ince he
left his capital behind him, until he found his vast plans about to be
circumvented by Mrs. Grey withdrawing this capital from his control. "To
give to the niggers and Chinamen," he snorted to John Taylor, and strode
up and down the veranda. John Taylor removed his coat, lighted a black
cigar, and elevated his heels. The ladies were in the parlor, where the
female Easterlys were prostrating themselves before Mrs. Vanderpool.

"Just what is your plan?" asked Taylor, quite as if he did not know.

"Why, man, the transfer of a hundred millions of stock would give me
control of the cotton-mills of America. Think of it!--the biggest trust
next to steel."

"Why not bigger?" asked Taylor, imperturbably puffing away. Mr. Easterly
eyed him. He had regarded Taylor hitherto as a very valuable asset to
the business--had relied on his knowledge of routine, his judgment and
his honesty; but he detected tonight a new tone in his clerk, something
almost authoritative and self-reliant. He paused and smiled at him.

"Bigger?"

But John Taylor was dead in earnest. He did not smile.

"First, there's England--and all Europe; why not bring them into the
trust?"

"Possibly, later; but first, America. Of course, I've got my eyes on the
European situation and feelers out; but such matters are more difficult
and slower of adjustment over there--so damned much law and gospel."

"But there's another side."

"What's that?"

"You are planning to combine and control the manufacture of cotton--"

"Yes."

"But how about your raw material? The steel trust owns its iron mines."

"Of course--mines could be monopolized and hold the trust up; but our
raw material is perfectly safe--farms growing smaller, farms isolated,
and we fixing the price. It's a cinch."

"Are you sure?" Taylor surveyed him with a narrowed look.

"Certain."

"I'm not. I've been looking up things, and there are three points you'd
better study: First, cotton farms are not getting smaller; they're
getting bigger almighty fast, and there's a big cotton-land monopoly in
sight. Second, the banks and wholesale houses in the South _can_ control
the cotton output if they work together. Third, watch the Southern
'Farmers' League' of big landlords."

Mr. Easterly threw away his cigar and sat down. Taylor straightened up,
switched on the porch light, and took a bundle of papers from his coat
pocket.

"Here are census figures," he said, "commercial reports and letters.