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“That’s all right, Victor,” McLagan said readily. “You’re a banker, I’m not. I’m just a hard citizen the same as the rest, and don’t need to worry to keep my notions of Beacon Glory to myself. And if any feller feels like disputing, why, I can argue it out any old way he fancies. But I’m sick with this city the same as I’m sick with most things unclean. I guess it isn’t altogether the fault of folks so much as the times, and the thing life’s drifted into. Does it ever worry you thinking of modern conditions and the crazy scramble of it all? You know, I ought to’ve been born two or three centuries back before some fool guy invented the words ‘democracy’ and ‘proletariat.’ You can’t run a thing right by committees and assemblies set up by any popular vote. Think of me trying to locate oil in the hills back here with a bunch of guys sitting around telling me how I need to go about it, and where to start my drills. No, sir. It’s the same with countries and cities and Sunday schools. You need one head and one hand. And whether for good or bad you’ll get some sort of order and discipline and things’ll move quick. I’d say it’s better, seeing human nature is what it is, to let one feller graft than a government of hundreds, and it’s cheaper. This territory’s run by a government that only cares for its job and legislates thousands of miles away. What’s the result? Why—Beacon Glory, an undisciplined quagmire of human muck!”