“Just a minute—just a minute, now hold on, Mr. Potter—just a minute. Now you’re right when you say my father was no business man—I know that. Why he ever started this cheap penny-ante Building and Loan I’ll never know. But neither you nor anybody else can say anything against his character because his whole life was—why, in the twenty-five years since he and Uncle Billy started this thing he never once thought of himself—isn’t that right, Uncle Billy? He didn’t save enough money to send Harry to school, let alone me. But he did help a few people get out of your slums, Mr. Potter. And what’s wrong with that?
Why—you’re all business men here—doesn’t it make them better citizens? Doesn’t it make them better customers? You said that they—what’d you say just a minute ago—they had to wait and save before they even thought of a decent home? Wait! Wait for what? Until their children grow up and leave them, until they’re so old and broken down that they—do you know how long it takes a working man to save five thousand dollars? Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you’re talking about—they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath?
Anyway my father didn’t think so; people were human beings to him but to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they’re cattle. Well, in my book he died a much richer man than you’ll ever be.”