were two of them, and
they owned houses which appeared like palaces in the eyes of Henry
and his kind. They owned automobiles, and Henry was aware of a
cursing sentiment when one whirred past him, trudging along, and
covered him with dust.

Sometimes it seemed to Henry as if an automobile was the last straw
for the poor man's back: those enormous cars, representing fortunes,
tyrannizing over the whole highway, frightening the poor old country
horses, and endangering the lives of all before them. Henry read with
delight every account of an automobile accident. "Served them right;
served them just right," he would say, with fairly a smack of his
lips.

Sylvia, who had caught a little of his rebellion, but was gentler,
would regard him with horror. "Why, Henry Whitman, that is a dreadful
wicked spirit!" she would say, and he would retort stubbornly that he
didn't care; that he had to pay a road tax for these people who would
just as soon run him down as not, if it wouldn't tip their old
machines over; for these maniacs who had gone speed-mad, and were
appropriating even the highways of the common people.

Henry had missed the high-school principal, who was away on his
spring vacation. He liked to talk with him, because he always had a
feeling that he had the best of the argument. Horace would take the
other side for a while, then leave the field, and light another
cigar, and let Henry have the last word, which, although it had a
bitter taste in his mouth, filled him with the satisfaction of
triumph. He loved Horace like a son, although he realized that the
young man properly belonged to the class which he hated, and that,
too, although he was manifestly poor and obliged to work for his
living. Henry was, in his heart of hearts, convinced that Horace
Allen, had he been rich, would have owned automobiles and spent hours
in the profitless work-play of the golf links. As it was, he played a
little after school-hours. How Henry hated golf! "I wish they had to
work," he would say, savagely, to Horace.

Horace would laugh, and say that he did work. "I know you do," Henry
would say, grudgingly, "and I suppose maybe a little exercise is good
for you; but those fellers from Alford who come over here don't have
to work, and as for Guy Lawson, the boss's son, he's a fool! He
couldn't earn his bread and butter to save his life, except on the
road digging like a common laborer. Playing golf! Playing! H'm!" Then
was the time for H