know--means to me."

"That's very temperamental," she said with a shrug. "Sometimes I
believe you think more of your work than you do of your family."

"I love you both," he answered gently. "And I don't love you and Davy
Junior less because I think so much of the work."

It was a fleeting shadow. Those months of preparation and hope were
the happiest they had had since the panic began.

Only once did his faith waver. It was on the day when Dick Holden, a
roll of plans under his arm, came into the office.

"Davy, are you too busy to do a little job for me?"

That was the formula Dick, who was very thoughtful in little things,
always used when he turned work over to David.

"I guess I can make room--with crowding." That was the reply David,
with a smile only half humorous, always made. "What is it?"

"I want you to make one of your pretty-pretty pictures of some church
plans I'm making."

"What church?"

"St. Christopher's."

David looked up quickly. "Let's see the plans."

Dick spread them out on the table. David glanced over them hastily.

"You're trying for it with that?"

"Even so." Dick laughed. Dick at that stage of his career laid no
claims to genius. "But I know what I'm doing. I've been talking with
old man Bixby."

David looked up again.

"Dick, it's fair to tell you that I'm trying for that St. Christopher's
job myself."

"Meaning you'd rather not make pretty-pretty pictures for a competitor?"

"No. I mean you'd be wasting your money."

"Why?"

David drew out his original sketch and laid it before Dick.

Dick looked--and looked again. He leaned over and studied it intently,
his eyes widening and shining. Suddenly with a queer gesture he rose
and went to a window. He stood there, back turned to David, for
several minutes.

When he turned a flush was on his face and he found it hard to meet
David's questioning eyes.

"Davy, it's good. It's damn good. It's so much better than mine that
I can't find a comparison. I know just enough architecture to be sure
of that. I take off my hat to you. But it's fair to tell you--it
won't win."

"Why not?"

"_I'm_ going to win."

"With that?" David nodded toward Dick's plans.

"With that."

"How?"

"I'm giving old Bixby what he wants, and I'm--" Dick made gestures of
pulling wires.

David was silent.

"Maybe," Dick went on after a moment, "you think I oughtn't to work
this game against you. And maybe I oughtn'