“General, you are deep; you’ll have to explain.”

“Well, all our sort of fellows patronize something or other.  They cheat a man out of his eye-teeth one day, and the next, you hear of them endowing something or other, or making a speech to a band of old women, or figuring on a top-lofty list of directors.  That’s the kind of thing I want.”

“You can get any amount of it, General, by paying for it.  All they want is money; they don’t care where it comes from.”

“Toll, shut up.  I behold a vision.  Close your eyes now, and let me paint it for you.  I see the General—­General Robert Belcher, the millionaire—­in the aspect of a great public benefactor.  He is dressed in black, and sits upon a platform, in the midst of a lot of seedy men in white chokers.  They hand him a programme.  There is speech-making going on, and every speech makes an allusion to ‘our benefactor,’ and the brethren and sisters cheer.  The General bows.  High old doctors of divinity press up to be introduced.  They are all after more.  They flatter the General; they coddle him.  They give him the highest seat.  They pretend to respect him.  They defend him from all slanders.  They are proud of the General.  He is their man.  I look into the religious newspapers, and in one column I behold a curse on the stock-jobbing of Wall street, and in the next, the praise of the beneficence of General Robert Belcher.  I see the General passing down Wall street the next day.  I see him laughing out of the corner of his left eye, while his friends punch him in the ribs.  Oh, Toll! it’s delicious!  Where are your feelings, my boy?  Why don’t you cry?”

“Charming picture, General!  Charming! but my handkerchief is fresh, and I must save it.  I may have a cold before night.”

“Well, now, Toll, what’s the thing to be done?”

“What do you say to soup-kitchens for the poor?  They don’t cost so very much, and you get your name in the papers.”

“Soup-kitchens be hanged!  That’s Mrs. Belcher’s job.  Besides, I don’t want to get up a reputation for helping the poor.  They’re a troublesome lot and full of bother; I don’t believe in ’em.  They don’t associate you with anybody but themselves.  What I want is to be in the right sort of a crowd.”

“Have you thought of a hospital?”

“Yes, I’ve thought of a hospital, but I don’t seem to hanker after it.  To tell the truth, the hospitals are pretty well taken up already.  I might work into a board of directors by paying enough, I suppose, but it is too much the regular thing.  What I want is ministers—­something religious, you know.”

“You might run a church-choir,” suggested Talbot, “or, better than that, buy a church, and turn the crank.”