fancied, fifteen years ago, that he would some day be a
fairly prosperous man; not rich, as riches are counted
nowadays, but with a comfortable number of tens of thousands
tucked away. Two or three hundred thousand; perhaps five
hundred thousand!--perhaps a--but, nonsense! Nonsense!

And then the thing had started. It was as when a man idly
throws a pebble into a chasm, or shoves a bit of ice with
the toe of his boot, and starts a snow-slide that grows as
it goes. He had started this avalanche of money, and now it
rushed on of its own momentum, plunging, rolling, leaping,
crashing, and as it swept on it gathered rocks, trees,
stones, houses, everything that lay in its way. It was
beyond the power of human hand to stop this tumbling,
roaring slide. In the midst of it sat Nathan Haynes,
deafened, stunned, terrified at the immensity of what he had
done.

He began giving away huge sums, incredible sums. It piled
up faster than he could give it away. And so he sat there
in the office hung with the dim old masterpieces, and tried
to keep simple, tried to keep sane, with that austerity that
only mad wealth can afford--or bitter poverty. He caused
the land about the plant to be laid out in sunken gardens
and baseball fields and tennis courts, so that one
approached this monster of commerce through enchanted
grounds, glowing with tulips and heady hyacinths in
spring, with roses in June, blazing with salvia and golden-
glow and asters in autumn. There was something apologetic
about these grounds.