“Ah,” broke in Merle, “I recognize that!  That’s some of the dear old Dave Cowan talk.”

“Well, don’t turn it down just on that account.  Sometimes he isn’t so crazy.  He sees through you people.  He knows you would take all you could get in this world just as quick as the rest of us.  He knows that much.”

Merle waved it aside.

“Six months from now—­a year at the most!  A thrill of freedom has run through the people!”

Wilbur had relaxed in his chair.  He spoke more lightly, scanning the face of his brother with veiled curiosity.

“By the way, speaking of revolutions, there’s been kind of a one at Newbern; kind of a family revolution.  A little one, but plenty of kick in it.  They want you to come back and be a good boy.  That’s really what I came down here to say for them.  Will you come back with me?”

Merle drew himself up—­injured.

“Go back!  Back to what?  When my work is here, my heart, my life?  I’ve let you talk because you’re my brother.  And you’re so naively honest in your talk about our wonderful country and its idealism and the contemptible defects of a few of us who have the long vision!  But I’ve let you talk, and now I must tell you that I am with this cause to the end.  I can’t expect your sympathy, or the sympathy of my people back there, but I must go my own way without it, fight my own battle—­”

He was interrupted in a tone he did not like.

“Sympathy from the folks back there?  Say, what do you mean—­sympathy?  Did I tell you what this revolution back there was all about?  Did I tell you they’ve shut down on you?”

“You didn’t!  I still don’t get your meaning.”

“You cast them off, didn’t you?”

“Oh!” A white hand deprecated this.  “That’s Sharon Whipple talk—­his famous brand of horse humour.  Surely, you won’t say he’s too subtle!”

“Well, anyway, you said you couldn’t accept anything more from them when you left; you were going to work with your hands, and so forth.  You weren’t going to take any more of their tainted money.”

“I’ve no doubt dear old Sharon would put it as delicately as that.”

“Well, did you work with your hands?  Have you had to be a toiler?”

“Oh, naturally I had resources!  But might I ask”—­Merle said it with chill dignity—­“may I inquire just what relation this might have——­”

“You won’t have resources any longer.”

“Eh?” Merle this time did not wave.  He stared stonily at his informant.

“That was the revolution.  They called each other down and found that every last one of them had been sending you money, each thinking he was the only one and no one wanting you to starve.  Even your dear old Sharon Whipple kicked in every month.  No wonder I didn’t find you in a tenement.”

“Preposterous!” expostulated Merle.

“Wasn’t it?  Anyway, they all got mad at each other, and then they all got mad at you; then they swore an oath or something.”  He paused impressively.  “No more checks!”