f doors when S. Behrman forecloses. Wait till you see 'em
getting thin and white, and till you hear your little girl ask you why
you all don't eat a little more and that she wants her dinner and you
can't give it to her. Wait till you see--at the same time that
your family is dying for lack of bread--a hundred thousand acres of
wheat--millions of bushels of food--grabbed and gobbled by the Railroad
Trust, and then talk of moderation. That talk is just what the Trust
wants to hear. It ain't frightened of that. There's one thing only it
does listen to, one thing it is frightened of--the people with dynamite
in their hands,--six inches of plugged gaspipe. THAT talks."

Dyke did not reply. He filled another pony of whiskey and drank it in
two gulps. His frown had lowered to a scowl, his face was a dark red,
his head had sunk, bull-like, between his massive shoulders; without
winking he gazed long and with troubled eyes at his knotted, muscular
hands, lying open on the table before him, idle, their occupation gone.

Presley forgot his black lead. He listened to Caraher. Through the open
door he caught a glimpse of Dyke's back, broad, muscled, bowed down, the
great shoulders stooping.

The whole drama of the doubled freight rate leaped salient and distinct
in the eye of his mind. And this was but one instance, an isolated case.
Because he was near at hand he happened to see it. How many others were
there, the length and breadth of the State? Constantly this sort of
thing must occur--little industries choked out in their very beginnings,
the air full of the death rattles of little enterprises, expiring
unobserved in far-off counties, up in canyons and arroyos of the
foothills, forgotten by every one but the monster who was daunted by the
magnitude of no business, however great, who overlooked no opportunity
of plunder, however petty, who with one tentacle grabbed a hundred
thousand acres of wheat, and with another pilfered a pocketful of
growing hops.

He went away without a word, his head bent, his hands clutched tightly
on the cork grips of the handle bars of his bicycle. His lips were
white. In his heart a blind demon of revolt raged tumultuous, shrieking
blasphemies.

At Los Muertos, Presley overtook Annixter. As he guided his wheel up the
driveway to Derrick's ranch house, he saw the master of Quien Sabe and
Harran in conversation on the steps of the porch. Magnus stood in the
doorway, talking to his wife.

Occupie