the German sheep-raiser from the southern part
of the county; Shelby, from the cotton lands of the Upper Bottom;
Pegram, the Canaan postmaster, and Quin Beasley, from the Grange store.

They were all still there when Steering came in. Fresh from the hills,
young, alert, deep-lunged, brown-faced, Steering was a good sort to look
at as he strode into the room. He had ridden on into Canaan to the tune
of high, purposeful music, after parting with Sally Madeira. His
experience with her out there on the hills, his profounder impression of
her fineness, had acted upon him like unbearably sweet harmonies,
urgent, inspirational. He was this minute keen for something to do,
something hard, earnest, momentous. If the whole truth were told, he
wanted to fight.

Madeira got up and shook hands with him, the more vigorously and noisily
because of a sharp lambent flare that leaped out from the younger man's
consciousness like a warning, and, reaching Madeira, stung and irritated
him. As they stood gripping each the other's hand, both big, both
vigorous, both determined, there was yet a fine line of distinction
between them. On one side of the line stood the younger man with his
ideals. On the other side stood Madeira, without any ideals.

"Come in, Steering, my boy!" In spite of himself, in spite of the "my
boy," Madeira's voice rang harshly. "Lord love us, we are having a
little preliminary meeting here. You know all these gentlemen, I think?
I'm just reading to them some matter that I have got ready. I'll go on
reading, if you don't mind. Sit down over there and listen."

And, Steering, shaking hands with the men nearest him, and bowing to the
men farthest from him, sat down and listened.

As Madeira resumed his chair at his desk, he seemed to brace himself
toward some sort of finality. His voice, when he spoke, was ominously
quiet for a noisy man's voice. "Here's something about the country in
general," he began slowly, dispassionately, "that I think might interest
a fellow who is considering coming down here either to mine or to farm.
See what you think of this: 'It was in 1874 that the first carload of
zinc ore went up to the zinc works in Illinois. That was the beginning.
Heretofore Missouri had been