“I’ll have to dispute you there,” interposed a man.  “You’re one of us.  And we’re going to prove it to you a little later.”

“My friends,” went on Farr, “until the cities and towns of this state own their own water-plants and take their own profits they will be paying double tribute to a merciless crowd.”

“But we can’t own our plants till the millennium, sir.  There’s that five-percent-debt-limit clause in the constitution.”

Farr smiled—­this time wistfully.  “I’ve—­I’ve had a sort of vision in regard to that,” he said.  “I don’t dare to explain myself just now, friends.  It may be only a vision—­but I think not.  I’ll not say any more at present.  I did not intend to say as much.  What was on my mind when I got up was this:  I will not accept that money in the treasury—­on no account will I take it.  Because I believe that strange days are coming upon us soon in this state—­days when we shall need money.  Keep that nest-egg and guard it.”  He picked up his hat and started for the door.  “The meeting is adjourned,” he informed them.  He smiled at them over his shoulder in such a manner that they wondered whether he joked or was in earnest.  “Guard well that money—­for the only way my vision can be realized, I fear, is by turning this state’s politics upside down, and that will be quite a job for a rank outsider fighting Colonel Symonds Dodd—­and fighting without money.  Good night!”

Men whom Walker Farr met as he strolled ducked amiable greetings.  They grinned admiringly after him as he passed on.

If a woman asked in regard to him or a stranger in the ward questioned a native they were informed with gusto that he was “the boy who stood in City Hall and talked turkey to the mayor and all the bunch, and said a good word for the poor people, and twisted the tail of the Consolidated and lost a good job doing it—­and that’s more than any alderman would do for those who elected him.”

At a street corner children of the poor were dancing around a hurdy-gurdy.  Farr gave the man at the crank a handful of change and told him to stay there and keep the kiddies happy.  Shrill juvenile voices promptly proclaimed his praises to all the neighborhood, and mothers and fathers beamed benedictions on him from windows.

He stopped at another street corner where a dozen youths were congregated.  They were heavy-eyed, leering cubs, their hats were tipped back, and frowzled fore-tops stuck out over their pimply faces—­types of youths whom modest girls avoid hurriedly by detours.

“Boys, folks are writing to the newspapers complaining that young chaps are insulting girls on the street corners of Marion.  But it must be those high-toned loafers up-town.  You’re not up to any of that business down here, of course.”

“None of us would ever as much as say ‘shoo’ to a chicken,” protested one of the group.

“You’re Dave Joyce’s boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”