thing
all put together again. I got the old man to say that he had spoken to
March a little too authoritatively about Lindau; that, in fact, he ought
to have communicated his wishes through me; and that he was willing to
have me get rid of Lindau, and March needn't have anything to do with
it. I thought that was pretty white, but March says the apologies
and regrets are all well enough in their way, but they leave the main
question where they found it."

"What is the main question?" Beaton asked, pouring himself out some
Chianti. As he set the flask down he made the reflection that if he
would drink water instead of Chianti he could send his father three
dollars a week, on his back debts, and he resolved to do it.

"The main question, as March looks at it, is the question of punishing
Lindau for his private opinions; he says that if he consents to my
bouncing the old fellow it's the same as if he bounced him."

"It might have that complexion in some lights," said Beaton. He drank
off his Chianti, and thought he would have it twice a week, or make
Maroni keep the half-bottles over for him, and send his father two
dollars. "And what are you going to do now?"

"That's what I don't know," said Fulkerson, ruefully. After a moment he
said, desperately, "Beaton, you've got a pretty good head; why don't you
suggest something?"

"Why don't you let March go?" Beaton suggested.

"Ah, I couldn't," said Fulkerson. "I got him to break up in Boston and
come here; I like him; nobody else could get the hang of the thing like
he has; he's--a friend." Fulkerson said this with the nearest approach
he could make to seriousness, which was a kind of unhappiness.

Beaton shrugged. "Oh, if you can afford to have ideals, I congratulate
you. They're too expensive for me. Then, suppose you get rid of
Dryfoos?"

Fulkerson laughed forlornly. "Go on, Bildad. Like to sprinkle a few
ashes over my boils? Don't mind me!"

They both sat silent a little while, and then Beaton said, "I suppose
you haven't seen Dryfoos the second time?"

"No. I came in here to gird up my loins with a little dinner before I
tackled him. But something seems to be the matter with Maroni's cook. I
don't want anything to eat."

"The cooking's about as bad as usual," said Beaton. After a moment he
added, ironically, for he found Fulkerson's misery a kind of relief from
his own, and was willing to protract it as long as it was amusing, "Why
not try an envoy extraordin