“It's a bully story, father,” he continued, with a smile at once tender and hard; “the simple German boy, born a dreamer, standing there looking out at the dim shores of that land he had idealised. If ever a man came to America bringing it rich gifts, that man was you!” “Fritz,” his father's voice was rendered harsh by mystification and foreboding, “tell me what you're talking about. Come to the point. Clear this up.” “I'm talking about American politics--your party--having ruined your life! I'm talking about working like a slave all your days and having nothing but a mortgaged farm at sixty-one! I'm talking about playing a losing game! I'm saying, _What's the use?_ Father, I'm telling you that _I'm_ going to join the other party and make some money!” The man just sat there, staring. “Well,” the boy took it up defiantly, “why not?” And then he moved, laid a not quite steady hand out upon the table. “My boy, you're not well. You've studied too hard. Now brace yourself up for to-night, and then we'll go down home and fix you up. What you need, Fritz,” he said, trying to laugh, “is the hayfield.” “You're not _seeing_ it!” The boy pushed back his chair and began moving about the room. “The only way I can brace myself up for to-night is to get so mad--father, usually you see things so easily! Don't you understand? It was my chance, my one moment, my time to strike. It will be years before I get such a hearing again. You see, father, the thing will be printed, and the men I want to have hear it, the men who _own this State_, will be there. One of them is to preside. And the story of it, the worth of it, to them, is that I'm your son. You see, after all,” he seized at this wildly, “I'm getting my start on the fact that I'm your son.” “Go on,” said the man; the brown of his wind-beaten face had yielded to a tinge of grey. “Just what is it you are going to say?” “I call it 'The New America,' a lot of this talk about doing things, the glory of industrial America, the true Americans the men of constructive genius, the patriotism of railroad and factory building, a eulogy of railroad officials and corporation presidents,” he rushed on with a laugh. “Singing the song of Capital. Father, can't you see _why?_” The old man had risen. “Tell me this,” he said. “None of it matters much, if you just tell me this: You _believe_ these things? You've thought it all out for yourself--and you _feel_ that way? You're honest, aren't you, Fritz?” He put that last in a whisper. The boy made no reply; after a minute the man sank back to his chair. The years seemed coming to him with the minutes.