By this time Caspar Porter had turned his attention to the conversation at
the other end of the table. His florid face was agape with astonishment at
the doctor's temerity. Parker Hitchcock shrugged his shoulders and
muttered something to Miss Lindsay. The older men moved in their chairs.
It was an unhappy topic for dinner conversation in this circle.

"Well, I don't know," Colonel Hitchcock replied, a slight smile creeping
across his face. "Some say yes, and some say no. Perhaps Porter can tell
you."

"We leave all that to the superintendent," the latter replied stiffly. "I
haven't looked into it. The works isn't a hospital."

"That's a minor point," Carson added, in a high-pitched voice. "The real
thing is whether a corporation can manage its own affairs as it thinks best
or not."

"The thrifty and the shiftless," interposed Dr.

Lindsay, nodding to his young colleague.

"Well, the directors are a unit. That settles the matter," Porter ended
dogmatically. "The men may starve, but they'll never get back now."

The young doctor's face set in rather rigid lines. He had made a mistake,
had put himself outside the sympathies of this comfortable circle. Miss
Hitchcock was looking into the flowers in front of her, evidently searching
for some remark that would lead the dinner out of this uncomfortable
slough, when Brome Porter began again sententiously: