That night he engaged his father in conversation--the phrase is well adapted to the way Stubby went about it. “How is it about--'bout things like taxes”--Stubby crossed his knees and swung one foot to show his indifference--“if you have _almost_ enough--do they sometimes let you off?”--the detachment was a shade less perfect on that last. His father laughed scoffingly. “Well, I guess _not!_” “I thought maybe,” said Stubby, “if a person had _tried_ awful hard--and had _most_ enough--” Something inside him was all shaky, so he didn't go on. His father said that _trying_ didn't have anything to do with it. It was hard for Stubby not to sob out that he thought trying _ought_ to have something to do with it, but he only made a hissing noise between his teeth that took the place of the whistle that wouldn't come. “Kind of seems,” he resumed, “if a person would have had enough if they hadn't been beat out of it, maybe--if he done the best he could--” His father snorted derisively and informed him that doing the best you could made no difference to the government; hard luck stories didn't go when it came to the laws of the land. Thereupon Stubby took a little walk out to the alley and spent a considerable time in contemplation of the neighbour's chicken-yard. When he came back he walked right up to his father and standing there, feet planted, shoulders squared, wanted to know, in a desperate little voice: “If some one else was to give--say a dollar and eighty cents for Hero, could I take the other seventy out of my paper money?” The man turned upon him roughly. “Uh-_huh_! _That's_ it, is it? _That's_ why you're getting so smart all of a sudden about government! Look a-here. Just l'me tell you something. You're lucky if you git enough to _eat_ this winter. Do you know there's talk of the factory shuttin' down? _Dog_ tax! Why you're lucky if you git _shoes_.” Stubby had turned away and was standing with his back to his father, hands in his pockets. “And l'me tell you some'en else, young man. If you got any dollar and eighty cents, you give it to your mother!” As Stubby was turning the corner of the house he called after him: “How'd you like to have me get you an automobile?” He went doggedly from house to house the next afternoon, but nobody had any jobs. When Hero came running out to him that night he patted him, but didn't speak. That evening as they were sitting in the back yard--Stubby and Hero a little apart from the others--his father was discoursing with his brother about anarchists. They were getting commoner, his father thought. There were a good many of them at the shop. They didn't call themselves that, but that was what they were. “Well, what is an anarchist, anyhow?” Stubby's mother wanted to know.