cracked even his stiff will. Little by little the plain truth sifted
into the minds and hearts of the thousands working in his huge
organization. In Russia, in Greece, in Spain, in Austria, in China, in
Mexico, he saw men bursting the shells of age and custom that had
cramped them. One by one his competitors adopted the new ideas, or had
them forced upon them; profit-sharing, workmen's insurance, the right of
free communities to live their own lives.

Deep in his heart he must have known he was doomed to fail, but that
perverse demon of strong-headed pugnacity was trenched deep within him.
He was always a fighter, but his face, though angry, obstinate, proud,
was still not an evil face. He broke down while there was still some of
the business to save and some of the goodwill intact.

It was the printing press that decided it: the greatest engine in the
world, to which submarines and howitzers and airplanes are but wasteful
toys. For when the printing presses are united the planet may buck and
yaw, but she comes into line at last. A million inky cylinders, roaring
in chorus, were telling him the truth. When his assistants found him, on
his desk lay a half-ripped magazine where he had tried to tear up a
mocking cartoon.

I think that as he sat at his table in those last days, staring with
embittered eyes at the savage words and pictures that came to him from
over the seven seas, he must have had some vision of the shadowy might
of the press, of the vast irresistible urge of public opinion, that hung
like dark wings above his head. For little by little the printed word
incarnates itself in power, and in ways undreamed of makes itself felt.
Little by little the wills of common men, coalescing, running together
like beads of mercury on a plate, quivering into rhythm and concord,