Bibbs had been very ignorant.  All these simple things, so well known and customary, astonished him at first, and once—­in a brief moment of forgetting that he was done with writing—­he thought that if he had known them and written of them, how like a satire the plainest relation of them must have seemed!  Strangest of all to him was the vehement and sincere patriotism.  On every side he heard it—­it was a permeation; the newest school-child caught it, though just from Hungary and learning to stammer a few words of the local language.  Everywhere the people shouted of the power, the size, the riches, and the growth of their city.  Not only that, they said that the people of their city were the greatest, the “finest,” the strongest, the Biggest people on earth.  They cited no authorities, and felt the need of none, being themselves the people thus celebrated.  And if the thing was questioned, or if it was hinted that there might be one small virtue in which they were not perfect and supreme, they wasted no time examining themselves to see if what the critic said was true, but fell upon him and hooted him and cursed him, for they were sensitive.  So Bibbs, learning their ways and walking with them, harkened to the voice of the people and served Bigness with them.  For the voice of the people is the voice of their god.

Sheridan had made the room next to his own into an office for Bibbs, and the door between the two rooms usually stood open—­the father had established that intimacy.  One morning in February, when Bibbs was alone, Sheridan came in, some sheets of typewritten memoranda in his hand.

“Bibbs,” he said, “I don’t like to butt in very often this way, and when I do I usually wish I hadn’t—­but for Heaven’s sake what have you been buying that ole busted inter-traction stock for?”

Bibbs leaned back from his desk.  “For eleven hundred and fifty-five dollars.  That’s all it cost.”

“Well, it ain’t worth eleven hundred and fifty-five cents.  You ought to know that.  I don’t get your idea.  That stuff’s deader’n Adam’s cat!”

“It might be worth something—­some day.”

“How?”

“It mightn’t be so dead—­not if we went into it,” said Bibbs, coolly.

“Oh!” Sheridan considered this musingly; then he said, “Who’d you buy it from?”

“A broker—­Fansmith.”

“Well, he must ‘a’ got it from one o’ the crowd o’ poor ninnies that was soaked with it.  Don’t you know who owned it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Ain’t sayin’, though?  That it?  What’s the matter?”

“It belonged to Mr. Vertrees,” said Bibbs, shortly, applying himself to his desk.

“So!” Sheridan gazed down at his son’s thin face.  “Excuse me,” he said.  “Your business.”  And he went back to his own room.  But presently he looked in again.