ON his way home at night Strong was really nearing the City of Destruction, like that pilgrim of old renown. Shall we say that Satan had filled the man with his own greatness the better to work upon him? However that may be, a new peril had beset the Emperor.
For long he had been conscious only of his faults. Now the thought of his merits had caused him to forget them. Turning homeward, the world in his view consisted of two parts—Silas Strong and other people. One regrets to say it was largely Silas Strong—the great lifter, the guide and hunter whose fame he had not until then suspected.
Master took the train with him that evening.
This old-fashioned man—Silas Strong—whose mind was, in the main, like that of his grandfather—like that, indeed, of the end of the eighteenth century—sat beside one who represented the very latest ideals of the Anglo-Saxon.
They were both descended from good pioneer ancestry, but the grandfather of one had moved to Boston, while the grandfather of the other had remained in the woods. The boulevard and the trail had led to things very different.
They had sat together only a few moments when the two Migleys entered the car. These ministers of the great king got to work at once.
"Hello!" said the elder of them, addressing Master. "I congratulate you. I told my son it was a great speech. Ask him if I didn't."
"I enjoyed your speech," said young Migley. "But there's no use talking to us about saving the wilderness. If we did as you wish, we'd have nothing to do but twirl our thumbs."
"On the contrary, you'd have a permanent business, whereas your present course will soon lead you to the end of it. I would have you cut nothing below twelve inches at the butt, and get your harvest as often as you can find it."
"'Twouldn't pay," said "Pop" Migley, with a shake of his head.