"Oh, it serves him right," he said. "Don't you
see that he is hoist with his own petard? Let him alone. He's in the hands
of his friends."
The Altrurian waited for the tumult to die away, and then he said, gently:
"I don't understand."
The old farmer jerked himself to his feet again. "It's like this: I paid
my dolla' to hear about a country where there wa'n't no co'perations nor
no monop'lies nor no buyin' up cou'ts; and I ain't agoin' to have no
allegory shoved down my throat, instead of a true history, noways. I know
all about how it is _here_. Fi'st, run their line through your backya'd,
and then kill off your cattle, and keep kerryin' on it up from cou't to
cou't, till there ain't hide or hair on 'em left--"
"Oh, set down, set down! Let the man go on! He'll make it all right with
you," one of the construction gang called out; but the farmer stood his
ground, and I could hear him through the laughing and shouting keep saying
something, from time to time, about not wanting to pay no dolla' for no
talk about co'perations and monop'lies that we had right under our own
noses the whole while, and, you might say, in your very bread-troughs;
till, at last, I saw Reuben Camp make his way toward him, and, after an
energetic expostulation, turn to leave him again.
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