"Oh it's his mug," explained Mickey impatiently. "S'pose you do own a grouch, what's the use of displaying it in your show window? Those things are dangerous. They're contagious. Seeing a fellow on the street looking like he'd never smile again, makes other folks think of their woes, so pretty soon everybody gets sorry for themselves. I'd like to see the whole world happy." "Mickey, what makes _you_ so happy to-day?" "I scent somepin' nice in the air," said Mickey. "I hear the rumble of the joy wagon coming my way." "You surely look it," declared Douglas. "It's a mighty fine thing to be happy. I am especially thinking that, because it looks like this last batch you brought me has a bad dose in it for a man I know. He won't be happy when he sees his name in letters an inch high on the front page of the _Herald_." "No, he won't," agreed Mickey, his face dulling. "That _comes in my line_. I've seen men forced to take it right on the cars. Open a paper, slide down, turn white, shiver, then take a brace and try to sit up and look like they didn't care, when you could see it was all up with them. Gee, it's tough! I wish we were in other business." "But what about the men who work hard for their money, not to mince matters, that these men you are pitying steal?" asked Douglas. "Yes, I know," said Mickey. "But there's a big bunch of taxpayers, so it doesn't hit any _one_ so hard. It's tough on them, but honest, Mr. Bruce, it ain't as tough to lose your coin as it is to lose your glad face. You can earn more money or slide along without so much; but once you get the slick, shamed look on your show window, you can't ever wash it off. Since your face is what your friends know you by, it's an awful pity to spoil it." "That's so too, Mickey," laughed Bruce, "but keep this clearly in your mind. _I'm not spoiling any one's face_. If any man loses his right to look his neighbour frankly in the eye, from the job we're on, it is _his_ fault, not _ours_. If men have lived straight we can't find defalcations in their books, can we?" "Nope," agreed Mickey. "Just the same I wish we were plowing corn, 'stead of looking for them. That plowing job is awful nice. I watched a man the other day, the grandest big bunch of bone and muscle, driving a team it took a gladiator to handle. First time I ever saw it done at close range and it got me. He looked like a man you'd want to tie to and stick 'til the war is over. If he ever has a case he is going to bring it to you. But where he'll get a case out there ten miles from anybody, with the bluest sky you ever saw over his head, and black fields under his feet, I can't see. Yes, I wish we were plowing for corn 'stead of trouble." "You little dunce," laughed Douglas. "We'd make a fortune plowing corn." "What's the difference how much you make if something black keeps ki-yi-ing at your heels 'bout how you make it?" asked Mickey.