After waiting in the reception room for nearly two hours, Don Mariano and his two friends were at last ushered into the presence of ex-Governor Stanford. He was so well hid behind his high desk, that looking around the empty room, Mr. Holman observed:

“Well, I hope this is not to be a second stage of waiting.”

Mr. Stanford arose, bowing from behind his desk, said:

“Be seated, gentlemen. Excuse my having kept you waiting.” Then seeing that there were but two chairs near by, and only one more at the furthest corner of the room, he added, going to bring the chair: “I thought that there were chairs for you.”

Don Mariano, too, had started for the same chair, now that its existence was discovered, but the Governor got there first, and brought it half way, then the Don took it and occupied it.

When all were seated, Governor Stanford said in his low, agreeable voice, which any one might suppose would indicate a benevolent, kind heart:

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

Don Mariano laughed outright. The situation struck him as being eminently ridiculous. Here was this man, who held pitilessly their destiny in his hands—held it with a grip of iron—and not one thought of the distress he caused; he, through his associate, Huntington, was lavishing money in Washington to kill the Texas Pacific, and thus snatch away from them (the three friends) the means of support, absolutely deprive them of the necessaries of life, and he asked them what he could do? and asked it with that deep-toned, rich melody of voice which vibrated softly, as if full of sympathy, that overflowed from a heart filled with philanthrophy, generosity and good will. This was a sad and cruel irony, which to Don Mariano made their position absurd, to the point of being laughable.

“This is like laughing at a funeral,” said Don Mariano, apologetically. “Please pardon me. What made me laugh was that I felt like answering you by saying, ‘Governor, you can do for us all we ask.’ But—but—”

“Say it out. But what?” said the Governor, smiling.

“But will do nothing for us,” finished Mr. Holman.

“That is to say, for San Diego,” added Mr. Mechlin, afraid that it might seem as if they came to ask a personal favor.

“Ah! it is of San Diego that you wish to speak to me? Then, truly, I fear I can do nothing for you,” the Governor said.

“But you can hear what we wish to say to you,” Mr. Holman interposed, with a sickly effort at smiling.

“Certainly. But really, gentlemen, you must excuse me for saying that I am very busy to-day, and can only give you a half hour.”

They all bowed.

Mr. Mechlin and Don Mariano looked at Mr. Holman, as it was understood that he would be spokesman. But Mr. Holman's heart was leaping with the indignation of a lion, and then shrinking with the discouragement of a mouse into such small contractions—all of which he in no way must reveal—that for a minute he could not speak.

“I suppose the San Diego people wish me to build them a railroad, isn't that it?” said the man of power, slowly arranging some papers on his desk.

“Or to let some one else build it,” said Mr. Holman.

The Governor colored slightly, in evident vexation.

“Tom Scott, for instance,” said he, sneeringly. “Take my advice, gentlemen, and don't you pin your faith on Tom Scott. He'll build no Texas Pacific, I assure you.”

“Then why don't you build it?” asked Mr. Mechlin.

“Because it won't pay,” was the dry reply.

“Why won't it pay? We have plenty of natural resources, which, if developed, would make plenty of business for two railroads,” Mr. Holman said.

“Only the San Diego people say so. No one else thinks of San Diego County, but as a most arid luckless region, where it never rains.”

“That is the talk of San Francisco people, Governor, because they want all the railroads to come to their city, and nowhere else,” said Don Mariano.

“We have less rainfall in Southern California, on an average, but on average, too, we get better crops than in the northern counties in dry years. How it is I can't tell you, unless it be that a given quantity of rain is all that crops require, and above that it is superfluous, or else that for certain soils a certain amount of rainfall is all that is required. It is undoubtedly true that in dry years more crops have been lost in some of the northern counties than in ours,” said Mr. Holman.

“Perhaps, but when we have such magnificent wheat country in our northern valleys, it isn't to be supposed that we can give any attention to San Diego.”

“If our county does not take the lead as wheat-growing, it certainly can take it as fruit-growing. We have no capital to make large plantations of vineyards or trees, but what has been done proves, conclusively, that for grapes, olives, figs, and in fact all semi-tropical fruits, there is no better country in the world.”

“That may be so, but you see we are not engaged in the fruit-growing business. We build railroads to transport freight and passengers. We do not care what or who makes the freights we carry.”

“Exactly. But surely there cannot be any reason why, if San Diego should have freights and passengers to be carried, that we should not have a railroad.”

