“That’ll help you in the fight you’re going to put up.” Before Lovey could protest that he wasn’t going to put up no fight the gentle voice went on, “And you seem like a respectable man, too.” “I’m as respectable as anybody else—at ’eart. I don’t use bad langwidge, nor keep bad company, nor chew, nor spit tobacco juice over nothink, and I keeps myself to myself.” “All that’ll be a great help to you. What’s been your occupation?” “’atter.” As our host was less used to the silent “h” than I, it became necessary for me to say, “Hatter, sir.” I suppose it was my voice. Christian looked up quickly, studying me with a long, kind, deep regard. Had I been walking two thousand years ago on the hills of Palestine and met Some One on the road, he might have looked at me like that. The glance fell. Lovey’s interrogation continued. “And would you like that kind of job again—if we could get it for you—ultimately?” “I don’t want no job, Your Honor. I can look after myself. I didn’t come in ’ere of my own free will—nor to pass the buck—nor nothink.” There was an inflection of surprise, perhaps of disapproval in the tone. “You didn’t come in here of your own free will? I think it’s the first time that’s been said in the history of the club. May I ask how it happened?” I couldn’t help thinking that I ought to intervene. “He came in on my account, sir,” I said, getting up and going forward to the desk. “He’s trying to keep me straight.” “That is, he’ll keep straight if you do?” “That’s it, sir, exactly.” He continued to write, speaking without looking up at us. “Then I can’t think of anything more to your credit, Mr.—Mr. Lovey—is that it?” “I don’t want no mister, Your Honor—not now I don’t.” “When a man takes so fine a stand as you’re taking toward this young fellow he’s a mister to me. I respect him and treat him with respect. I see that we’re meant to understand each other and get on together.” Poor Lovey had nothing to say. The prospect of temptation and fall being removed by his own heroism rendered him both proud and miserable at once. When the writing was finished the kind eyes were again lifted toward me. Though the inspection was so mild, it pierced me through and through. It still seemed to cover me as he said: “You needn’t tell me your real name if you don’t want to—but in general we prefer it.” “I’ll tell anything you ask me, sir. My name is Frank Melbury.” In order to conceal nothing, I added, “As a matter of fact, it’s Francis Worsley Melbury Melbury; but I use it in the shortened form I’ve given you.” “Thanks. You’re English?” “I’m a Canadian. My father is Sir Edward Melbury, of Montreal.” “Married?” “No, sir. Single.” “And you have a profession?” “Architect.” “Have you worked at that profession here in New York?” I gave him the names of the offices in which from time to time I had found employment. “And would you like to work at it again?” “I should, sir.”