When Henry went home to his wife and his father-in-law, he was confident that he had a very fine bargain; when he told them what he had heard from his aunt and Mr. Archer, what he had seen with his own eyes, and what he had done with Mr. Mix, he expected first, sympathy, and afterwards, unqualified approval. Within the next five minutes, however, Henry was sitting limp and baffled; and wishing that he had Bob Standish to support him. Bob, at least, would understand.

“Holy Smoke!” he said, weakly. “I didn’t suppose you’d take it like that! Why, I––I feel as if I’d been run over by a steam-roller with Taft at the wheel!”

Judge Barklay had long since forgiven his daughter, but he hadn’t quite forgiven Henry. “Do you want my honest opinion? I should say you’re suffering from two extreme causes––exaggerated ego and cold feet.”

Henry flushed. He had the most profound respect for Judge Barklay––a man who had preferred to be a city magistrate, and to be known throughout the whole state for his wisdom and humanity, instead of keeping up his law practice, at five times the income––and Henry, like every one else, valued the Judge’s opinions. “You don’t mean you think I’d run the miserable little peanut-stand, do you? And keep books on it as if it had been the Federal Reserve Bank?”

“It strikes me,” said the Judge, “that both of us would rather have you run a peanut-stand than––I’m using your own analogy––than spend your whole life eating peanuts. Why, Henry, your uncle wanted you to be shocked––wanted you to be mad enough to stand up on your hind legs and fight.”

Henry looked at his wife. “What are you going to suggest? Hire a snake-charmer and a wild-man-from-Borneo and an infant pachyderm and a royal ring-tailed gyasticutus, and pull off a side-show after the main tent’s closed?”

“Oh, Henry! Can’t you see what a lark it would be?”

“Lark?” he repeated, hazily. “Lark? You’ve got the wrong bird. It’s crow.”

“No, but Henry dear, you aren’t going to be a quitter, are you?”

“Wife of my bosom, do you realize what you’re talking about? It would cost a thousand dollars just to make the place clean. It’ll cost three or four more to make it attractive enough to get anybody inside of it. And I haven’t got the price.”

“What’s the matter with a mortgage?” demanded the Judge. “And you’ve got a car, haven’t you? You’ve got a saddle-horse. You’ve got all kinds of junk you can turn into money.”

“On a wild gamble? Why, Anna, we couldn’t stay on here with the Judge––that would be getting help I’m not allowed to have––we’d have to go live in some cheap apartment; we couldn’t even have a maid for awhile; we couldn’t entertain anybody; we couldn’t have any outside pleasures; I’d have to work 80 like a dog; you know what the crowd on the hill would say––and then I’m beaten before I start anyway. Quitter! You wouldn’t call a man a quitter if he stayed out of a hurdle race because he’d broken a leg, would you?”

“Well,” said Anna, “I’m willing to live in such a cheap apartment that the landlord calls it a flat. And you can’t get any servants these days; there aren’t any. And who cares about entertaining? And for outside pleasures, why couldn’t we go to the Orpheum?” They all laughed, but Anna was the first to stop. “I’ll work just as hard as you will, Henry. I’ll peel potatoes and wash the sink––” She glanced, ruefully, at her hands––“and if it’ll help you, I––I’d sell tickets or be an usher or play the piano. Why, Henry, it would be a circus––and we wouldn’t need any snake-charmers, either.”

“And an education,” said Judge Barklay.

“And a gold-mine for us––in just one little year. We could do it; I know we could.”

“And if the stupid fool who’s had it this last year could make money out of it,” added the Judge, “and you used any intelligence on it, you’d come out ahead. John made up his 81 figures very carefully. That’s the kind of man he was.”

Henry stared at them alternately. “But if I did fall down––”

“Henry!” The Judge was using a professional gesture. “What do you suppose your time is worth, at its present market value? Don’t you think you can afford to risk a year of it against half a million dollars?”

“But when I’ve practically closed with Mix––”

“Sign any agreement?”

“No, he’s having one typed.”

The judge breathed in relief. “You’re lucky. You’d lose money if you took a third interest for a gift, and if you took all of it as a gift you’d lose three times as much. Because you’d have to assume your share of his liabilities. People think he’s got money, but he hasn’t; he’s broke. He must have picked you for a life preserver.”

Henry’s jaw dropped. “What makes you think so?”

