“Well,” said Walters with an air of desperation, “give me another year, Mr. Roebuck, and I'll produce results all right. I'll break the agreements and cut rates. I'll freeze out the branch roads and our minority stock-holders, I'll keep the books so that all the expert accountants in New York couldn't untangle them. I'll wink at and commit and order committed all the necessary crimes. I don't know why I've been so squeamish, when there were so many penitentiary offenses that I did consent to, and, for that matter, commit, without a quiver. I thought I ought to draw the line somewhere--and I drew it at keeping my personal word and at keeping the books reasonably straight. But I'll go the limit.” I'll never forget Roebuck's expression; it was perfect, simply perfect--a great and good man outraged beyond endurance, but a Christian still. “You have made it impossible for me to temper justice with mercy, Walters,” said he. “If it were not for the long years of association, for the affection for you which has grown up in me, I should hand you over to the fate you have earned. You tell me you have been committing crimes in my service. You tell me you will commit more and greater crimes. I can scarcely believe my own ears.” Walters laughed scornfully--the reckless laugh of a man who suddenly sees that he is cornered and must fight for his life. “Rot!” he jeered. “Rot! You always have been a wonder at juggling with your conscience. But do you expect me to believe you think yourself innocent because you do not yourself execute the orders you issue--orders that can be carried out only by committing crimes?” Walters was now beside himself with rage. He gave the reins to that high horse he had been riding ever since he was promoted to the presidency of the great coal road. He began to lay on whip and spur. “Do you think,” he cried to Roebuck, “the blood of those five hundred men drowned in the Pequot mine is not on _your_ hands--_your_ head? You, who ordered John Wilkinson to suppress the competition the Pequot was giving you, ordered him in such a way that he knew the alternative was his own ruin? He shot himself--yet he had as good an excuse as you, for he, too, passed on the order until it got to the poor fireman--that wretched fellow they sent to the penitentiary for life? And as sure as there is a God in Heaven, you will some day do a long, long sentence in whatever hell there is, for letting that wretch rot in prison--yes, and for John Wilkinson's suicide, and for the lives of those five hundred drowned. Your pensions to the widows and orphans can't save you.” I listened to this tirade astounded. Used as I was to men losing their heads through vanity, I could not credit my own ears and eyes when they reported to me this insane exhibition. I looked at Roebuck. He was wearing an expression of beatific patience; he would have made a fine study for a picture of the martyr at the stake.