“Hold on; hold on, now, Lindau!  Ain’t that rather un-American doctrine?  We’re all brought up, ain’t we, to honor the man that made his money, and look down—­or try to look down; sometimes it’s difficult on the fellow that his father left it to?”

The old man rose and struck his breast.  “On Amerigan!” he roared, and, as he went on, his accent grew more and more uncertain.  “What iss Amerigan?  Dere iss no Ameriga any more!  You start here free and brafe, and you glaim for efery man de right to life, liperty, and de bursuit of habbiness.  And where haf you entedt?  No man that vorks vith his handts among you has the liperty to bursue his habbiness.  He iss the slafe of some richer man, some gompany, some gorporation, dat crindt him down to the least he can lif on, and that rops him of the marchin of his earnings that he knight pe habby on.  Oh, you Amerigans, you haf cot it down goldt, as you say!  You ton’t puy foters; you puy lechislatures and goncressmen; you puy gourts; you puy gombetitors; you pay infentors not to infent; you atfertise, and the gounting-room sees dat de etitorial-room toesn’t tink.”

“Yes, we’ve got a little arrangement of that sort with March here,” said Fulkerson.

“Oh, I am sawry,” said the old man, contritely, “I meant noting bersonal.  I ton’t tink we are all cuilty or gorrubt, and efen among the rich there are goodt men.  But gabidal”—­his passion rose again—­“where you find gabidal, millions of money that a man hass cot togeder in fife, ten, twenty years, you findt the smell of tears and ploodt!  Dat iss what I say.  And you cot to loog oudt for yourself when you meet a rich man whether you meet an honest man.”

“Well,” said Fulkerson, “I wish I was a subject of suspicion with you, Lindau.  By-the-way,” he added, “I understand that you think capital was at the bottom of the veto of that pension of yours.”

“What bension?  What feto?”—­The old man flamed up again.  “No bension of mine was efer fetoedt.  I renounce my bension, begause I would sgorn to dake money from a gofernment that I ton’t peliefe in any more.  Where you hear that story?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Fulkerson, rather embarrassed.  “It’s common talk.”

“It’s a gommon lie, then!  When the time gome dat dis iss a free gountry again, then I dake a bension again for my woundts; but I would sdarfe before I dake a bension now from a rebublic dat iss bought oap by monobolies, and ron by drusts and gompines, and railroadts andt oil gompanies.”

“Look out, Lindau,” said Fulkerson.  “You bite yourself mit dat dog some day.”  But when the old man, with a ferocious gesture of renunciation, whirled out of the place, he added:  “I guess I went a little too far that time.  I touched him on a sore place; I didn’t mean to; I heard some talk about his pension being vetoed from Miss Leighton.”  He addressed these exculpations to March’s grave face, and to the pitying deprecation in the eyes of Conrad Dryfoos, whom Lindau’s roaring wrath had summoned to the door.  “But I’ll make it all right with him the next time he comes.  I didn’t know he was loaded, or I wouldn’t have monkeyed with him.”