“Well, they would have whatever their farms brought to make a new start with somewhere else; and, besides, that question of what would become of people thrown out of work by a given improvement is something that capital cannot consider. We used to introduce a bit of machinery in the mill, every now and then, that threw out a dozen or a hundred people; but we couldn’t stop for that.” “And you never knew what became of them?” “Sometimes. Generally not. We took it for granted that they would light on their feet somehow.” “And the state--the whole people--the government--did nothing for them?” “If it became a question of the poor-house, yes.” “Or the jail,” the lawyer suggested. “Speaking of the poor-house,” said the professor, “did our exemplary rural friends tell you how they sell out their paupers to the lowest bidder, and get them boarded sometimes as low as a dollar and a quarter a week?” “Yes, young Mr. Camp told me of that. He seemed to think it was terrible.” “Did he? Well, I’m glad to hear that of young Mr. Camp. From all that I’ve been told before, he seems to reserve his conscience for the use of capitalists. What does he propose to do about it?” “He seems to think the state ought to find work for them.” “Oh, paternalism! Well, I guess the state won’t.” “That was his opinion, too.” “It seems a hard fate,” said the minister, “that the only provision the law makes for people who are worn out by sickness or a life of work should be something that assorts them with idiots and lunatics, and brings such shame upon them that it is almost as terrible as death.” “It is the only way to encourage independence and individuality,” said the professor. “Of course, it has its dark side. But anything else would be sentimental and unbusinesslike, and, in fact, un-American.” “I am not so sure that it would be un-Christian,” the minister timidly ventured, in the face of such an authority on political economy. “Oh, as to that, I must leave the question to the reverend clergy,” said the professor.