"Yes, under the law they had had made themselves to suit themselves. You know how 'twas! You were there when 'twas done and saw how they flung their money around--or rather the Argand money--for I don't believe Canter and his set own the stock at all. I'll bet a thousand dollars that every share is up as collateral in old Argand's bank." "Oh! Well, it's all the same thing. They stand in together. They run the bank--the bank lends money; they buy the stock and put it up for the loan, and then run the road." "And us," chipped in the other; for they had now gotten into a high good-humor with each other--"they get our franchises and our money, and then side-track us without breakfast while they go sailing by--in cars that they call theirs, but which we pay for. I do think we are the biggest fools!" "That's Socialistic!" said his friend again. "You've been reading that fellow's articles in the Sunday papers. What's his name?" "No, I've been thinking. I don't care what it is, it's the truth, and I'm tired of it." "They say he's a Jew," interrupted the former. "I don't care what he is, it's the truth," asserted the other doggedly. "Well, I rather think it is," agreed his friend; "but then, I'm hungry, and there isn't even any water on the car." "And they guzzle champagne!" sneered the other, "which we pay for," he added. "You're a stockholder?" "Yes, in a small way; but I might as well own stock in a paving-company to Hell. My father helped to build this road and used to take great pride in it. They used to give the stockholders then a free ride once a year to the annual meeting, and it made them all feel as if they owned the road." "But now they give free passes not to the stockholders, but to the legislators and the judges." "It pays better," said his friend, and they both laughed. It appeared, indeed, rather a good joke to them--or, at least, there was nothing which they could do about it, so they might as well take it good-humoredly. By this time I had learned that my neighbor with the five children was the wife of a man named McNeil, who was a journeyman machinist, but had been thrown out of work by a strike in another city, and, after waiting around for months, had gone North to find employment, and having at last gotten it, had now sent for them to come on. She had not seen him for months, and she was looking forward to it now with a happiness that was quite touching. Even the discomforts of the night could not dull her joy in the anticipation of meeting her husband--and she constantly enheartened her droopy little brood with the prospect of soon seeing their "dear Daddy." Finally after midday we arrived.