"Of course they don't. I don't mean that I do anything. It's pure selfishness on my part, as I told you. But you may feel pretty sure, that, if a man's name is always in the papers, as 'our estimable fellow-citizen, President This, Director That, and Treasurer T'other,' he 'does not give indiscriminate alms':--I believe that is the phrase. Perhaps he won't rob, like my friend Sandford; but his 'disinterested labors' are an economical substitute for substantial charity, and his desire for a place in the public eye is the mainspring of all his actions." "Most of the distress in the community is relieved by organized effort; individual charities, however well meant, would be entirely inadequate. Besides, you should not be severe upon all because one prominent person has proved unworthy." "Sandford is a type of the class. If there is anybody I hate worse than a sick beggar, it is a man who makes a trade of philanthropy." "And yet you are consenting to your friend's earning a living by teaching a ragged school." "True, one may stop at any place in a storm, just for shelter." "And you can console yourself further with the assurance that your friend won't make enough in this place to induce him to take up the 'trade,' as you call it." "I hope not. Starve him judiciously. If he should come out, after a year or so, with a white neckcloth, spectacles, and a sanctified face, soliciting aid for his school, in Pecksniffian tones, I should regret that I hadn't furnished him with a cord and a bag of stones to drop himself into the dock with." "I don't know why a teacher or a street-missionary may not be a gentleman." "Sure enough, why not? Whatever Walter Monroe is, he will always be a gentleman." "Suppose you bring him to see me to-morrow or next day; we will talk about this." "I will. Now, good-bye! My regrets to the children that we couldn't finish our romp." "Good-bye," said Holworthy. "Come again; the children will be glad to see you." CHAPTER XVII. As Mr. Sandford walked homeward, the streets seemed to close up behind him; he was shut out from the scenes of his activity, no more to return; State Street was henceforth for him a thing of memory. He had played his game there, while admirers and friends watched his far-seeing moves. He had lost; and now, after checkmate, he must resign his place. How he struggled against the idea! He could not bring himself to acknowledge that the past was irretrievable. His spirit seemed in prison, shut in as by the bars of a dungeon, against which he might tug and rage in vain.