"Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Laura. "I don’t see why men so like to fight. Do you take two lumps in your coffee or three?" "The explanation is very simple," I returned. "They don’t like to fight. One lump, please." "Then what do they do it for?" she asked. "You had better take more than one chop; they’re pretty small, and you’ve got a big day’s work ahead--and behind." "Why," I argued, "they fight for power, or reputation, or money, or a pair of brown eyes--or blue, as the case may be--for fear somebody will think them afraid--for anger--for almost any reason but enjoyment. I saw ten thousand men in a scrimmage last night, and there were not twenty of them there because they enjoyed the fight. At any rate, I can assure you that the man in the crowd I have the best right to speak for wished himself anywhere but in the front rank of battle." "Humph!" sniffed Miss Laura incredulously. "I know very well that you couldn’t have been hired to keep out of it. You haven’t been doing much else but fighting since I got to know you." "It wasn’t from choice," I pleaded. "Just tell me what happened, and how," she said. "I was scared blue last night with fire-bells and hooting whistles, and men shouting in the streets; and when I peeked out I saw a glare down town as though half the city was going up in smoke." Laura listened with a grave face as I gave a succinct account of the night’s adventures. "And do you really believe that Mr. Bolton set fire to uncle’s lumber-yards?" she asked. "In person or by proxy," I replied. "Well, there doesn’t seem to be any end to his wickedness," she said. "I suppose he’s prepared to finish us to-day." "I don’t think we can count on repentance--not from him. We shall have to find something a great deal safer than that to pull us through. Has your uncle dropped any more hints about that million dollars?" "He talked of it more than ever, last night. He went over the word ’million’ hundreds of times. Then he would call your name and say ’five-sixteen’ as though he was trying to make you understand the meaning of the figures." It was an incomprehensible mystery, and we had to leave it so. "Do you know what you are going to do, then?" she asked. "Sell all the unpledged stock in the house, see what Partridge and Coleman can do for us, and try to stand up the banks for the balance." Laura Kendrick shook her head, with a business-like expression on her face: "I wish I could think of something better than that," she said with an attempt at cheeriness. "We shall never get through the day at that rate. But I suppose it’s the best that’s left us." The door opened, and Mercy Fillmore appeared. The sudden intrusion of a third person brought to my consciousness a realization of the fascinating breakfast I had been conceded. But if I was so ungallant as to feel disappointment at her interrupting presence, it melted away under the soothing influence that surrounded her.