Whatever Storch's specific grievance with life, he never voiced it and in this he won Fred's admiration. He liked to jangle the discordant passions of others, but his own he muffled into complete silence. He had worked at almost every known calling. It seemed that he came and disappeared always as suddenly and in his wake a furrow of men harrowed to supreme unrest yielded up a harvest sown of dragon's teeth. He was an idea made flesh, patient, relentless, almost intangible. He flashed upon new horizons like a cloud from the south and he vanished as completely once he had revived hatred with his insinuating showers. He was, as he had said on that first meeting with Fred, a fanatic, a high priest. He called many, but he chose few. One night after the others had left Fred said to him: "Do you realize what you are doing? ... You are working up these men to a frenzy. Some morning we shall wake to find murder done." "How quickly you are learning," Storch answered, flinging his coat aside. "Are you fair?" Fred went on, passionately. "If you have your convictions, why not risk your own hide to prove them? Why make cats'-paws of the others?" Storch took out his pipe and lighted it deliberately. "Prospective martyrs are as plentiful as fish in a net," he answered. "Of what good is the sea's yield without fishermen? ... I sacrifice myself and who takes my place? Will you?" Fred turned on him suddenly. "You are not training me to be your successor, I hope," he said, with a slight sneer. "Because I lie here without protest is no reason that I approve. Indeed, I wonder sometimes if I do quite right to permit all this... There are authorities, you know." Storch looked at him steadily. "The door is open, my friend." Fred gave a little gesture of resignation. "You know perfectly well that I'm not built to betray the man who gives me shelter." "Oh, I'm not sheltering you for love!" "You have some purpose, of course. I understand that. But you're wasting time." "Well, I'll risk it... I know well enough you're not a man easily won to an abstract hatred... But a personal hatred very often serves as good a turn... Everything is grist to my mill." "A personal hatred?" echoed Fred. Storch blew out the light. "You're duller than I thought," he called through the gloom. Fred turned his face away and tried to sleep. The next day he decided to crawl out of bed and begin to win back his strength. He couldn't lie there forever sharing Storch's roof and crust. But the effort left him exhausted and he was soon glad to fling himself back upon the couch.