re, the Pittsburg millionaire, who was
the chief witness for the prosecution, it was supposed that the visit
was intimately concerned with the trial.

I looked around apprehensively. There were no reporters yet in sight,
and thankful to have escaped notice I paid for my breakfast and left.
At the cab-stand I chose the least dilapidated hansom I could find, and
giving the driver the address of the Gilmore residence, in the East end,
I got in.

I was just in time. As the cab turned and rolled off, a slim young man
in a straw hat separated himself from a little group of men and hurried
toward us.

"Hey! Wait a minute there!" he called, breaking into a trot.

But the cabby did not hear, or perhaps did not care to. We jogged
comfortably along, to my relief, leaving the young man far behind. I
avoid reporters on principle, having learned long ago that I am an easy
mark for a clever interviewer.

It was perhaps nine o'clock when I left the station. Our way was along
the boulevard which hugged the side of one of the city's great hills.
Far below, to the left, lay the railroad tracks and the seventy times
seven looming stacks of the mills. The white mist of the river, the
grays and blacks of the smoke blended into a half-revealing haze, dotted
here and there with fire. It was unlovely, tremendous. Whistler might
have painted it with its pathos, its majesty, but he would have missed
what made it infinitely suggestive--the rattle and roar of iron on iron,
the rumble of wheels, the throbbing beat, against the ears, of fire and
heat and brawn welding prosperity.

Something of this I voiced to the grim old millionaire who was
responsible for at least part of it. He was propped up in bed in his
East end home, listening to the market reports read by a nurse, and he
smiled a little at my enthusiasm.

"I can't see much beauty in it myself," he said. "But it's our badge
of prosperity. The full dinner pail here means a nose that looks like a
flue. Pittsburg without smoke wouldn't be Pittsburg, any more than New
York without prohibition would be New York. Sit down for a few minutes,
Mr. Blakeley. Now, Miss Gardner, Westinghouse Electric."

The nurse resumed her reading in a monotonous voice. She read literally
and without understanding, using initials and abbreviations as they
came. But the shrewd old man followed her easily. Once, however, he
stopped her.

"D-o is ditto," he said gently, "not do."

As the nurse droned along, I