And that night when he addressed the people in the Pleasant Valley schoolhouse, he was half an hour getting on to the subject of the bonds; he dwelt on the old days and spoke of the drouth of '60 and of the pioneers, and preached a sermon, with their lives for texts, on the value of service without thought of money or hope of other reward than the joy one has in consecrated work.

Then he launched into the bond proposition, and when the votes were counted Pleasant township indorsed Barclay's plan overwhelmingly.

For he was a young man of force, if not of eloquence.

His evident sincerity made up for what he lacked in oratorical charm, and he left an impression on those about him.

So when the bonds carried in Garrison County, the firm of Ward and Barclay was made local attorneys for the road, and General Ward, smarting under the defeat of his party in the state, refused to accept the railroad's business, and the partnership was dissolved.
"John," said Ward, as he put his hands on the young man's shoulders and looked at him a kindly moment, before picking up his bushel basket of letters and papers, to move them into another room and dissolve the partnership, "John," the elder man repeated, "if I could always maintain such a faith in God as you maintain in money and its power, I could raise the dead." Barclay blinked a second and replied, "Well, now, General, look here--what I don't understand is how you expect to accomplish anything without money." "I can't tell you, John--but some way I have faith that I can--can do more real work in this world without bothering to get money, than I can by stopping to get money with which to do good." "But if you had a million, you could do more good with it than you are doing now, couldn't you ?" asked Barclay.
"Yes, perhaps I could," admitted the general, as he eyed his miserable little pile of worldly goods in the basket.