Keith laughed again.
"Not if I know their sort! Work is the one thing they don't want."
Krafft leaned forward, and tapped the table with one of his long forefingers.
"The lazy part of them, the earthen part of them, the dross of them—yes, perhaps. But let us concede to them a spark that smoulders, way down deep within them—a spark of which they think they are ashamed, which they do not themselves realize the existence of except occasionally. What is the deep need of them? It is to feel that they are still of use, that they amount to something, that they are men. That more than mere food and warmth. Is it not so?"
"I believe you're right," said Keith, impressed.
"Then," said Krafft triumphantly, "it is work they want, work that is useful and worth paying for."
"But there's plenty of work to be had," objected Keith, after a moment.
"In fact, there's more work in this town than there are men to do it."
"True, But it is the hard work these men have failed at. It is too hard. They try; they are discouraged; they fall again, and perhaps they never get up. Such men must be led, must be watched, must be stopped within their strength."
"Who's there to do that sort of dry nursing of bums?" demanded Keith with a half laugh.
"He who would help," said Krafft quietly.