rew down the lid. She would
scream and fight, but they would drag her away. And he could not answer
her wild cries. He could not go to her rescue. He would be lifted in the
box from the trestles and carried out on the shoulders of other men, and
slid into the waiting hearse; and the horses would trot away with him,
leaving her to penury, with her children and his at the mercy of the
merciless world, while he was lowered into a ditch and hidden under
shovelfuls of dirt, to lie there motionless, useless, hideously idle
forever.

This vision of himself dead was so vivid that his heart jumped in his
breast and raced like a propeller out of water. The very pain and the
terror were joyful, for they meant that he still lived.

Whatever other disasters overhung him, he was at least not dead. Better
a beggar slinking along the dingiest street than the wealthiest
Rothschild under the stateliest tomb. Better the sneers and pity of the
world in whispers about his path than all the empty praise of the most
resounding obituary.

The main thing was to be alive. Before that great good fortune all
misfortunes were minor, unimportant details. And, after all, he was not
so pitiable. His name was still respected. His factory was still
running. Whatever his liabilities, he still had some assets, not least
of them health and experience and courage.

But where had his courage been hiding that it left him whimpering
alone? Was he a little girl afraid of the dark, or was he a man?

There were still men who would lend him money or time. What if he was in
trouble? Were not the merchant princes of the earth sweating blood?
There had been a rich men's panic before the poor were reached. Now
everybody was involved.

After all, what if he failed? Who had not failed? What if he fell
bankrupt?--that was only a tumble down-stairs. Could he not pick himself
up and climb again? Some of the biggest industries in the world had
passed through temporary strain. The sun himself went into eclipse.

If his factory had to close, it could be opened again some day. Or even
if he could not recover, how many better men than he had failed? To be
crushed by the luck of things was no crime. There was a glory of defeat
as well as of victory.

The one great gleaming truth was that he was still alive, still in the
ring. He was not dead yet. He was not going to die. He was going to get
up and win.

There was no shame in the misfortunes he had had. There was no di