After the disappearance of Seth, Virginia Richmond walked up and down the floor of her home filled with vague alarms.  Although on the next day she discovered, through an inquiry made by the town marshal, on what adventure the boys had gone, she could not quiet herself.  All through the night she lay awake hearing the clock tick and telling herself that Seth, like his father, would come to a sudden and violent end.  So determined was she that the boy should this time feel the weight of her wrath that, although she would not allow the marshal to interfere with his adventure, she got out a pencil and paper and wrote down a series of sharp, stinging reproofs she intended to pour out upon him.  The reproofs she committed to memory, going about the garden and saying them aloud like an actor memorizing his part.

And when, at the end of the week, Seth returned, a little weary and with coal soot in his ears and about his eyes, she again found herself unable to reprove him.  Walking into the house he hung his cap on a nail by the kitchen door and stood looking steadily at her.  “I wanted to turn back within an hour after we had started,” he explained.  “I didn’t know what to do.  I knew you would be bothered, but I knew also that if I didn’t go on I would be ashamed of myself.  I went through with the thing for my own good.  It was uncomfortable, sleeping on wet straw, and two drunken Negroes came and slept with us.  When I stole a lunch basket out of a farmer’s wagon I couldn’t help thinking of his children going all day without food.  I was sick of the whole affair, but I was determined to stick it out until the other boys were ready to come back.”

“I’m glad you did stick it out,” replied the mother, half resentfully, and kissing him upon the forehead pretended to busy herself with the work about the house.

On a summer evening Seth Richmond went to the New Willard House to visit his friend, George Willard.  It had rained during the afternoon, but as he walked through Main Street, the sky had partially cleared and a golden glow lit up the west.  Going around a corner, he turned in at the door of the hotel and began to climb the stairway leading up to his friend’s room.  In the hotel office the proprietor and two traveling men were engaged in a discussion of politics.

On the stairway Seth stopped and listened to the voices of the men below.  They were excited and talked rapidly.  Tom Willard was berating the traveling men.  “I am a Democrat but your talk makes me sick,” he said.  “You don’t understand McKinley.  McKinley and Mark Hanna are friends.  It is impossible perhaps for your mind to grasp that.  If anyone tells you that a friendship can be deeper and bigger and more worth while than dollars and cents, or even more worth while than state politics, you snicker and laugh.”

The landlord was interrupted by one of the guests, a tall, grey-mustached man who worked for a wholesale grocery house.  “Do you think that I’ve lived in Cleveland all these years without knowing Mark Hanna?” he demanded.  “Your talk is piffle.  Hanna is after money and nothing else.  This McKinley is his tool.  He has McKinley bluffed and don’t you forget it.”