"Oh, jest nuthin' o' consequence. Guess it's to make folks guess
they're doin' a heap o' work. No, what we need is to set each man his
work this aways. Now Bill here needs to be president sure. Y'see, we
must hev a 'pres.' Most everything needs a 'pres.' He's got to sit on
top, so if any one o' the members gits gay he ken hand 'em a daisy
wot'll send 'em squealin' an' huntin' their holes like gophers. Wal,
Bill needs to be our 'pres.' Then there's the 'general manager.' He's
the feller wot sets around an' blames most everybody fer everything
anyway, an' writes to the noospapers. He's got to have savvee, an' an
elegant way o' shiftin' the responsibility o' things on them as can't
git back at him. He's got to be a bright lad--"

"That's Sunny, sure," exclaimed Toby. "He's a dandy at gettin' out o'
things an' leaving others in. Say--"

"Here, half-a-tick," cried Joyce, with sudden inspiration. "Who's
goin' to be 'fightin' editor'?"

"Gee, what a brain!" cried Sunny derisively. "Say, we ain't runnin' a
mornin' noos sheet. This is a trust. Sandy, my boy, you need
educatin'. A trust's a corporation of folks wot is so crooked, they
got to git together, an' pool their cash, so's to git enough dollars
to kep 'em out o' penitentiary. That's how they start. Later on, if
they kep clear o' the penitentiary, they start in to fake the market
till the Gover'ment butts in. Then they git gay, buy up a vote in
Congress, an' fake the laws so they're fixed right fer themselves.
After that some of them git religion, some of 'em give trick feeds to
their friends, some of 'em start in to hang jewels on stage females.
Some of 'em have been known to shoot theirselves or git divorced. It
ain't no sort o' matter wot they do, pervided they're civil to the
noospaper folk. That's a trust, Sandy, an' I don't say but what the
feller as tho't o' that name must o' bin a tarnation amusin' feller."

"Say, you orter bin in a cirkis," sneered Sandy, as the loafer
finished his disquisition.

"Wal, I'd say that's better'n a museum," retorted Sunny.

But Toby was impatient to hear how Sunny intended to dispose of him.

"Wher' do I figger in this lay-out?" he demanded.

"You?" Sunny's eyes twinkled. "Don't guess we'll need to give you hard
work. You best be boss o' the workin' staff."

"But ther' ain't no workin' staff," protested Toby.

"Jest so. That's why you'll be boss of it." Then Sunny turned to
Sandy.

"We'll need your experience as a marrie