LAWYER: I've been with you gentlemen before, when you've sat by the coffins of boys born and raised in this town; and, if I remember rightly, you were never any too well satisfied when you checked them up. What's the matter, anyhow?  Why is it that reputable young men are as scarce as millionaires in Sand City ?  It might almost seem to a stranger that there was some way something the matter with your progressive town.  Why did Ruben Sayer, the brightest young lawyer you ever turned out, after he had come home from the university as straight as a die, take to drinking and forge a check and shoot himself?  Why did Bill Merrit's son die of the shakes in a saloon in Omaha ?  Why was Mr. Thomas's son, here, shot in a gambling house?  Why did young Adams burn his mill to beat the insurance companies and go to the pen?  I'll tell you why.  Because you drummed nothing but money and knavery into their ears from the time they wore knickerbockers; because you carped away at them as you've been carping here tonight, holding our friends Phelps and Elder up for models, as our grandfathers held up George Washington and John Adams.  But the boys, worse luck, were young and raw at the business you put them to; and how could they match coppers with such artists as Phelps and Elder?  You wanted them to be successful rascals; they were only unsuccessful ones—that’s all the difference.  There was only one boy ever raised in this borderland between ruffianism and civilization who didn't come to grief, and you hated Harvey Merrick more for winning out than you hated all the other boys who got under the wheels.  Lord, Lord, how you did hate him! Phelps, here, is fond of saying that he could buy and sell us all out any time he's a mind to; but he knew Harve wouldn't have given a tinker's damn for his bank and all his cattle farms put together; and a lack of appreciation, that way, goes hard with Phelps.  Old Nimrod, here, thinks Harve drank too much; and this from such as Nimrod and me! Brother Elder says Harve was too free with the old man's money—fell short in filial consideration, maybe.  Well, we can all remember the very tone in which brother Elder swore his own father was a liar, in the county court; and we all know that the old man came out of that partnership with his son as bare as a sheared lamb.  But maybe I'm getting personal, and I'd better be driving ahead at what I want to say.  Harvey Merrick and I went to school together, back East. We were dead in earnest, and we wanted you all to be proud of us some day.  We meant to be great men.  Even I, and I haven't lost my sense of humor, gentlemen, I meant to be a great man.  I came back here to practice, and I found you didn't in the least want me to be a great man.  You wanted me to be a shrewd lawyer—oh, yes! Our veteran here wanted me to get him an increase of pension, because he had dyspepsia; Phelps wanted a new county survey that would put the widow Wilson's little bottom farm inside his south line; Elder wanted to lend money at five percent a month and get it collected; old Stark here wanted to wheedle old women up in Vermont into investing their annuities in real estate mortgages that aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.  Oh, you needed me hard enough, and you'll go on needing me; and that's why I'm not afraid to plug the truth home to you this once.   Well, I came back here and became the damned shyster you wanted me to be.  You pretend to have some sort of respect for me; and yet you'll stand up and throw mud at Harvey Merrick, whose soul you couldn't dirty and whose hands you couldn't tie.  Oh, you're a discriminating lot of Christians!  There have been times when the sight of Harvey's name in some Eastern paper has made me hang my head like a whipped dog; and, again, times when I liked to think of him off there in the world, away from all this hog wallow, doing his great work and climbing the big, clean upgrade he'd set for himself.  And we?  Now that we've fought and lied and sweated and stolen, and hated as only the disappointed strugglers in a bitter, dead little Western town know how to do, what have we got to show for it?  Harvey Merrick wouldn't have given one sunset over your marshes for all you've got put together, and you know it.  It's not for me to say why, in the inscrutable wisdom of God, a genius should ever have been called from this place of hatred and bitter waters; but I want this Boston man to know that the drivel he's been hearing here tonight is the only tribute any truly great man could ever have from such a lot of sick, side-tracked, burnt-dog, land-poor sharks as the here-present financiers of Sand City—upon which town may God have mercy!

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