If it was an affectation, his personal attitude toward the people with whom he came into contact was not ... in his office everybody loved him, and worked for him with that easy efficiency that comes of good will and respect....

Unostentatiously and affectionately he went about helping people.

“We’ve got a wonderful town here ... very little vice, except that which always will be in every community because it is inherent in human nature ... we have a fine college of our own ... a fine electric plant ... everybody’s lawn is well-kept ... nobody in this town need be out of a job ... for miles around us the land is rich in real wealth of waving corn and wheat....

Kansas will be the centre, the Athens, of our civilisation, one day....

We have a fine Harvey Eating House at our railway station, managed by a hustler ... you must have Ally take you there for dinner before you go back to Laurel.”

The idealisation of small comfort ... in a case like Mackworth’s, fairly unobjectionable ... but in most cases insufferably stodgy ... the dry-rot of art, literature, life ... leading to a smug conceit that in turn ends in that school of “two hills of corn where one cluster of violets grew before.”

No wonder that the National Magazine, starting with a splendid flourish of knight-errantry, degenerated into the mere, “let-well-enough-alone” thrift-crier it is.... “’How I Became an Expert Tombstone Salesman’ ...  ’How I collected Tin Foil After Work-Hours and Added Three Hundred a Year Extra to My Salary as Stenographer.’...”

Rather, far rather, the Rockefeller, that shrewd manipulator of businesses ... with all his parsimony in personal economics ... his diet of bread and milk ... and his giving away of millions to missions and scientific institutions....

Rather the big Morgan, who knew the old masters as well as he knew the weaknesses of men ... who hobnobbed, not as a democrat, but as aristocratic as the best of them, with princes, kings, emperors, in his grim, forbidding dignity.

This at least presented bigness and romance!

* * * * *

“Want to meet Uncle Bill?” and Mackworth led me into a close-shut room blue-thick with smoke....

I coughed and choked.  A fire extinguisher should have preceded our entry.

There sat—­the lumbering trot of his typewriter heard long before he assumed visible, hazy outline—­William Struthers, known to the newspaper world as “Old Uncle Bill,” the writer of daily prose-verse squibs on the homely virtues, the exalter of the commonplaces of life, the deifier of the ordinary.

Uncle Bill’s head of strong, black hair stood upright like thick wire.  His thick, stubby fingers trotted like cart horses on and on.  He stopped and drew up a chair for me.

“Of course I ain’t calling my stuff poetry,” he began deprecatingly, “but I do a lot of good for folks ... folks read my stuff when they ain’t got time to read the real poets.”