THE AMERICAN
stockholder on his favourite railroad. You make me feel awfully my want of shares. And yet the world used to be supposed to be ours. What is it I miss?"
"It's the proud consciousness of honest toil, of having produced something yourself that somebody has been willing to pay you for—since that's the definite measure. Since you speak of my wash-tubs—which were lovely—is n't it just they and their loveliness that make up my good conscience?"
"Oh no; I've seen men who had gone beyond wash-tubs, who had made mountains of soap—strong-smelling yellow soap, in great bars; and they've left me perfectly cold."
"Then it's just the regular treat of being an American citizen," said Newman. "That sets a man right up."
"Possibly," his guest returned; "but I'm forced to say I've seen a great many American citizens who did n't seem at all set up or in the least like large stockholders. I never envied them. I rather think the thing's some diabolical secret of your own."
"Oh come," Newman laughed, "you'll persuade me against my humility."
"No, I shall persuade you of nothing. You've nothing to do with humility any more than with swagger: that's just the essence of your confounded coolness. People swagger only when they've something to lose, and show their delicacy only when they've something to gain."
"I don't know what I may have to lose," said Newman, "but I can quite see a situation in which I should have something to gain."
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