ounting
the spies who were converted merely to scare me--but enough real spies
to know that they mean business!" He stopped, and sitting back in his
chair again, he said grimly, "And so do I--I shall talk to the men
to-night, or--"

"All right, son; you'll talk or 'the boy, oh, where was he?' I'll tell
you what," cried Mr. Brotherton; "you'll fool around with the buzz saw
till you'll get killed. Now, look here, Grant--I'm for your revolution,
and six buckets of blood. But you can't afford to lose 'em! You're dead
right about the chains of slavery and all that sort of thing, but don't
get too excited about it. You live down there alone with your father and
he is talking to spooks, and you're talking to yourself; and you've got
a kind of ingrown idea of this thing. Give the Lord a little time, and
he'll work out this pizen in our social system. I'll help you, and maybe
before long Doc'll see the light and help you; but now you need a
regulator. You ought to have a wife and about six children to hook you
up to the ordinary course of nature! And see here, Grant," Mr.
Brotherton dropped a weighty hand on Grant's shoulder, "if you don't be
careful you'll furnish the ingredients of a public funeral, and where
will your revolution be then--and the boys in the Valley and your father
and Kenyon?"

While Brotherton was speaking, Grant sat with an impassive face. But
when Kenyon's name was uttered he looked up quickly and answered:

"That is why I am here this morning; it's about Kenyon. George
Brotherton, that boy is more than life to me." The fanatic light was
gone from Grant's eyes, and the soft glow in them revealed a man that
George Brotherton had not seen in years. "Mr. Brotherton," continued
Grant, "father is getting too old to do much for Kenyon. The Nesbits
have borne practically all the expense of educating him. But the Doctor
won't always be here." Again he hesitated. Then he went ahead as if he
had decided for the last time. "George Brotherton, if I should be
snuffed out, I want you to look after Kenyon--if ever he needs it. You
have no one, and--" Grant leaned forward and grasped Brotherton's great
hands and cried, "George Brotherton, if you knew the gold in that boy's
heart, and what he can do with a violin, and how his soul is unfolding
under the spell of his music. He's so dumb and tongue-tied and unformed
now; and yet--"

"Well--say!" It came out of Mr. Brotherton with a crash like a falling
tree, "Grant--well