position's exactly--"

"They're a lot of Huns, and that's why they'll shell out thousands and
modernize their plants just because you ask 'em?"

The two men eyed each other again, O'Neill good-natured and rather
triumphant. V.V., for his part, was smiling just a little sternly.

"Sam," said he, "you thought I was a mad ass to write a letter a few
months ago. Now time passes and you say I was quite right, and won't I
please write you another in to-morrow's paper. This time, I tell you
that a letter will only do harm--great harm--"

"'Phone, Doctor!" bawled a husky young voice from below. "Aw, Doctor!
'Phone!"

"All right, Tommy!" shouted Doctor.

Rising to his height, he shot at O'Neill: "And once more you'll see I'm
absolutely right! I don't change, my dear fellow, the simple reason
being that I've got a guiding principle that doesn't change. I must
answer that 'phone."

"Well, I'll trot along with you. I've got to get on up the hill...."

They headed together for the door. By reason of the prohibitory
expense, Dr. Vivian had no telephone of his own, but through the
courtesy of Meeghan's Grocery just across the street (which
establishment was in receipt of medical attendance gratis), the initiate
could always "get a message" to him. Commissioner O'Neill, at once
puzzled and somewhat impressed by his friend's air of confidence,
resumed conciliatively:

"Now, jokin' aside, V.V., what's the proposition? D'you honestly think
Heth can be made to clean up by your persuading his wife or daughter to
ask him to? Is that it?--You met 'em at your uncle's reception,
I s'pose?"

But V.V.'s reserve had fallen, like a mysterious wall between. "You say
you're at the end of your rope," said he, stepping with his long stride
into the hall. "Well, suppose you give me a few months, that's all."

The two friends descended the long stairs in silence. Vivian's
meditations were rather tense. He recalled the hard words of the Severe
Arraignment; he remembered the unforgivable speech he had made in the
summer-house; before his mind's eye rose the moment in his uncle's
lamplit den when he had told the girl to her face that her father was a
homicide. Sacrificing natural inclinations to kindliness, he had done
and said these things. And Sam O'Neill, knowing practically nothing of
the facts in the case, had the nerve to stand up ...

O'Neill, descending, reflected that old V.V. was undoubtedly a queer
one. Chuck full of hazy optimism