“Or how much he benefits the man who couldn’t help himself without Zaanan’s court,” Jim thought. “It means much to the poor man to know that his court—the justice’s court—is honest; that he can carry his wrong to it and see it righted! What’s your idea?” he asked aloud. “We’ll have to get him in the caucus,” said Moran. “Couldn’t beat him at the election. I don’t suppose there are a dozen votes cast against him in the whole county. But that’s quite a while off. I just wanted to mention the matter to you and find out how you looked at it. I’m glad you agree with me.” “We can do more together than we could separately,” Jim said, jesuitically. The widow appeared in the doorway and announced supper. Jim waved Moran to precede him, and he walked to the table feeling more sure of his ground than he had been an hour before. His suspicions of Moran rested on a surer foundation—the man was not honest. He was the sort of business man who has brought stigma on his kind by bribery, by conniving at injustice, by seducing officers of justice. He was ruthless. The rights of others only represented something to be overridden. To Jim it seemed that the day when Michael Moran replaced Zaanan Frame as dictator of Diversity would be a black day indeed for the county. Further, he made up his mind to win that friendship which Zaanan Frame had denied him. In his difficulty he felt a flood of gratitude to good fortune that such a man as Zaanan Frame was at hand and in power. When he took his seat at the table he was more cheerful than he had been for many a day; his face was lighter, his eyes brighter. The widow noticed his changed expression and was deeply curious to account for it. The widow was a motherly soul. Of late she had taken to coddling and worrying over Jim. Hers was a heart that could not be inactive—if man’s persistent mortality discouraged her from taking another husband, she could, at least, secretly adopt a son. CHAPTER XI “Our school opens Monday, doesn’t it, Marie?” asked Moran. She turned her black eyes on him and allowed them to rest a moment before replying. Jim Ashe was aware of the somber glow of them. “Yes,” she said, shortly. Moran chuckled. “You’re tickled to death over it, aren’t you?” The glow of her eyes became a flame—such a flame as might eat its way through plates of steel. Jim Ashe would have drawn back from such a fire disconcerted; Moran was unable to meet it with his eyes, but he was not disconcerted. Instead, it seemed to give him satisfaction. He chuckled again. “Well,” he said, jovially, “you know you can leave it when you want to.” Jim was startled; looked quickly at Marie. The flame lay dead in her eyes; she seemed merely tired, very tired. Moran spoke again, this time to Ashe and the widow.