“You’re a terribly original feller, Standish! That remark, now, about all men being ‘born equal.’ It was made in the first place, wasn’t it, by a white-wigged, short-panted hero who owned more slaves than he could count? ‘Born equal!’ Maybe all men are. But by the time they’re out of swaddling-clothes they’ve got bravely over it. That old Jefferson proverb’s responsible for more anarchy and scraps, and strikes and grumbling and hard-luck stories, than all the whole measly dictionary put together. Get down to business, man. This ain’t a p’litical rally. Cut out the fine talk, can’t you? My horse is waiting.” “I’ve told you already what I wish. I want to know if you will fight like a man for the rest of the campaign, and if the outrages I encountered on my tour were by your order?” “That won’t take an awful lot of eloquence to answer. What was done to you up-State was planned out by me, and it isn’t deuce-high to what’ll drop on you if you’re still alive when the State Convention——” “You cur!” “Meaning _me_?” queried Caleb blandly. “You cur!” repeated Clive, his last remaining shreds of temper thrown to the winds. “I was told I’d meet this sort of reception, but I couldn’t believe there was a man alive who had the crass effrontery to confess he was a wholesale crook, and that he was going to continue one. You’ve sapped the integrity, the honesty, the freedom of this city and State. You’ve made us a byword for every community in America. You’ve trailed your iniquitous railroad across the State, crushing every smaller and more honest line, until you are czar of all our traffic. You rob the people by sending to Legislature your own henchmen, who help you steal franchises, and who cut down your taxes and throw the burden of assessment on the very class of people you have already defrauded to the top of your bent. Corruption of the foulest sort has been smeared by you all over the face of this commonwealth, till the people are stricken helpless and speechless under it. Who can help them? Are there ten lawyers in this State who don’t wear your collar, and whose annual passes from your road aren’t granted them on the written understanding that such courtesies are really ‘retainers’? Then, when I try to help the people you have ground to the dirt—when I try to wipe the filthy stain from the Mountain State’s shield—even then you will not fight me fair, as man to man. You stab in the back, like any other common felon, and you feel so secure in your own stolen position, that you actually boast of it, and propose to continue your damnable knifing tactics. Why, Caleb Conover, you don’t even know how vile a _thing_ you are!” He paused, breathless, still furious. The Railroader was leaning back in his big chair eyeing the angry man with genuine amusement.