y, out leaped the slower, stronger fire of the younger man's
personality.

"See here!" shouted Steering, "twice now I've done my best to hope that
somehow, somewhere you were going to throw me one line of commercial
honesty and decency. I haven't asked you to measure up to very high
standards, I'd have been satisfied with damned little; I've waited on
you and hoped for you and let you try to bull-doze me, but by God! I'm
done. You hear, I'm done!" He got up and the lean strength of his
determination and the long reach of his body were all-powerful. "Don't
you try this game with me again, Mr. Madeira! Don't you ever try any
game with me again--No! Keep back! Not that either!"

Madeira had gone crazy for the time. Possessed only by that desire to
crush the thing that opposed him, he lifted his big clenched fists
straight up over his head and came at Steering, fiery-eyed, perfervid
with relish of the moment when he could close down on his enemy and make
an end of him. He panted as he came, and as he came the veins in his
temples stood out, purple and knotted. A little line of froth lay upon
his lower lip.

"Eh, God! You!--Wait there!--You!--You!----"

Steering, with the old prowess that had made the boys on the gridiron
stand aside and howl for him, reached up and brought Madeira's arms down
with a circling, sweeping blow, then caught the bulky, staggering body
and thrashed it into a chair, forgetful that it was Madeira, forgetful
of Sally Madeira, forgetful of everything for one red instant save a
savage masculine joy in his own strength.

Then he took out a cigar and lit it, and his mental readjustment
followed quickly. "Mr. Madeira," he said, puffing slowly at the cigar,
the match's yellow light on his face showing that he was pale, "I am
sorry that you made me do that, sir. Still, I must add this to what I've
said,--don't, please, ever try to pull me along with you again. I guess
I'm going in a different direction. This leaves everything settled
between us. Our paths aren't apt to cross again. You aren't hurt, I
hope? There is nothing that I can do for you?"

Madeira made no answer. He was sitting, a wooden figure, in front of his
desk where Steering had thrashed him down. His temples were still
purplish, but the crazy light was no longer in his eyes. They were dull
and fishy. Steering had gone to the office door, then the bank door had
clanked to behind him before Madeira moved. He began working his fingers
the