“Yes. He's terrible warlike. He says I'm a thief. I say he's a fine man--fine man. He keeps on saying it. I keep on saying it. Folks got kind of tired of him a while ago. He says I'm a disease, now. Well--maybe so. Then I guess this world's got me chronic. Chap comes along with a patent pill, and a new porous plaster, and claims his plaster has the holes arranged in triangles, instead of squares like all previous plasters; he has an air of candid discovery; he says, 'Bless my soul! Your system's out of order.' Sounds interesting once in a while. And then this world gets so tired of him; says, 'I've had a belly-ache eleven thousand years. I wish to God you wouldn't keep giving it new names.' Well,--a couple of years ago the _Chronicle_ was publishing Aidee's speeches on Civic something or other every week. Aidee used to shoot straight but scattering at that time. He'd got too much responsibility for the details of the millennium. Why, when you come right down to it, Dick, Aidee's got as sky-high an opinion of himself as anybody I know. That's natural enough, why, yes. If I could stand up like him, and convert myself into a six-inch pipe of natural gas on the blaze, I'd have the same. Certain, I would. But, there ain't any real democracy in him. He says he'd sit in the gutter with any man. Guess likely he would. I wouldn't. But would he and the other gutter-man hitch. Would they get along together? No, they wouldn't. Aidee's a loose comet that thinks he's the proper conflagration for boiling potatoes. Go on now! He's too warlike. Him and his Independent Reform and his Assembly--oh, well--he wasn't doing any great harm then. He ain't now, either. I told him one time, like this: “I says, 'Fire away anyhow that suits you. But,' I says, 'what makes you think you'd like my job?'” “'What is your job?' says he. “'Don't know as I could describe it,' I says, and I was a little stumped. 'It's not that kind. It's complicated.' “'No,' he says, 'as you understand and work your job, I shouldn't like it.' “'No more I shouldn't yours. Speaking of which,' I says, 'what is your job?' “And he was stumped too. He was, for a fact. “'I don't know as I could describe it. It's not that kind,' he says. “'Complicated?' “'Yes.' “'Well,' I says, 'I shouldn't want to try it. I'd mean all right, but it wouldn't go.' I says, 'There was a man died up here at the city jail last year, and Sol Sweeney, the jailor, he was going to call in a clergyman on the case as being in that line. But then Sweeney thinks, “I can talk it. I've heard 'em.” Well, Sweeney's got an idea his intellectuals are all right anyhow. Being a jailor, he says, he's got the habit of meditation. So he starts in.” “Bill, you've been a bad lot.” “Yep.” “There ain't no hope for you, Bill.” “No,” says Bill, “there ain't.”