any--"

"Damnation!" Sheridan sprang up. "You've turned Socialist! You been
listening to those fellows down there, and you--"

"No, sir. I think there's a great deal in what they say, but that
isn't it."

Sheridan tried to restrain his growing fury, and succeeded partially.
"Then what is it? What's the matter?"

"Nothing," his son returned, nervously. "Nothing--except that I'm
content. I don't want to change anything."

"Why not?"

Bibbs had the incredible folly to try to explain. "I'll tell you,
father, if I can. I know it may be hard to understand--"

"Yes, I think it may be," said Sheridan, grimly. "What you say
usually is a LITTLE that way. Go on!"

Perturbed and distressed, Bibbs rose instinctively; he felt himself
at every possible disadvantage. He was a sleeper clinging to a dream
--a rough hand stretched to shake him and waken him. He went to a
table and made vague drawings upon it with a finger, and as he spoke
he kept his eyes lowered. "You weren't altogether right about the
shop--that is, in one way you weren't, father." He glanced up
apprehensively. Sheridan stood facing him, expressionless, and made
no attempt to interrupt. "That's difficult to explain," Bibbs