Gothecore was standing outside, having come to my message. Over from him by ten feet was Melting Moses, his shoulders narrowed in a feline way, crouching, with brows drawn down and features in a snarl of hate. He was slowly backing away from Gothecore; not in fear, but rather like some cat-creature, measuring for a spring. On his side, Gothecore's face offered an equally forbidding picture. He was red with rage, and his bulldog jaws had closed like a trap. Altogether, I never beheld a more inveterate expression, like malice gone to seed. I seized Melting Moses by the shoulder, and so held him back from flying at Gothecore with teeth and claws. “He killed me mudder!” cried Melting Moses, struggling in my fingers like something wild. When the janitor with whom Melting Moses lived had carried him off--and at that, the boy must be dragged away by force--I turned to Gothecore. “What was the trouble?” “Why do you stand for that young whelp?” he cried. “I won't have it!” “The boy is doing you no harm.” “I won't have it!” he cried again. The man was like a maniac. “Let me tell you one thing,” I retorted, looking him between the eyes; “unless you walk with care and talk with care, you are no better than a lost man. One word, one look, and I'll snuff you out between my thumb and finger as I might a candle.” There must have been that which showed formidable in my manner, for Gothecore stood as though stunned. The vicious insolence of the scoundrel had exploded the powder in my temper like a coal of fire. I pointed the way to my room. “Go in; I've business with you.” Gothecore seemed to recall himself to steadiness. Without more words, he entered my door. With as much dignity as I might summon in the track of such a storm, I presented him to the Widow Van Flange. She had heard the sound of our differences; but, taken with her own troubles, she made no account of them. The Widow Van Flange received the rather boorish salutation of Gothecore in a way politely finished. Upon my hint, she gave him her story. Gothecore assumed a look at once professional and deprecatory. “An' now you're done, Madam,” said Gothecore, giving that slight police cough by which he intimated for himself a limitless wisdom, “an' now you're done, Madam, let me chip in a word. I know your son; I've knowed Billy Van Flange, now, goin' on three year--ever since he comes out o' college. I don't want to discourage you, Madam; but, to put it to you on th' square, Billy Van Flange is a warm member. I leave it to you to say if I aint right. Yes, indeed! he's as hot a proposition as ever went down th' line.” Here the eye of Gothecore wandered towards the ceiling, recalling the mad pranks of young Van Flange. “But these gamblers are destroying him!” moaned the Widow Van Flange. “Is there no way to shield him? Surely, you should know how to punish them, and keep him out of their hands!”