“The stuff for which men sell their souls, and women their virtue! For which you starve and beat and torture one another--” “Ain't it pretty?” said the magnate, not a bit embarrassed. The other began reading the writing on the notes--as you may remember having done in some far-off time of childhood. “Whose picture is this?” he asked. “I dunno,” said the magnate. “De Secretary of de Treasury, I reckon.” “But,” said the other, “why not your picture, Mr. T-S?” “Mine?” “Of course.” “My picture on de money?” “Why not? You are the one who makes it, and enables everyone else to make it.” It was one of those brand new ideas that come only to geniuses and children. I could see that T-S had never thought of it before; also, that he found it interesting to think of. Carpenter went on: “If your picture was on it, then every one would know what it meant. People would say: 'Render unto T-S the things that are T-S's.' When you were paying off your mobs, you would pay them with your own money, and whenever they spent it, the people would bow to Caesar--I mean to T-S.” He said it without the trace of a smile; and T-S had no idea there was a smile anywhere in the neighborhood. In a business-like tone he said: “I'll tink about it.” Then he went on: “You give it to de strikers--” But Carpenter interrupted: “It was you who were going to give it. I cannot give nor take money.” “You mean you von't take it to dem?” “I couldn't possibly do it, Mr. T-S.” “But, man--” “Your promise was that _you_ would come and give it. Now do so.” “But, Mr. Carpenter, if I vas to do such a ting, it vould cost me a million dollars. I vould git into a row vit de Merchants' and Manufacturers' Association, dey vould boycott my business, dey vould give me a black eye all over de country. You dunno vot you're askin', Mr. Carpenter.” “I understand then--you are in business alliance with men who are starving these people into submission, and you are afraid to help them? Afraid to feed the poor!” The far-off, wondering look came again to his face. “The world is organized!” he said, to himself. “There is a mob of masters! What can I do to save the people?” T-S was unchanged in his cheerful good-nature. “You give dem a tousand dollars and you help a lot. Nobody can do it all.” But Carpenter was not satisfied; he shook his head, sadly. “Please take this,” he said, and pressed the roll of bills back into the hands of the astounded magnate! XXIX However, T-S had come there to get something that day, and I thought I knew what it was. He swallowed his consternation, and all the rest of his emotions. “Now, now, Mr. Carpenter! Ve ain't a-goin' to quarrel about a ting like dat. Dem fellers is hungry, and de money vill give dem vun good feed. Ve git somebody to bring it to dem, and we be friends shoost de same. Billy, maybe you could give it, hey?” I drew back with a laugh. “You don't get me into your quarrels!”