urious eyes there, and with swift, low words he explained its meaning.
He expected an outburst of surprise and fury, but he was mistaken.

"I know about that," whispered his father, hoarsely. "There won't be any
thrown in my wheat."

"Father! What assurance have you of that?" queried Kurt, astounded.

The old man nodded his gray head wisely. He knew, but he did not speak.

"Do you think these I.W.W. plotters will spare your wheat?" asked Kurt.
"You are wrong. They may lie to your face. But they'll betray you. The
I.W.W. is backed by--by interests that want to embarrass the
government."

"What government?"

"Why, ours--the U.S. government!"

"That's not my government. The more it's embarrassed the better it will
suit me."

In the stress of the moment Kurt had forgotten his father's bitter and
unchangeable hatred.

"But you're--you're stupid," he hissed, passionately. "That government
has protected you for fifty years."

Old Dorn growled into his beard. His huge ox-eyes rolled. Kurt realized
then finally how implacable and hopeless he was--how utterly German.
Then Kurt importuned him to return the eighty thousand dollars to the
bank until he was sure the wheat was harvested and hauled to the
railroad.

"My wheat won't burn," was old Dorn's stubborn reply.

"Well, then, give me Anderson's thirty thousand. I'll take it to him at
once. Our debt will be paid. We'll have it off our minds."

"No hurry about that," replied his father.

"But there is hurry," returned Kurt, in a hot whisper. "Anderson came to
see you to-day. He wants his money."

"Neuman holds the small end of that debt. I'll pay him. Anderson can
wait."

Kurt felt no amaze. He expected anything. But he could scarcely contain
his fury. How this old man, his father, whom he had loved--how he had
responded to the influences that must destroy him!

"Anderson shall not wait," declared Kurt. "I've got some say in this
matter. I've worked like a dog in those wheat-fields. I've a right to
demand Anderson's money. He needs it. He has a tremendous harvest on his
hands."

Old Dorn shook his huge head in somber and gloomy thought. His broad
face, his deep eyes, seemed to mask and to hide. It was an expression
Kurt had seldom seen there, but had always hated. It seemed so old to
Kurt, that alien look, something not born of his time.

"Anderson is a capitalist," said Chris Dorn, deep in his beard. "He
seeks control of farmers and wheat in the Northwest