The great man shook hands cordially with both of us; then, looking round to make sure that no one heard us, he began: “Mr. Carpenter, I told you I vould give a tousand dollars to dese strikers.”
The other's face, which had looked so grey and haggard, was suddenly illumined as if by his magical halo. “I had forgotten it! There are so many hungry in there; I have been watching them, wondering when they would be fed.”
“All right,” said T-S. “Here you are.” And reaching into his pocket, he produced a wad of new shiny hundred dollar notes, folded together. “Count 'em.”
Carpenter took the money in his hand. “So this is it!” he said. He looked at it, as if he were inspecting some strange creature from the wilds of Patagonia.
“It's de real stuff,” said T-S, with a grin.
“The stuff for which men sell their souls, and women their virtue! For which you starve and beat and torture one another—”
“Ain't it pretty?” said the magnate, not a bit embarrassed.
The other began reading the writing on the notes—as you may remember having done in some far-off time of childhood. “Whose picture is this?” he asked.
“I dunno,” said the magnate. “De Secretary of de Treasury, I reckon.”
“But,” said the other, “why not your picture, Mr. T-S?”