understand. You do not see how hopeless is your desire to make restitution. Not in a single instance can it be done.
“Back up, philosopher!” said Dan. “The penny has no sorrow that the dollar cannot heal.”
“Not in one instance,” repeated Kenwitz. “I will give you one, and let us see. Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick Street. He sold bread to the poorest people. When the price of flour went up he had to raise the price of bread. His customers were too poor to pay it, Boyne’s business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital—all he had in the world.”
Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist.
“I accept the instance,” he cried. “Take me to Boyne. I will repay his thousand dollars and buy him a new bakery.”
“Write your check,” said Kenwitz, without moving, “and then begin to write checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next one for $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the building from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted to that much. Boyne died in an asylum.”
“Stick to the instance,” said Dan. “I haven’t noticed any insurance companies on my charity list.”
“Draw your next check for $100,000,” went on Kenwitz. “Boyne’s son fell into bad ways after the bakery
