“I don’t know why I’m going to waste time talking to you. I’ve never took the trouble, before, to defend myself or to try to make other folks see my view of the case. But you’re a well-meaning chap, for all you’re such an ass. And maybe something’s due you after the luck I put you up against on that tour of yours. So I’m just going to squander some words on you. And after that I’ll ask you to trot off home, for I’ve some riding to do.” He shifted his cigar to an angle of his mouth and resumed: “In the first place, you give me the usual rank old talk about the way I treat the people of the Mountain State. Why do I boss this City and the State? Because the people want me to. Why do I run things to suit myself in my railroads and my legislature? Because the people want me to. Now you’re getting ready to say that’s a lie. It isn’t. Why don’t I grab the food off some man’s dinner table? Because he _don’t_ want me to. He’d yell for the police or pull a gun on me if I tried it. Why do I saddle that same man with any taxes I choose? Why do I elect my own crowd to office and work franchises and everything else just as I like? Because he _does_ want me to. If he didn’t he wouldn’t let me. He could stop me from stealing his dinner. And he would. He could stop me from grabbing his State. And he doesn’t. Do you s’pose for a second that I, or Tom Platt, or Richard Croker, or Charley Murphy, or Matt Quay or any other boss who ever lived, could have made ten people in the whole world do what those people didn’t want to? You knew well enough they couldn’t. Then, why did Platt and Quay and the rest boss the Machine? Why do _I_ boss the Machine? Because the people _want_ to be bossed. Because they’d rather be led than to lead themselves. Can you find a flaw in that? Facts is facts, and history is history. Bosses is bosses, and the people are sheep. Is a shepherd in the herding business for his health and to amuse and el’vate the sheep? Not he. He’s in the game for the money he can get out of shearing and occasional butchering. So am I. My own pocket first, last and always. If it wasn’t me it’d be another shepherd. And maybe one that’d make the sheep sweat worse’n I do.” Clive’s lips parted in protest, but Caleb waved him to silence.