"But he was as exceptional as the other Rogers, the martyr, who died with warm feet." Lindau had apparently not understood his joke, and he went on, with the American ease of mind about everything: "But you must allow, Lindau, that some of those fellows don't do so badly with their guilty gains.

Some of them give work to armies of poor people--" Lindau furiously interrupted: "Yes, when they have gathered their millions together from the hunger and cold and nakedness and ruin and despair of hundreds of thousands of other men, they 'give work' to the poor! They give work! They allow their helpless brothers to earn enough to keep life in them! They give work! Who is it gives toil, and where will your rich men be when once the poor shall refuse to give toil'?
Why, you have come to give me work!" March laughed outright.

"Well, I'm not a millionaire, anyway, Lindau, and I hope you won't make an example of me by refusing to give toil.
I dare say the millionaires deserve it, but I'd rather they wouldn't suffer in my person." "No," returned the old man, mildly relaxing the fierce glare he had bent upon March.

"No man deserves to sufer at the hands of another.

I lose myself when I think of the injustice in the world.