“The reward came in the shape of discriminating against the store-keepers who still handled the goods made by the fast vanishing opposition concerns.

“I was informed that unless I signed an agreement to use only the Trust brands of cigarettes and tobacco no more goods would be sold to me.  As the Trust embraced all of the leading brands, that meant that I must go out of business.

“My puritan blood boiled at the thought that I must submit to the tyranny of a band of robbers.  I determined to fight to the last.  Four years of business at a net loss, drove me into insolvency; then a mortgage was placed upon my freehold, to be followed by foreclosure.  I still struggled on, under the delusion that I was in a free land and that the Trust iniquities would not be permitted to crush the individual citizen forever.  The decision of the courts of the several states where the Tobacco Trust was arraigned, upholding the Trust, disillusioned me.  But it was too late, I was a ruined man.

“My sons were forced to work in the cigar factory of the local branch of the Trust; and I was obliged to apply for a patrimony from the Government, as a veteran of the war for the emancipation of man from slavery.  On this slender pension I now live.

“Can anyone blame me for being a volunteer in the crusade against the most insidious and dangerous foe that has ever assailed a land; a foe that seeks to entrench itself by emasculating the citizens and degrading them to a position of servants of mighty and intolerant masters?”

There is a pause.  The aged speaker trembles with emotion.

“I am an old man, over seventy years of age, yet whatever vigor remains in me will be expended in my last battle with the destroyers of free government.

“What right has Amos Tweed, the Tobacco King, to tax me?

“I was born a free man; I fought to free an inferior race.  Alas, I have lived to see the shackles placed upon the wrists of my own sons.  So help me God, I shall strike a blow to make them free once more.”

Overcome with the exertion of delivering his fervent speech, Hiram Goodel totters.  He would fall, did not the strong arms of Carl Metz support him.

“Where is the man who can view this picture of patriarchal devotion, and hesitate to give significance to the prayer that freedom may again be the inheritance of the youth of America,” demands Nevins in thrilling tones.

It is apparent that the recital of the grievances of the members of the committee is making a deep impression on every man.

Horace Turner, a farmer from Wisconsin, who had migrated to that state when it was in its infancy, preferring its fertile plains to the rocky hillside homestead in Vermont, is the next to speak.  He is sixty years of age, well preserved, temperate and fairly well educated.

“I can quote no higher authority than the Holy Bible,” are his opening words.  “If in that book we can find authority for complaining against tyrants; if we can find a prayer that has come down from age to age, shall we not be justified in uttering it?