“I, perhaps, am not claiming too much when I say that in politics I am a philosopher. If I had the power, I would try the experiment of setting aside this so-called political economy, and these financial heresies, substituting therefor a little common sense in conducting the affairs of state. In a great country like ours, whose mountains are fairly bursting open with tons of unmined precious mineral, a country whose credit is unlimited, we should be able to furnish employment to a million men, in building better roads, in constructing dikes, in making canals for waterway transportation, and in reclaiming arid lands. Instead, our present limited population is congested into inactivity; our highways are lined with the unemployed, and, while surrounded by plenty, our people are actually dying of starvation.” “I am aware,” replied Hugh, “that there are many unemployed, especially in large cities like Chicago and New York. The poor people are usually provided with free soup-houses, however, and need not starve.” “My dear Stanton,” said the major, with great earnestness, “patriotism cannot and will not survive on charity soup. The plan that I have in mind would set in motion the wheels of our paralyzed industries. It would do away with idleness, and elevate the starving man to a position of self-support and self-respect. Benevolent soup-kitchens destroy self-respect, and loyalty grows lean on such a diet.” Hugh was about to reply, when the bell rang. The major hastily arose, knocked the ashes from his cigar, and opened the door. CHAPTER XIV.—THE SONG THREE men stood on the veranda. “Why, how do you do?” said the major, “come in. I am very glad to see you.” Judge Linus Lynn, with his weather-beaten tile, Bill Kinneman, with his red eyes, and Dan Spencer, with his wobbling tooth, all stalked into the room. “Why, hello, pardner,” said Dan Spencer, as he caught sight of Hugh, “how d’ ye do?” They all shook hands. “We jist drapped in fur a minit, Major,” said Bill Kinneman, “to say hello. Did n’t know yer hed company, or we would n’t hev cum. Heerd you’d got back. Did n’t see nuthin’ of the cattle thieves, I reckon?” “Nothing,” responded the major, thoughtfully. “I failed. Tell Mr. Horton that I struck the wrong trail, and followed it down through Oklahoma, and on east to the Missouri River, and then to St. Louis, only to be disappointed in the end.” “Purty danged good nerve, I can tell ye,” said Dan Spencer, “to foller them cussed cattle thieves like the major did. I’m thinkin’ I’d be purty hostill if I had to do it;” his tooth wobbled like the side motion of a fanning-mill. “Don’t care if I do,” said Judge Lynn, greedily, as he reached over, and helped himself to a cigar. “Why, certainly, gendemen,” said the major, and, eagerly rising, he passed around the box of cigars.