There's to be a big factory built, but you see yourself
how it is, here I'm at home. I was raised as a boy here."
The excited young man plunged into an exposition of the spirit of the new
times. He grew bold and scolded the older men. "You know yourself that
factories are springing up everywhere, in towns all over the State," he
said. "Will Bidwell wake up? Will we have factories here? You know well
enough we won't, and I know why. It's because a man like me who was raised
here has to go to a city to get money to back his plans. If I talked to you
fellows you would laugh at me. In a few years I might make you more money
than you have made in your whole lives, but what's the use talking? I'm
Steve Hunter; you knew me when I was a kid. You'd laugh. What's the use my
trying to tell you fellows my plans?"
Steve turned as though to go out of the room, but Tom Butterworth took hold
of his arm and led him back to a chair. "Now, you tell us what you're up
to," he demanded. In turn he grew indignant. "If you've got something to
manufacture you can get backing here as well as any place," he said. He
became convinced that the jeweler's son was telling the truth. It did not
occur to him that a Bidwell young man would dare lie to such solid men
as John Clark and himself. "You let them city bankers alone," he said
emphatically. "You tell us your story. What you got to tell?"
In the silent little room the three men stared at each other.
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