Mr. Baxter is scrawnier than he was at forty-five, which is saying something that challenges the credulity. He is still strong, and active, and wiry, but he is a thing of knobs and joints and wrinkles. The passing years seem deliberately to have neglected the rest of his person in a shameless endeavor to develop for him a prize Adam’s apple; it has become quite a fascinating though bewildering product, scarce what you would call an adornment and yet not without its own peculiar charm. It is a shifting, unstable hump that appears to have no definite place of lodgment; no sooner does it settle into a momentary state of repose than something comes up—or down—to disturb its serenity and, in a charmed sort of way, you watch it resume its spasmodic titillations. It grips you. You can’t help wondering what it is going to do next. And as it happens to be placed in the scrawniest part of Mr. Baxter’s person—his neck—it is always visible. He makes a practice of removing his collar the instant he reaches home of an evening, a provision that affords great relief not only to himself but also to the vagrant protuberance. Which accounts for his being quite collarless when he faced his three visitors. He blinked at them uneasily, for their faces were long and joyless. “He was here a minute ago,” he replied. “Why?” “Before we proceed any farther, Brother Baxter,” announced the Reverend Sage, “I wish to state that I do not agree with our friends here.” “You never do agree with us,” said Mr. Link, but without a trace of resentment. “I wouldn’t go quite so far as that if I were you, Silas,” protested the minister affably. “It is only in the case of Oliver October that I disagree with you. We heartily agree on almost everything else, I am sure.” “But the time has come when we got to agree about Oliver October,” declared Mr. Sikes dictatorially. “I said it would come, and here it is. I only hope we ain’t too late. It seems to be the style not to pay a damn’ bit of attention to anything I say nowadays. It’s a hell of a—” “My dear Brother Sikes,” broke in the parson, lifting his eyebrows. Joseph Sikes swallowed hard before speaking again. “It ain’t always my fault when I cuss and blaspheme like this,” he muttered defensively. “The thing is,” began Mr. Link, compressing his lips and squinting earnestly; “what is the best way to go about it?” “Go about what?” demanded the mystified Mr. Baxter. “Have you licked him yet?” inquired Sikes darkly. “Licked who?” “Oliver October.” “Not in the last three years. I promised I wouldn’t.” “Do you mean to tell me, Ollie Baxter, that you don’t know what that boy’s been up to to-day?” Oliver’s parent regarded Mr. Sikes coldly. “Yes, I _do_ know,” he snapped. “Well, what _has_ he been up to, if you know so much about it?” “None of your derned business. I’m not obliged to consult you or anybody—”