There was something delicate and fine in it, and there was nothing unkindly on Fulkerson's part in the hostilities which usually passed between himself and Lindau.

Fulkerson bore himself reverently at times, too, but it was not in him to keep that up, especially when Lindau appeared with more beer aboard than, as Fulkerson said, he could manage shipshape.

On these occasions Fulkerson always tried to start him on the theme of the unduly rich; he made himself the champion of monopolies, and enjoyed the invectives which Lindau heaped upon him as a slave of capital; he said that it did him good.
One day, with the usual show of writhing under Lindau's scorn, he said, "Well, I understand that although you despise me now, Lindau--" "I ton't desbise you," the old man broke in, his nostrils swelling and his eyes flaming with excitement, "I bity you." "Well, it seems to come to the same thing in the end," said Fulkerson.
"What I understand is that you pity me now as the slave of capital, but you would pity me a great deal more if I was the master of it." "How you mean ?" "If I was rich." "That would tebendt," said Lindau, trying to control himself.

"If you hat inheritedt your money, you might pe innocent; but if you hat mate it, efery man that resbectedt himself would haf to ask how you mate it, and if you hat mate moch, he would know--" "Hold on; hold on, now, Lindau! Ain't that rather un-American doctrine?
We're all brought up, ain't we, to honor the man that made his money, and look down--or try to look down; sometimes it's difficult on the fellow that his father left it to ?" The old man rose and struck his breast.

"On Amerigan!" he roared, and, as he went on, his accent grew more and more uncertain.