ain, and it was said that Grant Adams was to be gagged, his Sunday
meetings abolished or that he was to be banished from the Valley. Again
the clouds dissolved. Nothing happened. But the cloud was forever on the
horizon, and Market Street was afraid. For Market Street--as a
street--was chiefly interested in selling goods. It had, of course,
vague yearnings for social justice--yearnings about as distinct as the
desire to know if the moon was inhabited. But as a street, Market Street
was with Mrs. Herdicker--it never talked against the cash drawer. Market
Street, the world over, is interested in things as they are. The
_statuo quo_ is God and _laissez faire_ is its profit! So
Market Street murmured, and buzzed--and then Market Street also
organized to worship the god of things as they are.

But Mr. Brotherton of the Brotherton Book & Stationery Company held
aloof from the Merchants' Protective Association. Mr. Brotherton at odd
times, at first by way of diversion, and then as a matter of education
for his growing business, had been glancing at the contents of his
wares. Particularly had he been interested in the magazines. Moreover,
he was talking. And because it helped him to sell goods to talk about
them, he kept on talking.

About this time he affected flowing negligee bow ties, and let his thin,
light hair go fluffy and he wrapped rather casually it seemed, about his
elephantine bulk, a variety of loose, baggy garb, which looked like a
circus tent. But he was a born salesman--was Mr. Brotherton. He
plastered literature over Harvey in carload lots.

One day while Mr. Brotherton was wrapping up "Little Women" and a
"Little Colonel" book and "Children of the Abbey" that Dr. Nesbit was
buying for Lila Van Dorn, the Doctor piped, "Well, George, they say
you're getting to be a regular anarchist--the way you're talking about
conditions in the Valley?"

"Not for a minute," answered Mr. Brotherton. "Why, man, all I said was
that if the old spider kept making the men use that cheap powder that
blows their eyes out and their hands off, and their legs off, they ought
to unionize and strike. And if it was my job to handle that powder I'd
tie the old devil on a blast and blow him into hamburger." Mr.
Brotherton's rising emotions reddened his forehead under his thin hair,
and pulled at his wind. He shook a weary head and leaned on a show case.
"But I say, stand by the boys. Maybe it will make a year of bad times or
maybe two; bu