“Certainly not. If you can get it, do so, of course.”

“Then, Governor, that is why we came to talk with you. Is San Diego's death sentence irrevocable? Is it absolutely determined by you that San Diego is not to have a railroad?” asked Mr. Holman.

“Well, that is a hard question to answer. No, perhaps for the present San Diego will not have a railroad,” said he, with cool nonchalance.

“What do you call for the present? How long?”

“That is a harder question yet. You see, if we effect a compromise with Mr. Scott, we will keep on building the Southern Pacific until we meet his road, and then, as all the Eastern freight can come by the Southern Pacific, there will not be any necessity of another railroad.”

“In other words, San Diego must be strangled. There will not be any Texas Pacific?” said Mr. Holman.

“No, not in California,” the Governor calmly asserted, passing over the subject as of no consequence, if a hundred San Diegos perished by strangulation.

“By the terms of the Southern Pacific charter were you not to build to San Diego?” asked Mr. Mechlin.

“Yes; that is to say, through San Diego to the Colorado River, but that wouldn't suit us at all. Still, I think that after a while, perhaps, when we have more time, we might build to San Diego from some point of the Southern Pacific that we see is convenient,” said he, as if it didn't matter what the terms of the Southern Pacific charter were, knowing that Congress would not enforce them.

“A little branch road,” observed Mr. Holman.

“Yes; that is all we think is necessary for our purpose.”

“Then to sum up, what we must understand is, that San Diego cannot hope to be a western terminus of a transcontinental railway; that all we may hope to get is a little branch road from some point convenient to the Southern Pacific Railroad.” Mr. Stanford bowed. “And yet,” Mr. Holman continued, “by right, San Diego is the terminal point of a transcontinental railway, and San Diego ought to be the shipping point for all that immense country comprising Arizona, Southern California and Northern Mexico. We are more than five hundred miles nearer to those countries than San Francisco, thus you will be making people travel six hundred miles more than is necessary to get to a shipping point on the Pacific.”

“So much more business for our road,” Mr. Stanford said, laughing, in a dignified way, and slightly elevating his eyebrows and shoulders, as if to indicate that really the matter hardly merited his consideration.

“But without asking or expecting you to take any sentimental or philosophic or moralizing view of our case as a benefactor, will you not take into consideration, as a business man, the immense benefit that there will be to yourselves to have control of the trade which will be the result of uniting Southern California with Arizona, with the Southern States and Northern Mexico, and developing those vast countries now lying useless, scarcely inhabited.”

“Oh, yes; we have thought of that, I suppose, but we are too busy up here. We have too much business on hand nearer us to think of attending to those wild countries.”

“Then, Governor, let some one else attend to them. We have only one life to live, and, really, much as we would like to await your pleasure, we cannot arrest the march of time. Time goes on, and as it slips by, ruin approaches us. We invested all our means in San Diego, hoping that Colonel Scott would build his railroad. Now we see plainly that unless you withdraw your opposition to Scott we are ruined men, and many more innocent people are in the same situation. So we come to you and say, if you will not let any one else build us a railroad, then do build it yourself. It will save us from ruin and give you untold wealth. We will be glad to see you make millions if we only secure for ourselves our bread and butter,” said Mr. Holman.

“Our bread; never mind the butter,” said Don Mariano, smiling.

“Why, you at least have plenty of cows to make butter,” said Mr. Stanford, addressing SeÑor Alamar, evidently wishing to avoid the subject, by turning it off.

“No, sir, I haven't. The squatters at my rancho shot and killed my cattle, so that I was obliged to send off those that I had left, and in doing this a snow-storm overtook us, and nearly all my animals perished then. The Indians will finish those which survived the snow.”

“Those Indians are great thieves, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir; but not so bad to me as the squatters. The Indians kill my cattle to eat them, whereas the squatters did so to ruin me. Thus, having now lost all my cattle, I have only my land to rely upon for a living—nothing else. Hence my great anxiety to have the Texas Pacific. My land will be very valuable if we have a railroad and our county becomes more settled; but if not, my land, like everybody else's land in our county, will be unsaleable, worthless. A railroad soon is our only salvation.”

“That is bad,” Mr. Stanford said, looking at his watch. “But I don't see how I can help you San Diego people. If Mr. Huntington effects some compromise with Mr. Scott, we will then build a branch road, as I said.”

“And what if there is no compromise?”

