"What can you do for him?" he asked, forcing himself to a healthy ruthlessness. "What have you done?" "For Markham MacLeod? Nothing. What could I do for him? He has done everything for me." "What, Pete?" "Opened my eyes. Made me realize the brotherhood of man. Why, see here, Osmond!" Osmond watched him, fascinated by the heat of him. He seemed possessed by a passion which could never, one would say, have been inspired save by what was noble. "You know what kind of a fellow I've been: all right enough, but I like pleasures, big and little. Well, when I began to listen to MacLeod, I moved into a garret the poorest student would have grumbled at. I turned in my money to the Brotherhood. The money I got for the portrait--maybe I shouldn't have asked such a whacking big price if I hadn't wanted that money--I turned that in to the Brotherhood. Would a fellow like me sleep hard and eat crusts for anything but a big thing? Now I ask you?" Osmond sat looking at him, and thinking, thinking. This, he understood perfectly, was youth in the divinity of its throes over life, life wherever it was bubbling and glowing. Always it was the fount of life, and where the drops glittered, there the eyes of youth had to follow, and the heart of youth had to go. The exact retort was rising to his lips: "That was my money, the money you gave away. I earned it for you. I dug it out of the ground." But the retort stayed there. He offered only what seemed a blundering remonstrance: "I can't help feeling, Pete, that it's your business to paint pictures. If you can paint 'em and give the money to your Brotherhood, that's something. Only paint 'em." "But you know, I've found out I can speak." There it was again, the heart of youth on its new track, chasing the glow, whatever it might be, the marsh-lamp or star. Osmond shook his head. "I don't know, Pete," he owned. "I don't know. I'm out of the world. I read a lot, but that's not the same thing as having it out with men. But I feel a distinct conviction that it's every man's business to mind his own business." "You wouldn't have us speak? You wouldn't have him, Markham MacLeod?" The boy's impetuousness made denial seem like warfare. Osmond put it aside with his hand. "Don't," he said. "You make me feel like Capital. I'm Labor, lad. I always have been." "Isn't it anything to move a thousand men like one? To say a word and bring on a strike of ten thousand? The big chieftains never did so much as that. Alexander wasn't in it. Napoleon wasn't. It's colossal." "I don't know whether it seems to me very clever to bring on a strike," said Osmond. "It would seem to me a great triumph to make ten thousand men feel justly. Resistance isn't the greatest thing to me. I should want to know whether it was noble to resist." "Ah, but it is noble! Resistance--for themselves, their children, their children's children." Osmond was looking away at the horizon, a whimsical smile coming about the corners of his mouth.