The Boston man smiled. “There is always an ‘if’ in any case, Captain Townsend,” he explained. “If there had been none in this one the Cook people would not have gained their appeal and we should not have to go to Washington.” Townsend brushed this aside with an impatient hand. “Never mind that,” he said. “What I want to hear you say is that you know you are going to win this case for me. You _are_ going to win it, aren’t you?” “We hope to, certainly.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve got to,” he declared, striking the table with his palm. “If you don’t-- By the Almighty you’ve got to!” They assured him that they expected to win, that they felt scarcely a doubt of winning. Nevertheless, when the consultation ended, he was left with the consciousness that there was a doubt in their minds, even though it might be a faint one. He had been made to feel that same consciousness at other meetings since the granting of the Cook appeal. Suppose that doubt should be justified? Suppose the suit was, after all, decided against him! In spite of his dogged courage and belief in his own destiny a cold shiver passed through his body. For a moment he saw a picture of himself, beaten, humiliated--yes, even impoverished. But he would not consider such a thing, he would not admit the possibility of it. He was Foster Townsend, and Foster Townsend had never been beaten yet. He rose from his seat with a laugh. “You law fellows are worse croakers than a bunch of bullfrogs in a pond,” he declared. “Stop your croaking and supposing and shove this thing through.... Well, I guess that’s all you want of me this morning, isn’t it, gentlemen?” The Boston attorney--his name was Wolcott--seemed to hesitate. He twirled his gold-rimmed eyeglasses at the end of their black silk cord. “We were wondering--” he began. “Well, Captain Townsend, to speak frankly--” “Humph! Do you lawyers ever speak that way?” “Why, occasionally, when we think it necessary. We were wondering if, should any new points develop which were--ahem--shall we say antagonistic to our side of the case, if you would wish us to consider--well, a compromise.” He glanced at them. They were all regarding him earnestly; one or two, it seemed, almost anxiously. “Compromise!” he repeated, with incredulous scorn. “Compromise? Make some sort of deal, a half-way trade, with Elisha Cook’s crew? Is that what you mean? When they get one red cent from me they’ll have to take it by main strength. Compromise be hanged! You fight, do you hear? Fight--and lick ’em!”