Oddly enough, Hunter shared the Butterfly Man's liking for that unspeakable Book of Obituaries, and I have seen him take a batch of them from his pocket as a free-will offering. I have seen him, who had all French, Russian and English literature at his fingers' ends, sit chuckling and absorbed for an hour over that fearful collection of lugubrious verse and worse grammar; pausing every now and then to cast a speculative and curious glance at his impassive host, who, paying absolutely no attention to him, bent his whole mind, instead, upon some tiny form in a balsam slide mount under his microscope. "Why don't you admire Mr. Hunter?" I was curious to know. "But I do admire him." Flint was sincere. "Then if you admire him, why don't you like him?" He reflected. "I don't like the expression of his teeth," he admitted. "They're too pointed. He looks like he'd bite. I don't think he'd care much who he bit, either; it would all depend on who got in his way." Seeing me look at him wonderingly, he paused in his work, stretched his legs under the table, and grinned up at me. "I'm not saying he oughtn't to put his best foot foremost," he agreed. "We'd all do that, if we only knew how. And I'm not saying he ought to tell on himself, or that anybody's got any business getting under his guard. I don't hanker to know anybody's faults, or to find out what they've got up their sleeves besides their elbows, unless I have to. Why, I'd as soon ask a fellow to take off his patent leathers to prove he hadn't got bunions, or to unbutton his collar, so I'd be sure it wasn't fastened onto a wart on the back of his neck. Personally I don't want to air anybody's bumps and bunions. It's none of my business. I believe in collars and shoes, myself. _But_ if I see signs, I can believe all by my lonesome they've got 'em, can't I?" "Exactly. Your deductions, my dear Sherlock, are really marvelous. A gentleman wears good shoes and clean collars--wherefore, you don't like the expression of his teeth!" said I, ironically. "Slap me on the wrist some more, if it makes you feel good," he offered brazenly. "For he may--and I sure don't." His grin faded, the old pucker came to his forehead. "Parson, maybe the truth is I'm not crazy over him because people like him get people like me to seeing too plainly that things aren't fairly dealt out. Why, think a minute. That man's got about all a man can have, hasn't he? In himself, I mean. And if there's anything more he fancies, he can reach out and get it, can't he? Well, then, some folks might get to thinking that folks like him--get more than they deserve. And some ... don't get any more than they deserve," he finished, with grim ambiguity. "Do you like him yourself?" he demanded, as I made no reply. "I admire him immensely." "Does Madame like him?" he came back.