"We cater to the weaknesses and foibles of the public, and
there's nothing that appeals to them like a report of generosity. Of
course, they never stop to think that the poor creatures are much better
off dead than alive, and that they really have no hold on the sympathies
of others. It's a fad among rich people to weep over the poor! Some of
them will probably send flowers to the funeral of that woman, and think
themselves angels of light for doing it! I tell you, religion is a trade
mark in all lines of business, and I've decided in the last few days
that that's about all it's good for!"
He laid the paper down with a smile of satisfaction, then turned toward
Mr. Watkins to resume the former conversation.
But a look at the young man's face checked the words upon his lips. The
scorn in those hollow eyes burned even through his callous nature.
For a moment he saw himself much as his assistant saw him, a man whose
greed of gold never reached its limit, even though lives were sacrificed
in his service.
He could not speak although he tried to repeatedly, for the glare of his
assistant's eye transfixed him like a magnet.
With one hand upon the door, Mr. Watkins paused to answer:
"The papers don't know it all, Mr. Forbes," he whispered shrilly; "or,
if they do, they don't dare to tell what they know.
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