the wine list and the key to the wine cellar to the butler. And, at
the head of his table, he let other men talk and listened. They
talked, those industrial pioneers, especially after the women had
gone. They saw the city the center of great business and great
railroads. They talked of its coal, its river, and the great oil
fields not far away which were then in their infancy. All of them
dreamed a dream, saw a vision. But not all of them lived to see
their dream come true.

Old Anthony lived to see it.

In the late eighties, his wife having been by that time decorously
interred in one of the first great mausoleums west of the mountains,
Anthony Cardew found himself already wealthy. He owned oil wells
and coal mines. His mines supplied his coke ovens with coal, and
his own river boats, as well as railroads in which he was a director,
carried his steel.

He labored ably and well, and not for wealth alone. He was one of
a group of big-visioned men who saw that a nation was only as great
as its industries. It was only in his later years that he loved
power for the sake of power, and when, having outlived his
generation, he had developed a rigidity of mind that made him view
the forced compromises of the new regime as pusillanimous.

He considered his son Howard's quiet strength weakness. "You have
no stamina," he would say. "You have no moral fiber. For God's
sake, make a stand, you fellows, and stick to it."

He had not mellowed with age. He viewed with endless bitterness