tion of
emotions. They were angry, and yet--with the exception of
Graveling--there was beneath their anger some evidence of that curious
respect for wealth prevalent amongst their order. They looked at
Maraton with a new interest.

"A millionaire!" Peter Dale exclaimed impressively. "You admit it!
You--a Socialist--a people's man, as you've called yourself! And never
a word to one of us! Never a copper of your money to the Party! I
repeat it--not one copper have we seen!"

The man's cheeks were flushed with anger, his brows lowered. Something
of his indignation was reflected in the faces of all of
them--momentarily a queer sort of cupidity seemed to have stolen into
their expressions. Maraton shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"Why should I subscribe to your Party funds?" he asked calmly. "Some of
you do good work, no doubt, and yet there is no such destroyer of good
work as money. Work, individual effort, unselfish enthusiasm, are the
torches which should light on your cause. Money would only serve the
purpose of a slow poison amongst you."

"Prattle!" Abraham Weavel muttered.

"Rot!" Peter Dale agreed. "Just another question, Mr. Maraton: Why
have you kept this secret from us?"

"I will make a statement," Maraton replied coolly. "Perhaps it will save
needless questions. My money is derived from oil springs. I prospected
for them myself, and I have had to fight for them. It was in wilder
days than you know of here. I have a younger brother, or rather a
half-brother, whom I was sorry to see over here the other day, who is my
partner. My average profits are twenty-eight thousand pounds a year.
Ten thousand pounds goes to the support of a children's home in New
York; the remainder is distributed in other directions amongst
institutions for the rescue of children. Five thousand a year I keep
for myself."

"Five thousand a year!" Peter Dale gasped indignantly. "Did you hear
that?" he added, turning to the others.

"Four hundred a year and a hundred and fifty from subscriptions, and
that's every penny I have to bring up seven children upon," Weavel
declared with disgust.

"And mine's less than that, and the subscriptions falling off," Borden
grunted.

"What sort of a Socialist is a man with five thousand a year who keeps
his pockets tightly buttoned up, I should like to know?" Graveling
exclaimed angrily.

Maraton smiled.

"You have common sense, I am sure, all of you," he said. "In fact, no
one could possib