e-grinder." The colonel rose, and
cried with some asperity, "General, if you'd preach about the poor
less, and pray with 'em more, you'd know more about your fellow-men,
sir!"

Perhaps this conversation should not have been set down here; for it
has no direct relation to the movement of this narrative. The
narrative at this point should be hurrying along to tell how John
Barclay and Bob Hendricks cleared up a small fortune on their wheat
deal, and how that autumn Barclay bought the mill at Sycamore Ridge by
squeezing its owner out, and then set about to establish four branches
of the Golden Belt Wheat Company's elevator service along the line of
the new railroad, and how he controlled the wheat output of three
counties the next year through his enterprise. These facts carry John
Barclay forward toward his life's goal. And while these two
middle-aged gentlemen--the general and the colonel--were in the next
room wrangling over the youthful love affairs of a middle-aged lady, a
great dream was shaping in Barclay's head, and he did not heed them.
He was dreaming of controlling the wheat market of the Golden Belt
Railroad, through railroad-rate privileges, and his fancy was feeling
its way into flour, and comprehending what might be done with wheat
products.

It was a crude dream, but he was aflame with it, and yet--John
Barclay, aged twenty-five, was a young man with curly hair and
flattered himself that he could sing. And there was always in him that
side of his nature, so the reader must know that when Nellie Logan
came to his office that bright summer morning and found him wrapped in
his day-dream of power, she addressed herself not to the Thane of
Wheat who should be King hereafter, but to the baritone singer in the
Congregational choir, and the wheat king scampered back to the dream
world when John replied to Nellie's question.

"So it's _your_ wedding, is it, Nellie--your wedding," he repeated.
"Well, where does Watts come in?" And then, before she answered, he
went on, "You bet I'll sing at your wedding, and what's more, I'll
bring along my limping Congregational foot, and I'll dance at your
wedding."

"Well, I just knew you would," said the young woman.

"So old Watts thought I wouldn't, did he?" asked Barclay. "The old
skeezicks--Well, well! Nellie, you tell him that the fellow who was
with Watts when he was shot ten miles from Springfield isn't going to
desert him when he gets a mortal wound in the heart."