"That's Socialistic!" said his friend again. "You've been reading that fellow's articles in the Sunday papers. What's his name?"
"No, I've been thinking. I don't care what it is, it's the truth, and I'm tired of it."
"They say he's a Jew," interrupted the former.
"I don't care what he is, it's the truth," asserted the other doggedly.
"Well, I rather think it is," agreed his friend; "but then, I'm hungry, and there isn't even any water on the car."
"And they guzzle champagne!" sneered the other, "which we pay for," he added.
"You're a stockholder?"
"Yes, in a small way; but I might as well own stock in a paving-company to Hell. My father helped to build this road and used to take great pride in it. They used to give the stockholders then a free ride once a year to the annual meeting, and it made them all feel as if they owned the road."
"But now they give free passes not to the stockholders, but to the legislators and the judges."
"It pays better," said his friend, and they both laughed. It appeared, indeed, rather a good joke to them—or, at least, there was nothing which they could do about it, so they might as well take it good-humoredly.