"There's always two classes—them that have and them that want!" declared the old man curtly.
"You're for a class-war, then?"
"I'm for it!... Not for myself, thank God the day's long past, if it ever was, when I wanted anything for myself. But I belong to the Knights of Labour and I've travelled the country over, helping to organize here and there. I see the big fight coming. This country's changed. The rich get richer and the poor poorer. The big fortunes are piling up. You'll see ... you'll see."
"You're a true Irishman, Dad, always spoiling for a fight—always against the powers that be."
"And you come of the same stock, but you've gone back on it! Maybe you've sold yourself to the powers that be!"
"No," said Laurence coolly. "No man can say that of me. Look over my record, if you like to take the trouble. Ask what my reputation is.... You'll find I've stood for the poor and oppressed as much as you, or maybe more—I've fought many a poor man's case against a rich corporation, and won it too."
"Then how did you get all this?"
The old man waved his hand, clasping the stubby black pipe, and fixed a shrewd sparkling glance on his son.
Laurence laughed abruptly.
"Partly by inheritance, by investments, speculation sometimes, not by bribery or corruption!... But it seems rather funny to me that you should drop down on me this way, all of a sudden, and accuse me! Yes, by George, it's funny! Life is certainly amusing, at times."