"And do you know why?" demanded Craig, giving him a rousing slap on the knee. "When I find it hard to laugh I begin to think of the greatest joke of all--the joke I'll have on these merry boys when the cards are all played and I sweep the tables. I think of that, and, by gosh, I fairly roar!" "Do you talk that way to convince yourself?" Craig's eyes were suddenly shrewd. "Yes," said he, "and to convince you, and a lot of other weak-minded people who believe all they hear. You'll find out some day that the world thinks with its ears and its mouth, my boy. But, as I say, who but I could have tumbled into such luck as came quite accidentally out of that little 'rough-house' of mine at your expense?" "Don't see it," said Grant. "Why, can't you see that it puts you out of business with Margaret? She's not the sort of woman to take to the fellow that shows he's the weaker." "Well, I'll be--damned!" gasped Arkwright. "You HAVE got your nerve! To say such a thing to a man you've just asked a favor of." "Not at all," cried Craig airily. "Facts are facts. Why deny them?" Arkwright shrugged his shoulders. "Well, let it pass.... Whether it's settled me with her or not, it somehow--curiously enough--settled her with me. Do you know, Josh, I've had no use for her since. I can't explain it." "Vanity," said Craig. "You are vain, like all people who don't talk about themselves. The whole human race is vain--individually and collectively. Now, if a man talks about himself as I do, why, his vanity froths away harmlessly. But you and your kind suffer from ingrowing vanity. You think of nothing but yourselves--how you look--how you feel--how you are impressing others--what you can get for yourself--self--self--self, day and night. You don't like Margaret any more because she saw you humiliated. Where would I be if I were like that? Why, I'd be dead or hiding in the brush; for I've had nothing but insults, humiliations, sneers, snubs, all my life. Crow's my steady diet, old pal. And I fatten and flourish on it." Grant was laughing, with a choke in his throat. "Josh," said he, "you're either more or less than human." "Both," said Craig. "Grant, we're wasting time. Walter!" That last in a stentorian shout. The valet appeared. "Yes, Mr. Craig." "Pack your friend Grant, here, for two days in New York. He's going to-night and--I guess you'd better come along." Arkwright threw up his hands in a gesture of mock despair. "Do as he says, Walter. He's the boss." "Now you're talking sense," said Craig. "Some day you'll stand before kings for this--or sit, as you please." On their way out Josh fished from the darkness under the front stairs a tattered and battered suitcase and handed it to Walter. "It's my little all," he explained to Grant. "I've given up my rooms at the Wyandotte. They stored an old trunkful or so for me, and I've sent my books to the office." "Look here, Josh," said Grant, when they were under way; "does Margaret know you're coming?"