Our last dispute, which had a most unlooked-for consequence, turned on
the refitting of condemned ships. He had bought a miserable hulk, and
came, rubbing his hands, to inform me she was already on the slip, under
a new name, to be repaired. When first I had heard of this industry I
suppose I scarcely comprehended; but much discussion had sharpened my
faculties, and now my brow became heavy.

"I can be no party to that, Pinkerton," said I.

He leaped like a man shot. "What next?" he cried. "What ails you anyway?
You seem to me to dislike everything that's profitable."

"This ship has been condemned by Lloyd's agent," said I.

"But I tell you it's a deal. The ship's in splendid condition; there's
next to nothing wrong with her but the garboard streak and the
sternpost. I tell you, Lloyd's is a ring, like everybody else; only it's
an English ring, and that's what deceives you. If it was American, you
would be crying it down all day. It's Anglomania--common Anglomania," he
cried, with growing irritation.

"I will not make money by risking men's lives," was my ultimatum.

"Great Caesar! isn't all speculation a risk? Isn't the fairest kind of
shipowning to risk men's lives? And mining--how's that for risk? And
look at the elevator business--there's danger if you like! Didn't I take
my risk when I bought her? She might have been too far gone; and where
would I have been? Loudon," he cried, "I tell you the truth: you're too
full of refinement for this world!"

"I condemn you out of your own lips," I replied. "'The fairest kind of
shipowning,' says you. If you please, let us only do the fairest kind of
business."

The shot told; the Irrepressible was silenced; and I profited by the
chance to pour in a broadside of another sort. He was all sunk in
money-getting, I pointed out; he never dreamed of anything but dollars.
Where were all his generous, progressive sentiments? Where was his
culture? I asked. And where was the American Type?

"It's true, Loudon," he cried striding up and down the room, and wildly
scouring at his hair. "You're perfectly right. I'm becoming
materialised. O, what a thing to have to say, what a confession to make!
Materialised! Me! Loudon, this must go on no longer. You've been a loyal
friend to me once more; give me your hand--you've saved me again. I must
do something to rouse the spiritual side; something desperate; study
something, something dry and tough. What shall it be? Theology? Algebra?