"I don't
see just why--"
"WHAT?" Sheridan leaned forward, resting his hands upon the desk and
staring across it incredulously at his son.
"I don't understand--exactly--what you want it all bigger for?"
"Great God!" shouted Sheridan, and struck the desk a blow with his
clenched fist. "A son of mine asks me that! You go out and ask the
poorest day-laborer you can find! Ask him that question--"
"I did once," Bibbs interrupted; "when I was in the machine-shop.
I--"
"Wha'd he say?"
"He said, 'Oh, hell!'" answered Bibbs, mildly.
"Yes, I reckon he would!" Sheridan swung away from the desk. "I
reckon he certainly would! And I got plenty sympathy with him right
now, myself!"
"It's the same answer, then?" Bibbs's voice was serious, almost
tremulous.
"Damnation!" Sheridan roared. "Did you ever hear the word Prosperity,
you ninny? Did you ever hear the word Ambition? Did you ever hear
the word PROGRESS?"
He flung himself into a chair after the outburst, his big chest
surging, his throat tumultuous with gutteral incoherences. "Now
then," he said, huskily, when the anguish had somewhat abated,
"what do you want to do?"
"Sir?"
"What do you WANT to do, I said.
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