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ox Kiiey any more, wnen Kiiey was alive among us, bricklayers , just used to lay bricks, and be damned to you. Now they have to count the bricks they lay.
When you used <to turn a bend in the highway and see the sign Men at Work, there were a dozen or so characters leaning on their picks and shovels, as merry and happy and idle a bunch as you would ever want to see. But now when you round a bend and see. that sign, what lies beyond?
A scene of dire action, bulldozers snorting and bellowing, tractors kicking up clods, blasters drilling ^holes, frantic little men in rubber boots dashing about— nobody with a shovel. If these are any shovels there, they are steam shovels. .
When Riley was alive we' all envied him. Whether he was rich or poor, whether he was a millionaire taking, four * months off to visit Paris or a carpenter enjoying a public holiday in a beer saloon, the rest of us iwere entitled' to dream of some day living the life of Riley and being care-free. But something terrible has happened. Riley’s dead.
And if you go into a beer saloon, you don’t see any carpen- ters enjoying public holidays any more. They are hunched over tha tables, arguing covertly about social security. Riley just wanted to be free. With him gone, all vje want to be is secure. It’s not the same.
Let us take the rich Rileys first. It’s hard to believe that income tax . did not exist before 1917 and World War I. Starting then, air the business and excess profits taxes, and the insidiously mounting personal income taxes were contrived, one after the other. It’s tough to be rich now.
But in Riley’s day, back before 1917, all the money a man made
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