Mr. Easterly threw away his cigar and sat down. Taylor straightened up, switched on the porch light, and took a bundle of papers from his coat pocket.
"Here are census figures," he said, "commercial reports and letters." They pored over them a half hour. Then Easterly arose.
"There's something in it," he admitted, "but what can we do? What do you propose?"
"Monopolize the growth as well as the manufacture of cotton, and use the first to club European manufacturers into submission."
Easterly stared at him.
"Good Lord!" he ejaculated; "you're crazy!"
But Taylor smiled a slow, thin smile, and put away his papers. Easterly continued to stare at his subordinate with a sort of fascination, with the awe that one feels when genius unexpectedly reveals itself from a source hitherto regarded as entirely ordinary. At last he drew a long breath, remarking indefinitely:
"I'll think it over."
A stir in the parlor indicated departure.
"Well, you watch the Farmers' League, and note its success and methods," counselled John Taylor, his tone and manner unchanged. "Then figure what it might do in the hands of—let us say, friends."