This was especially true in the case of Sube. For although the members of his family were wholly unaware of his secret ambitions they took a violent dislike to the scent he wore, and did everything in their power to discourage his indulgence in it. As he sought to seat himself at the table for his midday meal shortly after the first application, his father detained him, and without asking or permitting explanations, sent him back to wash his hands and face thoroughly with soap and hot water. The boy went, muttering and rebellious; and by the time that he had returned to the table his father had finished eating, and had gone into the library, where he lighted a cigar and puffed furiously as he waited for his fragrant son to finish his meal and report to him for investigation. Sube tarried at the table as long as was humanly possible in the hope that his father would forget his appointment and go back to the office. Mr. Cane was very far from doing any such thing. He had finished the first cigar and begun on the second before Sube gave up, arose, folded his napkin without being reminded, and walked reluctantly into the library. Mr. Cane was a lawyer of parts--none of them missing. He had been overworking for years, and the long strain on his nerves had affected him in a most peculiar way. It had made him super-sensitive to any strong or unpleasant odor. He would go blocks out of his way to avoid passing a livery stable. He had been known to get off from a trolley and take the next car because of the presence among the passengers of a man with his hand swathed with iodoform. He had refused even to consider the purchase of an automobile on account of the reputed odor of gasoline. And before such a tribunal came Sube, reeking of the unspeakable fumes of the Boon, and clutching in the hand thrust deep down in his coat pocket his emergency phial of the same, which he was determined to defend with the last drop of his blood. Mr. Cane motioned to a chair and cleared his throat. "Seward," he began-- And at that moment the boy's memory performed a queer prank. It flashed back to the day in Sunday School when he and his little classmate had heard for the first time of his nickname-sake Tubalcain, the ancient artificer in brass; to his anger when the name was combined with Seward and made into Subal Cane; to his relief when it was worn down by use into Sube Cane; and finally it got round to the apprehension that now seized him whenever he was called by his own baptismal name--and he squirmed in the chair as his father went on in a tone that was alarmingly gentle.