“Thiefs!” Lindau repeated, with a shout.  “Lidtle thiefs, that gabture your breakfast.  Ah! ha! ha!” A wild scurrying of feet, joyous cries and tittering, and a slamming door followed upon his explosion, and he resumed in the silence:  “Idt is the children cot pack from school.  They gome and steal what I leaf there on my daple.  Idt’s one of our lidtle chokes; we onderstand one another; that’s all righdt.  Once the gobbler in the other room there he used to chase ’em; he couldn’t onderstand their lidtle tricks.  Now dot goppler’s teadt, and he ton’t chase ’em any more.  He was a Bohemian.  Gindt of grazy, I cuess.”

“Well, it’s a sociable existence,” March suggested.  “But perhaps if you let them have the things without stealing—­”

“Oh no, no!  Most nodt mage them too gonceitedt.  They mostn’t go and feel themselfs petter than those boor millionairss that hadt to steal their money.”

March smiled indulgently at his old friend’s violence.  “Oh, there are fagots and fagots, you know, Lindau; perhaps not all the millionaires are so guilty.”

“Let us speak German!” cried Lindau, in his own tongue, pushing his book aside, and thrusting his skullcap back from his forehead.  “How much money can a man honestly earn without wronging or oppressing some other man?”

“Well, if you’ll let me answer in English,” said March, “I should say about five thousand dollars a year.  I name that figure because it’s my experience that I never could earn more; but the experience of other men may be different, and if they tell me they can earn ten, or twenty, or fifty thousand a year, I’m not prepared to say they can’t do it.”

Lindau hardly waited for his answer.  “Not the most gifted man that ever lived, in the practice of any art or science, and paid at the highest rate that exceptional genius could justly demand from those who have worked for their money, could ever earn a million dollars.  It is the landlords and the merchant princes, the railroad kings and the coal barons (the oppressors to whom you instinctively give the titles of tyrants)—­it is these that make the millions, but no man earns them.  What artist, what physician, what scientist, what poet was ever a millionaire?”

“I can only think of the poet Rogers,” said March, amused by Lindau’s tirade.  “But he was as exceptional as the other Rogers, the martyr, who died with warm feet.”  Lindau had apparently not understood his joke, and he went on, with the American ease of mind about everything:  “But you must allow, Lindau, that some of those fellows don’t do so badly with their guilty gains.  Some of them give work to armies of poor people—­”

Lindau furiously interrupted:  “Yes, when they have gathered their millions together from the hunger and cold and nakedness and ruin and despair of hundreds of thousands of other men, they ‘give work’ to the poor!  They give work!  They allow their helpless brothers to earn enough to keep life in them!  They give work!  Who is it gives toil, and where will your rich men be when once the poor shall refuse to give toil’?  Why, you have come to give me work!”