"Did you hear them?" he asked, and his voice was filled with suppressed
emotion.

"Yes," was the reply. "They are only thoughtless youths having a good
time, I suppose."

"It's just what money does, though. I know who they are, for I caught
a glimpse of them as they sped past. It's money that talks with them;
that is the only voice they hear. They will ride over the less
fortunate, and crush them down as worms beneath their feet. They have
been doing it for ages, and look upon it as their right. What do they
care about the meaning of the falling waters when they are always
listening to the voice of money. Curse them. Why should they revel
and sport with ill-got gains, when honest men can hardly get enough to
keep breath in their bodies."

The young man was standing erect now on the side of the road. His
companion shrank away somewhat fearful lest he should turn upon him and
smite him.

"You seem to have suffered," he at length remarked. "You appear to be
annoyed at people who have money."

"And why shouldn't I?" was the savage reply. "Haven't I suffered at
their hands, young as I am? Haven't I been scorned by them to the
limit of all endurance? Haven't they made a mock of me for years,
calling me names behind my back? And why? Just because I happen to be
poor, and have tried honestly to make my way in life. But there,
enough of this. What's the use of talking about such things? It will