I think the Bishop’s example, so far as wearing apparel was concerned, must have fascinated father, for he wore the cheap cotton shirt of the laborer and the overalls with the narrow strap about the hips.  Yet one habit remained to him from the old life; he always dressed for dinner, or supper, rather.

I could be happy anywhere with Ernest; and father’s happiness in our changed circumstances rounded out my own happiness.

“When I was a boy,” father said, “I was very curious.  I wanted to know why things were and how they came to pass.  That was why I became a physicist.  The life in me to-day is just as curious as it was in my boyhood, and it’s the being curious that makes life worth living.”

Sometimes he ventured north of Market Street into the shopping and theatre district, where he sold papers, ran errands, and opened cabs.  There, one day, closing a cab, he encountered Mr. Wickson.  In high glee father described the incident to us that evening.

“Wickson looked at me sharply when I closed the door on him, and muttered, ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’  Just like that he said it, ’Well, I’ll be damned.’  His face turned red and he was so confused that he forgot to tip me.  But he must have recovered himself quickly, for the cab hadn’t gone fifty feet before it turned around and came back.  He leaned out of the door.

“‘Look here, Professor,’ he said, ’this is too much.  What can I do for you?’

“‘I closed the cab door for you,’ I answered.  ’According to common custom you might give me a dime.’

“‘Bother that!’ he snorted.  ‘I mean something substantial.’

“He was certainly serious—­a twinge of ossified conscience or something; and so I considered with grave deliberation for a moment.

“His face was quite expectant when I began my answer, but you should have seen it when I finished.

“‘You might give me back my home,’ I said, ’and my stock in the Sierra Mills.’”

Father paused.

“What did he say?” I questioned eagerly.

“What could he say?  He said nothing.  But I said.  ‘I hope you are happy.’  He looked at me curiously.  ‘Tell me, are you happy?’” I asked.

“He ordered the cabman to drive on, and went away swearing horribly.  And he didn’t give me the dime, much less the home and stock; so you see, my dear, your father’s street-arab career is beset with disappointments.”

And so it was that father kept on at our Pell Street quarters, while Ernest and I went to Washington.  Except for the final consummation, the old order had passed away, and the final consummation was nearer than I dreamed.  Contrary to our expectation, no obstacles were raised to prevent the socialist Congressmen from taking their seats.  Everything went smoothly, and I laughed at Ernest when he looked upon the very smoothness as something ominous.

We found our socialist comrades confident, optimistic of their strength and of the things they would accomplish.  A few Grangers who had been elected to Congress increased our strength, and an elaborate programme of what was to be done was prepared by the united forces.  In all of which Ernest joined loyally and energetically, though he could not forbear, now and again, from saying, apropos of nothing in particular, “When it comes to powder, chemical mixtures are better than mechanical mixtures, you take my word.”