It was only 9:45 P.M.; F. W. Taylor would be in and working. Charles said: "Wait here, boys," and muttered the code phrase to the door. It sprang open.
F. W. Taylor was dictating, machine-gun fashion, to a mike. He looked dog-tired. His face turned up with a frown as Charles entered and then the frown became a beam of pleasure.
"Charles, my boy! Sit down!" He snapped off the machine.
"Uncle—" Charles began.
"It was so kind of you to drop in. I thought you'd be at the theater."
"I was, Uncle, but—"
"I'm working on a revision for the next edition of Organization, Symbolism and Morale. You'd never guess who inspired it."
"I'm sure I wouldn't, Uncle. Uncle—"
"Old Thornberry, President of the Chase National. He had the infernal gall to refuse a line of credit to young McGurn. Bankers! You won't believe it, but people used to beg them to take over their property, tie up their incomes, virtually enslave them. People demanded it. The same way they demanded inexpensive liquor, tobacco and consumer goods, clean women and a chance to win a fortune and our ancestors obliged them. Our ancestors were sneered at in their day, you know. They were called criminals when they distributed goods and services at a price people could afford to pay."
"Uncle!"