"Now, shet up, will you?" cried Sam, thoroughly aroused. "I won't set
here and hear her abused by you or any other man. What business is it
of yours, anyway?"

Offitt felt that his shot had gone home, and pursued his advantage.

"It's my business, Sam, because I'm your friend; because I hate to see
a good fellow wronged; because I know that a man is better than a
moneybag. Why, that girl would marry you in a minute if you was rich.
But because you're not she will strike for one of them rose-water snobs
on Algonquin Avenue." Sam writhed, and his wheedling tormentor
continued, watching him like a ferret. "Perhaps she has struck for one
of them already--perhaps--oh, I can't say what may have happened. I
hate the world when I see such doin's. I hate the heartless shams that
give labor and shame to the toilers and beauty and luxury to the
drones. Who is the best man," he asked, with honest frankness, "you, or
some high-steppin' snob whose daddy has left him the means to be a
loafer all his days? And who would the prettiest girl in Buffland
prefer, you or the loafer? And you intend to let Mr. Loafer have it all
his own way?"

"No, I don't!" Sam roared, like a baited bull. "Ef any man crosses my
path, he can find out which is the best man."

"There, that's more like you. But what can you do alone? That's where
they get us foul. The erristocrats, the money power, all hang together.
The laborin' men fight singly, and alwuz get whipped. Now, we are goin'
to change that. We are goin' to organize. Look here, Sam, I am riskin'
my head in tellin' you this--but I trust you, and I like you, and I'll
tell you. We _have_ organized. We've got a society in this town pledged