From the place of a master mechanic, at four dollars a day, he had followed his vision, until the world acknowledged him one of her richest men, one of her greatest geniuses for organization.  In ten years, lifting himself by his boot straps, he had promoted himself from earnings of twelve hundred dollars a year to twelve million dollars a year. ...  He interested Bonbright as a great adventurer.

To Hilda Lightener he was presented last.  He had expected, hoped, to be unfavorably impressed; he had known he would be ill at ease, and that any attempts he made at conversation would be stiff and stilted. ...  It was some moments after his presentation when he realized he felt none of these unpleasant things.  She had shaken hands with him boyishly; her eyes had twinkled into his—­and he was at his ease.  Afterward he studied over the thing, but could not comprehend it. ...  It had been as if he were encountering, after a separation, a friend of years—­not a girl friend, but a friend with no complications of sex.

She was tall, nearly as tall as Bonbright, and she favored her father.  Not that the granite was there.  She was not beautiful, not even pretty—­but you liked her looks.  Bonbright liked her looks.

At table Bonbright was seated facing Hilda Lightener.  His father at once took charge of the conversation, giving the boy a breathing space to collect and appraise his impressions.  Presently Mr. Foote said, impressively: 

“This is an important day in our family, Lightener.  My son entered the business this morning.”

Lightener turned his massive, immobile face toward the boy, his expression not inviting, yet the seeing might have marked the ghost of a twinkle in his gray eyes.

“Um. ...  Any corrections, amendments, or substitutions to offer?” he demanded.

Bonbright looked at him, obviously not comprehending the sarcasm.

“Most young spriggins I take into my business,” said Lightener, “think a whole day’s experience equips them to take hold and make the whole thing over. ...  They can show me where I’m all wrong.”

Bonbright smiled, not happily.  He was not accustomed to this sort of humor, and did not know how to respond to it.

“It was so big,” he said.  “It sort of weighed me down—­yet—­somehow I didn’t get interested till after the whistle blew.”

Lightener grunted.

“That’s what interests most of ’em—­getting out of the place after the whistle blows.”

“Dad!” said Hilda.  “What was it interested you then, Mr. Foote?”

“The men,” said Bonbright—­“that great mob of men pouring out of the gates and filling the street. ...  Somehow they seemed to stand for the business more than all the buildings full of machinery. ...  I stood and watched them.”

Interest kindled in Lightener’s eyes.  “Yes?” he prompted.

“It never occurred to me before that being at the head of a business meant-meant commanding so many men ... meant exercising power over all those lives. ...  Then there were the wives and children at home. ...”