"Great Scott!" murmured the youth to Miss Williams; "is this the way he
always goes on? Have these people no self-respect?"

"They're used to him. This sort of thing has gone on ever since I came
here. You see he has made this lake the most aristocratic part of the
city, so that it gives one great social importance to live here; and as
he won't sell the houses, they have to let him trample on their necks,
and he loves to do that better than he loves his money. But that is not
the only reason. They hope he will leave them those houses when he dies.
They certainly deserve that he should. For years, before they owned
carriages, they would tramp through wind and rain every Sunday in winter
to play billiards with him, to say nothing of the hot days of summer.
They have eaten this mid-day dinner that they hate time out of mind.
They have listened to his interminable yarns, oft repeated, about early
California. In all these years they have never contradicted him, not
once. They thought he'd die long ago, and now they're under his heel,
and they couldn't get up and assert themselves if they tried. All they
can do is to abuse him behind his back."

"It all seems disgusting to me."

His independent spirit was very attractive to the companion.

"I'd like to bluff him at his own game, the old slave-driver," he
continued.

"Oh don't! don't!" she quavered.

She was, in truth, anxiously awaiting the moment when Dr. Webster should