“Then it’s up to us,” said Dick promptly. “You owe him something, Purdy, and so do I. We’ll get together on this thing and show that money-rotten bunch up for what it really is.”
Purdick’s eyes narrowed.
“Your father is a rich man, too, isn’t he?” he thrust in quietly.
“What of that?”
“N-nothing; only I thought maybe you might want to stay on your own side of the fence.”
“Now, see here, Purdy; let’s fight this thing out once for all. You’ve got the same idea that Larry brought here with him at first—about the classes and the masses, and all that. I don’t know where you’ve been living all your life, but it certainly couldn’t have been in the America that I know the most about. You come out West with us next summer and we’ll show you the real America; a place where people—or most of ’em, anyway—will take you for what you are, and not for what you’ve got in the bank. It’s only in the crowded places that you soak up that ‘class’ stuff.”
Purdick looked away.
“I’d like to believe you, Maxwell; honestly, I would,” he said. “And you’re right about one thing. I’ve lived in cities—factory cities—all my life. But to get back to Larry: this thing is fairly killing him by inches. He doesn’t say anything to me, but I know. When he’s here in the room he just grinds and grinds; crawls back into his shell and pulls the hole in after him. And the minute he’s got his work up, he pulls his cap over his face and digs out. Sometimes he doesn’t came back until one or two o’clock in the morning.”
“I know,” said Dick; “takes to the woods. That’s what he used to do in the old days when anything went crossways with him. I know what he’s doing; he’s fighting that temper he told you about. He isn’t afraid of anybody but himself. I brayed about that temper thing when you spoke of it a minute ago, but he’s got it, all right. If he ever turned loose on Undy, he’d kill him. I know, because I’ve seen him fighting mad one or two times when he was just a kid in knee breeches.”