“Well, it was a corking number.  Bill’s been asserting for months, you know, that the trouble isn’t any more in any special class, it’s because of misunderstanding everywhere.  He made the boys wild by saying that when there are as many people at the bottom of the heap reaching up, as there are people at the top reaching down, there’ll be no more trouble between capital and labor!  And last week he had statistics, he showed them how many thousands of rich people are trying—­in their entirely unintelligent ways!—­to reach down, and—­ my dear, it was really stirring!  You know Himself can write when he tries!—­and he spoke of the things the laboring class doesn’t do, of the way it educates its children, of the way it spends its money,—­ it was as good as anything he’s ever done, and it made no end of talk!

“And,” concluded Susan contentedly, “we’re at the bottom of the heap, instead of struggling up in the world, we’re struggling down!  When I talk to my girls’ club, I can honestly say that I know some of their trials.  I talked to a mothers’ meeting the other day, about simple dressing and simple clothes for children, and they knew I had three children and no more money than they.  And they know that my husband began his business career as a puddler, just as their sons are beginning now.  In short, since the laboring class can’t, seemingly, help itself, and the upper class can’t help it, the situation seems to be waiting for just such people as we are, who know both sides!”

“A pretty heroic life, Susan!” Anna said shaking her head.

“Heroic?  Nothing!” Susan answered, in healthy denial.  “I like it!  I’ve eaten maple mousse and guinea-hen at the Saunders’, and I’ve eaten liver-and-bacon and rice pudding here, and I like this best.  Billy’s a hero, if you like,” she added, suddenly, “Did I tell you about the fracas in August?”

“Not between you and Billy?” Anna laughed.

“No-o-o!  We fight,” said Susan modestly, “when he thinks Mart ought to be whipped and I don’t, or when little Billums wipes sticky fingers on his razor strop, but he ain’t never struck me, mum, and that’s more than some can say!  No, but this was really quite exciting,” Susan resumed, seriously.  “Let me see how it began—­oh, yes!—­Isabel Wallace’s father asked Billy to dinner at the Bohemian Club,—­in August, this was.  Bill was terribly pleased, old Wallace introduced him to a lot of men, and asked him if he would like to be put up—–­”

“Conrad would put him up, Sue—–­” Anna said jealously.

“My dear, wait—­wait until you hear the full iniquity of that old divil of a Wallace!  Well, he ordered cocktails, and he ‘dear boyed’ Bill, and they sat down to dinner.  Then he began to taffy the ‘Protest,’ he said that the railroad men were all talking about it, and he asked Bill what he valued it at.  Bill said it wasn’t for sale.  I can imagine just how graciously he said it, too!  Well, old Mr. Wallace laughed,