ded, "But be that as it
may--in the habit which has become so prevalent among us money-changers
in the temple, of damning the soul of Hamilton Burton--when he is
absent--I think we overlook a few patent truths. We hate the man and
all his breed simply because he outclasses us at our own game."

"You mean he outplunders us," contradicted Kirk.

"It comes to much the same thing, young son, though High Finance is a
prettier name for the pastime. He gathers in millions to our thousands
not only because he is a naughty, wicked man, but because of his greater
caliber and range. Brother Paul shines by some of this reflected
glory--so it has become the fashion to damn Brother Paul, too."

It began to dawn on the fair-haired young man that he was being chaffed.
His reply came sulkily.

"To my mind Paul Burton is nothing but a hanger-on."

"Quite true. So am I. So are you. So are all of us who produce nothing
tangible. Paul is a hanger-on by better right than many others who
depend directly or indirectly on the energies of this great producing
pirate."

Kirk had exhausted his line of argument and fell silent, but Jack
Staples stepped into the breach. Staples himself was no mean type of
financier, holding as he did a commission as one of Malone's chief
lieutenants. He was a striking man with a lower jaw which thrust itself
aggressively forward and a single white lock over his forehead, though
except for that the blackness of his hair bore no touch of gray even at
the temples.

"I hate the lot of them!" he announced vehemently. "I hate this upstart
Cyclops and his conscienceless power. I hate the pampered brother--but
Thayre is right. Great God in heaven, gentlemen, it is a family of
geniuses. Stop and reflect. Fifteen years ago they were
bare-footed--ragged--half-starved, the whole brood. Now consider them.
Hamilton is magnificent, ruthless, but almost omnipotent. He is one of
the world's few blazing and dazzling figures. As for Paul, in spite of
his weakness, he's inspirational. His genius is no less intrinsic. I'm
not emotional, but I've heard them all play and that boy can carry me
out of myself as can no other artist, professional or amateur, to whom
I've ever listened. He is a gifted troubadour. His fingers control the
magic of harmony as his brother's control the magic of money. For my
part I'd rather be Paul than Hamilton. Hamilton will be hated to
death--by men, but Paul will be loved to death--by women."

"Well,