“Why--why--surely not James.” Jeff's mind groped for some possible explanation. “Says our bill was lost anyhow and it was a question of getting through Garman's bill or none.” “But Garman's bill was framed by Ned Merrill. It doesn't give us anything.” Rawson nodded grimly. “That's the idea. We're to get nothing, but it's to be wrapped up like a Christmas present so as to fool us.” “And isn't there any chance at all for our bill?” “Just this one chance.” Rawson leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, driving his hand down on the deck railing. “That you've got a charge of dynamite up your sleeve to throw into their camp. If you can't stampede them we're down and out.” Jeff and his allies presently moved away together to hold a conference of ways and means. The boat crew pulled back to the yacht. The engines began to throb once more. The _Bellingham_ gathered momentum and was soon plunging forward at full speed. Part 3 With a queer little surge of pride in him Alice watched Jeff and his friends move away. They depended on him. Unless he could save it their fight was lost. To her he was a prophet of the better civilization that would some day rise on the ruins of an Individualism grown topheavy. But he was neither a dreamer nor a weakling. His idealism was sane and practical, and he would fight to the last ditch when he must. And this was another strange thing about him, that though his democracy was a faith, vital and ardent, it was tempered with the liberal spirit. He could make allowances; held no grudges, would laugh away insults at which another man would have raged. Out of her very limited experience Alice decided that he was a great man. That he was so warm and human with it all was one of his seizing charms. No boy could have been more interested in winning the shuffleboard game than he. The fat pork packer from Chicago came wheezing toward her. He took the steamer chair beside Alice and jerked his head toward the spot where Jeff had disappeared. “Now if you want my notion, Miss Frome, that's the kind of a man that breeds anarchy. I've seen his paper. He fills it full of stuff that makes the workingman discontented with his lot. A trouble maker, that's what he is. Stops the wheels of industry. Gets in the road of the boosters to croak hard times.” Alice observed the thick rolls of purple fat that bulged over his collar. “Progress now,” he went on. “I'm for progress. Develop the country. That gives work to the laborers and keeps them contented. But men like Farnum are always hampering development by annoying capital. Now that's foolish because capital employs labor.” The young woman suggested another possibility. “Or else labor employs capital.”