unt voiced Yamuro's fanatical admiration.
Had Hamilton Burton been an emperor in the field Yamuro would have asked
no greater privilege than to interpose his body between his idolized
master and all danger. Such was the power of this wholly selfish but
dominant personality. Outside the Oriental chuckled to himself, "No
worry.... Him got great thoughts."

Yet Hamilton was after all only planning an entertainment. When he had
captured the control of Coal and Ore he would stand within grasping
distance of his ideal of one-man power. He would have rocked the temple
of money and snatched out of Malone's teeth Consolidated's marrow bone.
That would be a time for celebration. It would be vastly amusing to
shake the hands of the vanquished and see them bite back the curses
that were welling up from their hearts. While seeming only the host he
would in reality be the victor--exacting tribute.

That his victory depended on undertakings yet to be accomplished and
beset with gigantic hazards did not disquiet him. Over him shone his
Star!

His revery snapped like a punctured balloon at the sound of the
door-bell and when Harrow ushered in his father, Hamilton rose with a
smile of welcome on his lips.

The elder Burton entered with a heightened flush on his full cheeks and
the son for just an instant studied him with a shrewd appraisement. A
man who has, by the custom of decades, spent each day from sunrise to
sunset at hard labor cannot find himself idle without seeking an outlet
of some description.

If Tom Burton were to decay here in inactivity, he might as well decay
genially, taking his pleasure by the way. He was doing it. Like a
gentleman and an officer he tippled the evenings out. Rarely was he
drunk beyond a genteel limitation--and after an advanced hour he was
rarely less so. In slow and mellow fashion he was ripening into slothful
and comfortable atrophy. His well-shaven face was beginning to reveal
those small discolored spots that are the subtle brands of Bacchus.
Under the eyes that had once been like the eyes of a hawk, small and
puffy sacks were discernible.

"Well, damn it," Hamilton exculpated to himself, "it was a long time
before he had any fun." Then aloud he inquired, "Whose coffers did you
fill this evening?"

Tom Burton straightened up a shade pompously.

"I think my game is--er--on a par with that of others--but luck can
hardly be controlled."

"The question is," suggested the son, "whether you e