“Back on your wagon!” ordered Morse. He spoke not as man speaks to man, but as man speaks to beast. “Wot--wotcha goin't' do, boss?” faltered the other. “Put you in jail.” Sobered now, and cowed, the man jumped to his seat and whipped up his horses, in the hope of escaping. The Meanest Man broke into a long, effortless stride. There was no need to tell the witness that he would not be shaken off until the quarry was in the hands of the police. Now it happened that the High Gods of Council who unofficially rule Our Square held conference not long thereafter upon a project, advanced by the Little Red Doctor, for a local legal-aid organization with an office and an attendant. Money was needed, and money is one of our rarest phenomena. It was the Bonnie Lassie who suggested that the Meanest Man in Our Square be approached for a contribution. Polite jeers greeted the proposal. Thereupon the Bonnie Lassie narrated the instance of the beaten horse and backed it up with Emerson:-- “'T is a sin to Heaven above One iota to abate Of a just, impartial hate.” “Where does that get in with the Meanest Man?” inquired Cyrus the Gaunt. “He doesn't hate anything except giving up money,” added the Little Red Doctor. “He hates cruelty,” retorted the Bonnie Lassie. “And he's brave. Two points to his credit. I believe you could do anything with the Meanest Man if you could get him mad enough.” “Well, my dearest,” said Cyrus the Gaunt with that condescending surrender which is one of his few faults as a husband, “since you have so good an opinion of Mr. Morse, suppose you tackle him for a contribution.” “I will,” said the Bonnie Lassie. “I'll go now.” She went. Presently she returned. It was not the return of a victress. “How much?” asked the Little Red Doctor. The Bonnie Lassie threw out empty and eloquent hands. “And what did he say?” inquired Cyrus the Gaunt. “He indicated that he'd see me in Hades first.” “Then I'll go over and knock his head off,” declared her husband, reddening. “I've always wanted to do it anyway.” “Nothing of the sort--goose! I didn't say he _said_ it. I said he indicated it. It was his manner. Verbally he was polite enough. Said he didn't believe in charity.” Cyrus the Gaunt snorted. “Gave his reasons too. He said he doesn't believe in charity because it makes the recipient think too ill of himself, which is bad, and the giver think too well of himself, which is worse.” “Something in that,” grudged the Little Red Doctor.