All this labor, all this busy strife, I have a hand in.

The millions eat and drink and buy and sell; and I take toll of it--yet it is not enough.

I hold them in my hand, yet the hand cannot close, completely.

And until it does, it is not enough! No, not enough for me!" He pondered a moment, standing there musing at the window, surveying "all the wonders of the earth" that in its fulness, in that year of grace, 1921, bore tribute to him who toiled not, neither spun; and though he smiled, the smile was bitter.
"Not enough, yet," he reflected.

"And how--how shall I close my grip?
How shall I master all this, absolutely and completely, till it be mine in truth?
Through light?
The mob can do with less, if I squeeze too hard! Through food?
They can economize! Transportation?
No, the traffic will bear only a certain load! How, then?
What is it they all must have, or die, that I can control?
What universal need, vital to rich and poor alike?
To great and small?
What absolute necessity which shall make my rivals in the Game as much my vassals as the meanest slave in my steel mills?
What can it be?
For power I must have! Like Caesar, who preferred to be first in the smallest village, rather than be second at Rome, I can and will have no competitor.