Dear heart, I am a captain of labor.

I could not sell out.

If for no other reason, the memory of my poor old father and the way he was worked to death would prevent." The tears were in his eyes, this great, strong hero of mine.

He never could forgive the way his father had been malformed--the sordid lies and the petty thefts he had been compelled to, in order to put food in his children's mouths.
"My father was a good man," Ernest once said to me.

"The soul of him was good, and yet it was twisted, and maimed, and blunted by the savagery of his life.