getting bigger almighty fast, and there's a big cotton-land monopoly in
sight. Second, the banks and wholesale houses in the South _can_ control
the cotton output if they work together. Third, watch the Southern
'Farmers' League' of big landlords."

Mr. Easterly threw away his cigar and sat down. Taylor straightened up,
switched on the porch light, and took a bundle of papers from his coat
pocket.

"Here are census figures," he said, "commercial reports and letters."
They pored over them a half hour. Then Easterly arose.

"There's something in it," he admitted, "but what can we do? What do you
propose?"

"Monopolize the growth as well as the manufacture of cotton, and use
the first to club European manufacturers into submission."

Easterly stared at him.

"Good Lord!" he ejaculated; "you're crazy!"

But Taylor smiled a slow, thin smile, and put away his papers. Easterly
continued to stare at his subordinate with a sort of fascination, with
the awe that one feels when genius unexpectedly reveals itself from a
source hitherto regarded as entirely ordinary. At last he drew a long
breath, remarking indefinitely:

"I'll think it over."