“I don’t think so; I know so. Oh, he’s pretty shifty on his feet, and he’s got a good many 82 people hoodwinked––your uncle always gave him too much credit, incidentally––but his New York correspondents happened to be clients of mine when I was practising law, and they’ve both asked me about him and told me about him, inside of the last six weeks.”

Henry sat unblinking “Is that––a fact!”

“And if you wanted to sell out,” continued the Judge, with a trifle of asperity, “why on earth didn’t you go to Bob Standish? Why didn’t you go to an expert? And why didn’t you have an audit made of Mix’s company––why didn’t you get a little information––why didn’t you know what you were buying? Oh, it isn’t too late, if you haven’t signed anything, but––Henry, it looks to me as if you need a guardian!”

At the sight of his face, Anna went over to him, and perched on the arm of his chair. “That’s enough, Dad.... I’m his guardian; aren’t I, dear? And he’s just upset and dizzy and I don’t blame him a bit. We won’t say another word about it; we’ve told him what we think; and tonight he can have a long talk with 83 Bob. You’d want to do that, wouldn’t you, Henry? Of course you would. You wish you’d done it before. You’re feeling awfully ashamed of yourself for being so hasty. And snobbish. I know you.”

Henry looked across at the Judge. “Might as well have my brains where my hair is, mightn’t I? She sees it just as easy.... All right; we’ll let the whole thing ride ’till I’ve seen Bob.”

His friend Standish, gazing with childlike solemnity out of his big blue eyes, listened to both sides of the story, and to Henry’s miscalculation, at no time during the recital did he laugh uproariously, or exclaim compassionately, or indicate that he shared any of Henry’s conclusions:

“Oh, yes,” he said, “people might giggle a bit. But they always giggle at a man’s first shot at business, anyway. Like his first pair of long trousers. It’s done. But how many times will they do it? A thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? At maybe seven dollars a giggle? For less than that, I’d 84 be a comedian. I’d be a contortionist. I’d be a pie-thrower. Henry, old rubbish, you do what they tell you to.”

“Would you do it if you were in my place?”

“Would I lie down like a yellow dog, and let people say I hadn’t sand enough to stop a wristwatch?”

“I know, but Bob––the Orpheum!”

“I know, but Henry––don’t you sort of owe it to Mr. Starkweather? You wouldn’t have put on this milk-fed expression if he’d soaked it to you himself, would you?”

At this precise instant, Henry was required on the telephone. It was his Aunt Mirabelle; and even if he had been dining with royalty, she would still have called him––if she could have got the address.

“Henry,” she said acidly. “I’ve just found out what kind of a building it was your uncle deeded you. Theodore Mix told me. I didn’t know your uncle was ever messed up in that kind of a thing. He never told me. Good reason he didn’t, too. I certainly hope you aren’t going to spread this news around town, Henry––it’s scandalous enough to have it in 85 the family, even. Of all the hellish influences we’ve got to contend with in this day and generation––”

“Well,” said Henry, “it isn’t any of it my fault, is it?”

“That remains to be seen. Are you going to run that––dive?”

“Why––I don’t know. If I didn’t––”

“Oh, yes, you’re probably thinking how selfish I am. You wouldn’t recognize a pure motive if you met one in the street. But to think of a Devereux––almost the same thing as a Starkweather––”

“What’s your idea? To have me be a jolly little martyr?”

“There’s this much to say, Henry––at least I’d put John’s money to a nobler use than you ever would.”

Henry grimaced. “Your League?”

“Yes, what else?”

He was an impulsive young man, and sometimes he made up his mind by contraries. “I wouldn’t count too much on it,” he said cheerfully. “I might astonish you.”

“You––Henry Devereux! Am I going to see 86 my own sister’s son in a polluted enterprise like––”

“You’re going to see your own grandfather’s great-grandson make P. T. Barnum look a Kickapoo medicine man––if necessary,” said Henry. “Only don’t you worry about any pollution. That’s where I draw the line. I’m not going to stage one single pollute.”

“You are going to operate that place?”

“Why certainly,” said Henry. “And speaking of operations, I’ve got a hunch the patient’s going to recover. I’ve just been holding a clinic.... Well––good-bye, Aunt Mirabelle.” He turned back to his wife and his friend Standish. “So that’s settled,” said Henry, and grinned, a trifle apprehensively. “We’re off in a cloud of dust.... Waiter, where’s those two portions of crow I ordered four months ago? The service in this place is getting something rotten.”