“Then, of course, there will be no road for you—that is to say, no Texas Pacific in California.”

“Why not, Governor? ‘Live and let live,’” Don Mariano said.

“You don't seem to think of business principles. You forget that in business every one is for himself. If it is to our interest to prevent the construction of the Texas Pacific, do you suppose we will stop to consider that we might inconvenience the San Diego people?”

“It is not a matter of inconvenience—it is ruin, it is poverty, suffering, distress; perhaps despair and death,” said Mr. Mechlin. “Our merchants, our farmers, all, the entire county will suffer great distress or ruin, for they have embarked their all in the hope of immediate prosperity, in the hope that emigration would come to us, should our town be the western terminus.”

“You should have been more cautious; not so rash.”

“How could we have foreseen that you would prevent the construction of the Texas Pacific?”

“Easily. By studying business principles; by perceiving it would be to our interest to prevent it.”

“We never thought, and do not think now, that it is to your interest to prevent it. But even if we had thought so, we would not have supposed that you would attempt it,” Mr. Mechlin replied.

“Why not?”

“Because it would have seemed to us impossible that you could have succeeded.”

“Why impossible?”

“Because we would have thought that the American people would interfere; that Congress would respect the rights of the Southern people.”

Mr. Stanford laughed, saying: “The American people mind their business, and know better than to interfere with ours. All I can tell you, gentlemen, is that if Mr. Scott does not agree to come no further than the Colorado River, he shall not be able to get the interest of his bonds guaranteed by our Government, which means that he will not have money to build his road—no Congressional aid at all.”

“You seem very sure of Congress?”

“I am sure of what I say.”

“But, Governor, the Government helped you to build your roads, why don't you let it help ours?”

“Who told you that?” said he, with an angry expression, like a dark shadow passing over his face. “Who told you that the Government helped us to build the Southern Pacific?”

“The Government gave you a grant of many millions of acres to help build it, as the Central Pacific was constructed with Government subsidies, and the earning of the Central Pacific were used to construct the Southern Pacific, it follows that you were helped by the Government to build both,” said Mr. Holman.

“You are talking of something you know nothing about. The help the Government gave us was to guarantee the interest of our bonds. We accepted that help, because we knew that, as private individuals, we might not command the credit necessary to place our bonds in the market, that's all. As for the land subsidy, we will pay every cent of its price with our services. We do not ask of the Government to give us anything gratis. We will give value received for everything.”

“That is certainly a very ingenious view to take of the whole matter, and so viewing it, of course the killing of the Texas Pacific seems justifiable to you,” said Mr. Mechlin.

“Carlyle, in your place, would not view your position like that, Governor,” said Don Mariano, rising.

“Nor Herbert Spencer, either. His ideas of what you call business principles are different,” added Mr. Holman.

“Pray, what would those great thinkers say?”

“Carlyle would think you are much to blame for flinging away a magnificent chance to be great and heroic. Carlyle worships heroes, but his idea of heroism is not only applicable to warriors and conquerors, but to any one capable of rising to a high plane of thought or heroic endeavor, doing acts which require great self-denial for our fellow-beings, for humanity's sake, with no view or expectation of reward in money,” Mr. Mechlin said.

The Governor smiled, and with the least perceptible sneer he asked:

“And how does Mr. Herbert Spencer differ with my ideas of business principles?”

“He differs in this, that he thinks that commercial honor, business morality, should be based on strict rectitude, on the purest equity. That so soon as any one in the pursuit of riches knowingly and wilfully will injure any one else, that he then violates the principle upon which commerce should rest,” Mr. Holman replied.

“But that is absurd. Would he stop competition?”

“Not at all. Competition generally has the effect of securing the preference to whomsoever deserves it. No, what Mr. Spencer maintains is that monopolies should not exist when they have become so powerful that they defy the law, and use their power to the injury of others. The fundamental principle of morality is then subverted,” said Mr. Holman.

“Fundamental morality forbids us to injure any one because we would be benefited by that injury,” said Don Mariano.

“The same old axiom of the French revolution, that ‘the rights of one man end where those of another begin.’ Danton and Marat sang that to the music of the guillotine,” said the Governor, a little bit contemptuously.

“That is so; but you see, Governor, the devil might sing psalms, and it won't hurt the psalms,” Don Mariano replied.

