“Yes, gentlemen,” he went on, “I am speaking here not of theories but of facts.  This is what I am doing and what I mean to do.  You’ve no idea how amenable people are, especially poor people, struggling people, those with ties and responsibilities, to the grip of money.  I went the other day to a man I know, the head of a bank, where I keep a little money—­just a fraction of what I make, gentlemen, a mere nothing to me but everything to this man because he is still not rich and is only fighting his way up.  ‘Now,’ I said to him, ’you are English, are you not?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ he answered.  ’And I understand you mean to help along the loan to England with all the power of your bank.’  ‘Yes,’ he said, ’I mean it and I’ll do it.’  ‘Then I’ll tell you what,’ I said, ’you lend one penny, or help to lend one penny, to the people of England or the people of France, and I’ll break you, I’ll grind you into poverty—­you and your wife and children and all that belongs to you.’”

The Philanthropist had spoken with so great an intensity that there was a deep stillness over the assembled company.  The Negro President had straightened up in his seat, and as he looked at the speaker there was something in his erect back and his stern face and the set of his faded uniform that somehow turned him, African though he was, into a soldier.

“Sir,” he said, with his eye riveted on the speaker’s face, “what happened to that banker man?”

“The fool!” said The Philanthropist.  “He wouldn’t hear —­he defied me—­he said that there wasn’t money enough in all my business to buy the soul of a single Englishman.  I had his directors turn him from his bank that day, and he’s enlisted, the scoundrel, and is gone to the war.  But his wife and family are left behind; they shall learn what the grip of the money power is—­learn it in misery and poverty.”

“My good sir,” said the Negro President slowly and impressively, “do you know why your plan of stopping war wouldn’t work in Haiti?”

“No,” said The Philanthropist.

“Because our black people there would kill you.  Whichever side they were on, whatever they thought of the war, they would take a man like you and lead you out into the town square, and stand you up against the side of an adobe house, and they’d shoot you.  Come down to Haiti, if you doubt my words, and try it.”

“Thank you,” said The Philanthropist, resuming his customary manner of undisturbed gentleness, “I don’t think I will.  I don’t think somehow that I could do business in Haiti.”

The passage at arms between the Negro President and The Philanthropist had thrown a certain confusion into the hitherto agreeable gathering.  Even The Eminent Divine was seen to be slowly shaking his head from side to side, an extreme mark of excitement which he never permitted himself except under stress of passion.  The two humble guests at the foot of the table were visibly perturbed.  “Say, I don’t like that about the banker,” squeaked one of them.  “That ain’t right, eh what?  I don’t like it.”