e devil, before he hit him a whack. Then he
said, as if it had just occurred to him, "We were wondering--some of
the directors--this morning, if under the circumstances--oh, say
just for the coming six months or such a matter--it might not be wise
to reorganize our board; freshen it up, don't you know; kind of get
some new names on it, and drop the old ones--not permanently, but
just to give the other stockholders a show on the board."

"So you want me to get off, do you?" blurted Barclay. "You're afraid
of my name--now?"

The screams of Mr. Carnine, the protesting screams of that oleaginous
gentleman, if they could have been vocalized in keeping with their
muffled, low-voiced, whispering earnestness, would have been loud
enough to be heard a mile away, but Barclay talked out:--

"All right, take my name off; and out comes my account. I don't care."

And thereupon the agony of Mr. Carnine was unutterable. If he had been
a natural man, he would have howled in pain; as it was, he merely
purred. But Barclay's skin was thin that day, sensitive to every
touch, and he felt the rough hand of Carnine and winced. He let the
old man whine and pur and stroke his beard awhile, and then Barclay
said wearily, "All right, just as you please, Gabe--I'll not move my
account. It's nothing to me."

In another minute the feline foot of Mr. Carnine was pattering gently
toward the front door. Barclay sat looking at the stove, and Watts
went on working. Barclay sighed deeply once or twice, but McHurdie
paid no heed to him. Finally Barclay rose and went over to the bench.

"Watts," cried Barclay, "what do you think about it--you, your own
self, what do you think way down in your heart?"

Watts sewed a stitch or two without speaking, and then put down his
thread and put up his glasses and said, "That's fairly spoken, John
Barclay, and will have a fair answer."

The old man paused; Barclay cried impatiently, "Oh, well, Watts, don't
be afraid--nothing can hurt me much now!"

"I was just a-thinking, lad," said Watts, gently, "just a-thinking."

"What?" cried Barclay.

"Just a-thinking," returned the old man, as he put his hand on the
younger man's shoulder, "what a fine poet you spoiled in your life,
just to get the chance to go to jail. But the Lord knows His business,
I suppose!" he added with a twinkle in his eye, "and if He thinks a
poet more or less in jail would help more than one out--it is all for
the best, John, all for the b