the other engineers, and
the chemists and doctors and lawyers, and he'll make a world--he's doing
it now--where ignorance and poverty will in time be wiped completely
out."

"They're not going to leave him alone," I said. "I'm sure of that now.
Whether he grafts or whether he's honest won't make any difference. The
crowd is going to pull him down. Because it's not democracy. The trouble
with all your big men at the top is that they're trying to do for the
crowd what the crowd wants to do for itself. And it may not do it half
so well--but all the time it will be learning--gathering closer every
year--and getting a spirit compared to which your whole clean clear
efficiency world is only cold and empty!"

He must have caught the look in my eyes.

"You're thinking that I'm getting old," he said softly. "I and all the
men like me who have been building up this country. You're thinking that
we're all following on after your father into the past." As I looked
back I felt suddenly humble. Dillon's voice grew appealing and kind.
"But you belong with us, Billy," he said. "It was under us you won your
start. And what I want now," he added, "is not only for Eleanore's sake,
but your own. I want you to try to write again about all the work we are
doing and see what it will do for you. Why not give it another chance?
You're not afraid of it, are you?"

"No," I said, "I'm not afraid--and I'll give it another chance if you
like--I don't want to be narrow about it, God knows. But before I tackle
anything else I'll finish my story of the strike."

"All right," he agreed. "That's all I ask. Now suppose you take Eleanore
up to the mountains and write your strike article up there. Let me loan
you a little just at the start."

"How much money have _you_ in the bank?"

"Enough to send Eleanore where she belongs."

"Eleanore belongs right here," said a voice from the other room, and
presently Eleanore appeared. She surveyed us both with a scorn in her
eyes that made us quake a little. "I never heard," she went on calmly,
"of anything quite so idiotic. Go home, Dad, and go to bed, and please
drop this insane idea that I'm afraid of July in New York, or of August
or September. Do you know what you're going to do to-morrow, both of you
poor foolish boys? You're going sensibly to work and worry about nothing
at all. And to-morrow night we're all three of us going to forget how it
feels to work or think, and get on an open trolley and go