It isn't every day men get
a chance to sell themselves a fine plant full of new machinery as we can do
in a year or so now."
Steve went out of the bank and left the four men staring at each other.
Then his father got up and went out. The other men, all connected with the
bank, arose and wandered out. "Well," said John Clark, somewhat heavily,
"he's a smart man. I suppose after all it is up to us to stick with him
and with the town. As he says, labor has got to be employed. I can't see
that it does a carpenter or a farmer any good to own a little stock in a
factory. It only takes their minds off their work. They have foolish dreams
of getting rich and don't attend to their own affairs. It would be an
actual benefit to the town if a few men owned the factory." The banker
lighted a cigar and going to a window stared out into the main street of
Bidwell. Already the town had changed. Three new brick buildings were being
erected on Main Street within sight of the bank window. Workmen employed in
the building of the factory had come to town to live, and many new houses
were being built. Everywhere things were astir. The stock of the company
had been oversubscribed, and almost every day men came into the bank and
spoke of wanting to buy more. Only the day before a farmer had come in with
two thousand dollars. The banker's mind began to secrete the poison of his
age. "After all, it's men like Steve Hunter, Tom Butterworth, Gordon Hart,
and myself that have to take care of things, and to be in shape to do it
we have to look out for ourselves," he soliloquized.
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