"I'm afraid you'll never learn the meaning of service."

George sprang up, wincing. Bailly's wrinkled face softened; his young
eyes filled with sympathy.

"Does that wound still bother you, George?"

"Yes, sir," George answered, softly. "I guess it bothers as much as it
ever did."

X

One virtue of the restlessness of which Bailly had reminded him was its
power to swing George's mind for a time from his unpleasant
understanding with Dalrymple. It had got even into Blodgett's blood.

"About the honestest man I can think of these days," he complained to
George one morning, "is the operator of a crooked racing stable. All the
cards are marked. All the dice are loaded. If they didn't have to let us
in on some of the tricks, we'd go bust, George, my boy."

"You mean we're crooked, too?" George asked.

"Only by infection," Blodgett defended himself, "but honest, George, I'd
sell out if I could. I'm disgusted."

George couldn't hide a smile.

"In the old days when you were coming up, you never did anything the
least bit out of line yourself?"

Blodgett mopped his face with one of his brilliant handkerchiefs. His
eyes twinkled.

"I've been shrewd at times, George, but isn't that legitimate? I may
have made some crowds pretty sick by cutting under them, but that's
business. I won't say I haven't played some cute little tricks with
stocks, but that's finesse, and the other fellow had the same chance.
I'm not aware that I ever busted a bank, or held a loaded gun to a man's
head and asked him to hand over his clothes as well as his cash. That's
the spirit we're up against now. That's why Papa Blodgett advises
selling out those mill stocks we kept big blocks of at the time of the
armistice."

"They're making money," George said.

Blodgett tapped a file of reports.

"Have you read the opinions of the directors?"

"Yes," George answered, "and at a pinch they might have to go into
cooeperation, but they'd still pay some dividends."

Blodgett puffed out his cheeks.

"You're sure the unions would want a share in the business?"

"Why not?" George asked. "Isn't that practical communism?"

"Hay! Here's a fellow believes there's something practical in the world
nowadays! Sell out, son."

"Then who would run our mills?"

"Maybe some philanthropist with more money than brains."

"You mean," George asked, "that our products, unless conditions improve,
will disappear from the world, because no one will be able to