“Well,” the agent said, “you are not required to buy any books, but, of course, a member of the association would naturally want Mr. Jefferson’s complete works.” Jones’s eyes were twinkling; “Mr.” Jefferson amused him immensely, of course. “They are very popular,” the man went on, “many persons are buying them.” “I don’t find the ideas in them very popular; certainly those in Mr. Jefferson’s greatest work are not popular; no one wants to see them adopted.” “To which one of his works do you refer?” asked the agent. “Why, the one that is best known,” said Jones, “its title is ‘The Declaration of Independence.’ I already have a copy of that.” The poor fellow was conscious that his enterprise was not going very well, but he said, with a flourish of magnanimity: “Oh, well, it’s immaterial to me whether you take the books or not, but of course you will wish to belong to the association?” “But I already belong to the association in which Mr. Jefferson was chiefly interested,” said Jones. “What is that, may I ask?” said the agent. “The United States of America,” said Jones, “and as I am a member of that, I see no reason why I should join anything smaller.” And then he laughed, and if there had been any uneasiness because of his gentle guying, it disappeared when he laid his hand on the agent’s shoulder and looked into his eyes in that spirit of friendliness which enveloped him like an aureole. He had a conception of unity that was far beyond his contemporaries, a conception that will be beyond humanity for many years. It was that conception which enabled him to see through the vast superstition of war, and the superstition of partizanship, and all the other foolish credulities that have misled the people in all times. One evening, it was just at dark, we were leaving the mayor’s office to walk home--we walked home together nearly every evening--and in the dusk a tramp, a negro, came up and asked him for the price of a night’s lodging. The Mayor fumbled in his pockets, but he had no small change, he had only a five-dollar bill, but he gave this to the tramp and said: “Go get it changed, and bring it back.” The tramp took it and disappeared, and we waited. Jones talked on about other things, but I was interested in the tramp; my expectation of his return was far more uncertain than Jones’s. But after a while the tramp did come back, and he poured out into the Mayor’s hand the change in silver coin. The Mayor complained humanly of the heavy silver which the Secretary of the Treasury always sends out to us, so that the new one-dollar bills may go to New York City, and tumbled the money into his trousers pocket. “But ain’t you goin’ to count it?” asked the negro in surprise. “Did you count it?” asked Jones. “Yes, suh, I counted it.” “Was it all there, wasn’t it all right?” “Yes, suh.” “Well, then, there’s no need for me to count it, is there?” The negro looked in wide white-eyed surprise.