“Let me see,” replied Paddock soberly, “whether I can explain just what my idea really is. I don’t propose to lift the whole mass with my little lever. It seems to me that the books on these subjects are just a lot of phrases. I don’t know anything about the deep philosophy of our social organization--I can’t understand those things. I haven’t the brains to debate social questions with people who don’t see them my way. I can’t talk to people who say my kind of work is futile; I can’t discuss it with them or defend my idea, for two reasons: one is that I don’t even understand their phraseology; and the other is that they make me so hot that I want to beat their brains out with a featherduster. There, you see, old man, the wild Indian in me isn’t all dead yet; I’m far from being a saint. I don’t believe that even the most ignorant and depraved are going to be spoiled, as you say, by being treated like human beings. I don’t think the taste of cakes and ale will send them up into the East End to kill and loot. I may be mistaken, but I believe that those singed and scorched fellows in the steel mills are just as good as I am. I don’t recognize class distinctions. I positively decline to allow any sociologist to classify me and pin me on a card like a new kind of flea. But every man is a social class by himself as I look at it. I’m not big enough or strong enough morally or intellectually to try to pull up one of the social strata and transplant it; but I can go out and find some poor devil who is down on his luck or who has got into the gutter, and I can put my poor individual lever under him and pull for all I’m worth and maybe, by the grace of God, I can lift him up a little, just a little bit. Now, you think I’m crazy, don’t you?” “No,” said Wayne, “not in the least. You’re worse; you’re a blooming sentimentalist. But you’re a good fellow anyhow, and I don’t think you ought to be discouraged. I’d like to contribute----” and he glanced toward a check-book that lay on his desk. “No you don’t!” cried Paddock. “I don’t want your money. I suppose you could give me a good-sized sum and never miss it; but I don’t want that kind of money. I accept contributions not as a favour to me but as a favour to the giver; you see, there’s a large difference. The richest churchwarden in Pittsburg came out with a party of ladies the other Sunday. He sent me a check for a thousand dollars the next day and advised me to ventilate my chapel; he didn’t like the smell of my congregation. I sent him back his check. A girl who works in a laundry for six dollars a week offered me one of those dollars to help pay for the refreshments to-night and I took it!” “By George, you have it bad! I suppose the laundry girl’s money carried with it the idea of purification. I do wish they would keep chemicals out of my shirts. Perhaps if you would reason with them, Jimmy, you could stop the havoc.”