"
"All right," said T-S. "Here you are." And reaching into his pocket,
he produced a wad of new shiny hundred dollar notes, folded
together. "Count 'em."
Carpenter took the money in his hand. "So this is it!" he said. He
looked at it, as if he were inspecting some strange creature from
the wilds of Patagonia.
"It's de real stuff," said T-S, with a grin.
"The stuff for which men sell their souls, and women their virtue!
For which you starve and beat and torture one another--"
"Ain't it pretty?" said the magnate, not a bit embarrassed.
The other began reading the writing on the notes--as you may
remember having done in some far-off time of childhood. "Whose
picture is this?" he asked.
"I dunno," said the magnate. "De Secretary of de Treasury, I
reckon."
"But," said the other, "why not your picture, Mr. T-S?"
"Mine?"
"Of course."
"My picture on de money?"
"Why not? You are the one who makes it, and enables everyone else to
make it."
It was one of those brand new ideas that come only to geniuses and
children.
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