A Hasty Inference

The Devil one day, coming up from the Pit, All grimy with perspiration, Applied to St. Peter and begged he'd admit Him a moment for consultation. The Saint showed him in where the Master reclined On the throne where petitioners sought him; Both bowed, and the Evil One opened his mind Concerning the business that brought him: 'For ten million years I've been kept in a stew Because you have thought me immoral; And though I have had my opinion of you, You've had the best end of the quarrel. 'But now-well, I venture to hope that the past With its misunderstandings we'll smother; And you, sir, and I, sir, be throned here at last As equals, the one to the other.' 'Indeed!' said the Master (I cannot convey A sense of his tone by mere letters) 'What makes you presume you'll be bidden to stay Up here on such terms with your betters?' 'Why, sure you can't mean it!' said Satan. 'I've seen How Stanford and Crocker you've nourished, And Huntington-bless me! the three like a green Umbrageous great bay-tree have flourished. They are fat, they are rolling in gold, they command All sources and well-springs of power; You've given them houses, you've given them land Before them the righteous all cower.' 'What of that?' 'What of that?' cried the Father of Sin; 'Why, I thought when I saw you were winking At crimes such as theirs that perhaps you had been Converted to my way of thinking.'