“We have made you waste your time talking to us, Governor,” said Mr. Holman; “can we not hope that you will reconsider this matter, and examine more carefully the advantages of making San Diego the direct outlet for all that country that needs a railroad so much? Believe me, sir, such road will bring you more millions than the Central and Southern Pacific Railroads. If you do not build it, and prevent Col. Scott from building it, sooner or later some one else will, for it stands to reason that such a magnificent enterprise will not be left neglected after other less advantageous routes are tried. Then you will have the regret of having spurned this golden chance.”

“And besides the chance of making millions for yourselves. Think of the blessings you will bring to so many hearts who are now sadly discouraged, and will be desolate if our hopes are frustrated,” Mr. Mechlin said.

“Corporations have no souls, gentlemen, and I am no Carlylean hero-philanthropist. I am only a most humble ‘public carrier.’ I do not aspire to anything more than taking care of my business,” Mr. Stanford answered.

“But, Governor, you cannot be indifferent to the distress your action will cause?” insisted Mr. Mechlin, with sad earnestness.

“As for that,” replied Mr. Stanford, smiling; “if I don't cause distress some one else will. Distress there must be, bound to be in this world, in spite of all that your philanthropists might do or say to prevent it.”

“But do you not think that if all and every one of those who have it in their power to be beneficent were not so indifferent to human suffering, but were to be benevolent, that then the combined result would be great alleviation and diminution of human distress?”

“No; because those who have power to do good are very few, and the improvident, the vicious, the lazy are in myriads; and they and their folly and vices and improvidence will, forever, more than counterbalance the good that the beneficent might effect,” Mr. Stanford asserted.

Mr. Mechlin arose and turned towards the door. Mr. Holman followed his example. SeÑor Alamar looked sadly at the floor, saying:

“Well, Governor, I am sorry we have failed in bringing you to our way of thinking. Time will show who is mistaken.”

“Oh, yes! Time will show. We can't cast any astrological horoscope at the birth of a railroad. All we can do is to take care that it thrives.”

“To clear away competition.”

“Exactly. The country is not settled enough yet to divide profits. Besides, we think that Eastern people ought not to build any roads to the Pacific Coast, when we of California are ready to do it. Let Tom Scott keep away. We don't build roads in Pennsylvania.”

“But are you sure you will always be able to prevent a competing road? Would it not be cheaper for yourself to build than to fight Tom Scott?”

“No indeed. For the present, it is cheaper to fight. It don't cost so much money to make friends,” said he, smiling.

“You seem very confident of success.”

“Money commands success, you know.”

“Yes, money is everything! And it weighs not a feather, all the ruin and squalor and death you will bring to a people who never harmed you! Not a feather's weight, as against the accumulation of money for yourselves,” said Mr. Mechlin, forgetting his usual consideration for others' feelings.

“If I did not cause this misery you apprehend, some one would. Be sure of it, for there will always be misery in the world, no matter who causes it,” the Governor replied, with an air of being satisfied with his philosophy, inasmuch as he was to be exempt from human suffering, no matter who went under.

Mr. Mechlin, still lingering sadly, and veiling his great disapprobation of Mr. Stanford's practical philosophy, said:

“Mr. Herbert Spencer also, in elucidating his principles, reminds us of the fact that ‘Misery is the highway to death, while happiness is added life, and the giver of life.’ Think of this, Governor. Surely, you do not wish to make us so miserable that you cause death! Yes, death from poverty and despair. Poverty, overwork and discouragement are the causes of sickness and death oftener than it is supposed, and this Mr. Spencer also maintains unswervingly.”

“You have a very vivid imagination; you color up things too dark,” said the Governor, also rising.

“I hope you will not be sorry to have thought so. I hope you will not regret that you closed your heart and your mind against us, against justice, humanity and reason.” So saying, Mr. Mechlin slowly walked off; then at the door he turned, and lifting his finger, said to Don Mariano: “I feel a prophetic warning that neither you nor I will ever see light in this world. These men—this deadly, soulless corporation, which, like a black cloud, has shut out the light from San Diego's horizon—will evermore cast the shadow that will be our funeral pall. But let them look to it, they might yet carry their heartless rapacity beyond limit. The mighty monopoly, that has no soul to feel responsibility, no heart for human pity, no face for manly blush—that soulless, heartless, shameless monster—might yet fall of its own weight.” So saying, Mr. Mechlin walked away, as if he intended this prophecy to be a parting salutation to the men who had blighted his life and made him utterly hopeless.