"Brooks called my attention this afternoon to an article on working girls. Does it meet with your approval?"
"Why, yes. It was a special assignment, and I gave it out."
"Hum!" Witherspoon grunted. He sat down in his leather-covered chair, crossed his legs, struck a match on the sole of his slipper, relighted his cigar, which he had suffered to go out, and for a time smoked in silence.
"Is there anything wrong about it?" Henry asked.
"I might ask you if there is anything right about it," Witherspoon replied. "'The poor ye have with you always,' was uttered by the Son of God. It was not only a prophecy, but a truth for all ages. There are grades in life, and who made them? Man. Ah, but who made man? God. Then who is responsible for the grades? Nature sets the example of inequality. One tree is higher than another." His cigar had gone out. He lighted it again and continued: "Writers who seek to benefit the poor of ten injure them--teach them a dissatisfaction which in its tarn brings a sort of reprisal on the part of capital."
"I have cause to know that you are wrong, sir."
"You think you have," the merchant replied.
"It is true," Henry admitted, "that we shall always have the poor with us."
"But it is not true that an attempt to aid them is harmful. Their condition has steadily improved since history "--
"I am more than that," said Henry. "I am a man."
"Easily enough. You could be an anarchist."
They sat in silence. The young man was angry, but he controlled himself.
"It is easy to scatter dangerous words in this town," said the merchant. "And, sir,"--he broke off, rousing himself,--"look at the inconsistency, the ridiculousness of your position. I employ more than a thousand people; my son says that I oppress them. I"--
"Hold on; I didn't say that. I don't know of any injustice that you inflict upon your employés; but I do know of such wrongs committed by other men. But you have shown me that the condition of those creatures is hopeless."
"And do you know the cause of their hopelessness?"
"Ah, but what is the cause of their poverty?"
"Oh, no; the appetite of man--whisky. Nine out of ten of those so-called wretched creatures can trace their wretchedness to drink."
Henry was stunned. He saw what a wall he was butting against. "And is this to go on forever?" he asked.