admiration and tenderness--a quaint expression for those cold,
hard features.

Everyone spoke of him behind his back as ``Old Morton Hastings.''

In fact, he was barely past sixty, was at an age at which city
men of the modern style count themselves young and even
entertain--not without reason-- hope of being desired of women
for other than purely practical reasons. He was born on a farm--
was born with an aversion to physical exertion as profound as was
his passion for mental exertion. We never shall know how much of
its progress the world owes to the physically lazy, mentally
tireless men. Those are they who, to save themselves physical
exertion, have devised all manner of schemes and machines to save
labor. And, at bottom, what is progress but man's success in his
effort to free himself from manual labor --to get everything for
himself by the labor of other men and animals and of machines?
Naturally his boyhood of toil on the farm did not lessen Martin
Hastings' innate horror of ``real work.'' He was not twenty when
he dropped tools never to take them up again. He was shoeing a
horse in the heat of the cool side of the barn on a frightful
August day. Suddenly he threw down the hammer and said loudly:
``A man that works is a damn fool. I'll never work again.'' And
he never did.

As soon as he could get together the money--and it was not long
after he set about making others work for him--he bought a buggy,
a kind of phaeton, and a safe horse. Thenceforth he never walked
a step that could be driven. The result of thirty-five years of
this life, so unnatural to an animal that is designed by Nature