ty would not have affected
him; it would not have appealed to him as being either clever or
objectionable; he would simply not have noticed it at all. But Allis
Porter had originated a revolution in his manner of thought. He even
fought against the softer awakening; it was like destroying the lifelong
habits of a man. His callousness had been a shield that had saved him
troublous misgivings; behind this shield, even in rapacity, he had
experienced peace of mind, absence of remorse. If he could have put
away from him his love for the girl he would have done so willingly. Why
should he battle and strive for an unattainable something as intangible
as a dream? It was so paradoxical that Allis's love for Mortimer seemed
hopeless because of the latter's defeat, while his, Crane's love, was
equally hopeless in his hour of victory.

Farrell's voice drew him from this psychological muddle in tones that
sounded harsh as the cawing of homing ravens at eventime.

"Will it be a court case?" he queried.

"What?" asked Crane, from his tangled elysium.

"That high roller in the bank."

"Oh! I can't say yet what it will lead to." Crane's caution always
asserted itself first.

"Well, I've been thinking it over. That's the guy, right enough, but
when it comes to swearing to a man's identity in court, it's just a bit
ticklish."

Crane frowned. He disliked men who hedged. He always planned first,
then plunged; evidently his companion had plunged first, and was now
verifying his plans.

Farrell continued, "You see what I mean?"

"I don't," answered Crane, shortly.

"You will if you wait," advised Farrell, a tinge of asperity in his
tone. "I'm makin' a book, say. All the blazin' idiots in Christendom is
climbin' over me wantin' to know what I'll lay this and what I'll lay
that. They're like a lot of blasted mosquitos. A rounder comes up an'
makes a bet; if it's small p'r'aps I don't twig his mug at all, just
grabs the dough an' calls his number. He may be Rockefeller, or a tough
from the Bowery, it don't make no difference to me; all I want is his
goods an' his number, see? But a bettor of the right sort slips in an'
taps me for odds to a thousand. Nat'rally I'm interested, because he
parts with the thousand as though it was his heart's blood. I size him
up. There ain't no time fer the writin' down of earmarks, though most
like I could point him out in a crowd, an' say, 'That's the rooster.'
But sposin' a judge stood up another m