The girl removed the empty bowl and replaced it with a plate heaped with sausage, eggs and fried potatoes, which Mr. MacBride fell upon with undiminished zeal, his wife meanwhile plying us with questions. “You, I take it, are presumably working people—that is, you will no doubt accept employment if such is presented to you,” he began after a prolonged period of uninterrupted labour. “Now, there is one grave failing to which the working classes of America abandon themselves, ah. They eat too much.” With consummate skill he flipped into his thin-lipped, rapacious mouth an enormous forkful of sausages and potatoes, which he swallowed at a single gulp. “I have read scientific articles, articles written by experts, which prove with mathematical accuracy that a workingman can live comfortably on nine cents a day, ah.” “Tamas knows, oh, he knows,” chirped his wife delightedly. “But the average workingman’s outlay is far, far beyond reason. This whole nation is suffering from extravagance and overfeeding, ah.” “But thousands of people, in the cities especially, eat scarcely enough to sustain life,” I ventured. “Slums, bah, slums, human dregs unworthy of an intelligent man’s consideration. Of course, they live in poverty. Why not? It is all their own fault,—lack of thrift, extravagance and laziness.” He paused to drain a cup of tea. “But there is never any real poverty in the country districts. Now this community, for instance, is prosperous, most prosperous. I never get less than 8 per cent. on my loans.” “That certainly does speak well for the community and yourself,” I conceded. “I flatter myself that I am a good business man, an excellent example of the pure American type, conservative, patriotic, a solid all-round citizen. But our low, ignorant foreigners must be educated. I have endeavoured to collect a fund among our leading merchants to secure a teacher to inculcate an idea of thrift. Such work should really be done by the government. Thrift, ah—the lack of thrift is the curse of this nation. Just imagine the business gain if our extravagant working class could be brought to live on nine cents a day.” “But I don’t understand,” I murmured, eyeing him with interest. “If your patrons ate less, they might save money, and then they would not borrow money of you at 8 per cent. interest, and the prosperity of this community would suffer.” “Not at all, not at all.” He leaned forward with a first suggestion of animation. “With the price of land as it is, the cost of farm implements, the high taxes on improvements and the irregularity of crops, it is simply impossible for a man of small capital to escape a mortgage. Now the point is this. With the present high cost of living, the farmer pays even a moderate interest of 8 per cent. say, with extreme difficulty. But with proper instruction in thrift, I have no doubt rates could be raised to 12 per cent. and still not prove prohibitive.” He paused to butter a muffin.