“You’ve got the hang of it!” murmured Caleb, half to himself. “The regular reformer shout. I wouldn’t have thought it of you. Honestly, son, it’s hard to take you reformers serious. You’re all so dead sure you’re saying what’s never been said before, and that you’re discovering what no one else ever dreamed of. If only I could buy one of you Civic Leaguers at my own estimate of you, and sell you at your estimate of yourself, it’d be the biggest deal I ever made. Now don’t get red and try to think up new platitudes to beller at me. I’ve listened pretty patient, but I think it’s my turn to do a little shouting, too. I’ve heard you out. Now, maybe it’ll do you no harm to make the same return-play to me. Sit down. You came here to reach an understanding, and get a line on my course, eh? Well, you’ve got a big load of fine words out of your system in the last few minutes. I’ll answer you as best I can, and then maybe in future us two’ll understand each other the better.” In spite of himself, Clive Standish listened. This thickset, powerful man, whose blazing temper was proverbial, had attended the young candidate’s rather turgid arraignment with every evidence of good-natured interest. He had endured insulting epithet with almost the air of one who hearkens to a compliment. And, in answering, he had spoken so moderately, so at variance with his usual mode of address, that Standish was utterly puzzled, and was half-ashamed of his own vehemence. What one of the Boss’s myriad moods was this, and what end had he in view? Clive checked his own impulse to depart. After all, there was something of justice in what Conover had said about the courtesy due a man who had listened to such a tirade as his. Standish remained standing at the table, looking across with unwilling inquiry at his host, who lounged at ease in his chair, watching the younger man with a grim smile, as though reading his every thought. Their relative positions were ludicrously akin to those of judge and prisoner. And the compelling force that lay behind the amusement in Caleb’s light eyes strengthened the resemblance. “In the first place,” said the Railroader, “I think you called me a ‘cur.’ Twice, I believe, you said that. You most likely thought I’d get mad. A cur _does_ get mad when he’s called bad names. But a grown man’s too busy to kick the puppy that yelps at his heels. A man of sense keeps his mouth shut, unless he’s got something to say. If a cur hasn’t anything else to yelp at, he goes out and picks a scrap with the moon, or at something else that’s too big or too high up to bother to hit back when he barks at it. Me, for instance. So we’ll let it go at that, and we won’t bother to get up a puzzle picture of us both and label it ‘Find the cur.’ Have a cigar? No? They aren’t campaign smokes. You needn’t ’a’ been afraid of ’em.” He lighted a gaudily-banded perfecto, puffed it a minute, and went on: