“Now, maybe you’re wonderin’ what this long yarn has to do with Blacarda. It has ev’rything to do with him. He’s the King Cobra sort, if ever any man was. An’ in his case, I’m the man with the mop. Blacarda’s fitted out with a whole lot of fancy venom. An’ he’d like nothin’ better’n to get his fangs in me. I can’t say I exac’ly blame him. But I ain’t hankerin’ to get bit. So I throws into his cage a little snake called ‘Steeloid’. An he nabs it. So long’s he’s got his teeth in that, he ain’t got the bigness of mind to bite anything else. When Steeloid’s over, I’ll toss him another little snake, an’ so on to the end of the chapter. He’ll keep gnawin’ away, with the idee he’s hurtin’ me terr’ble. An’ I’ll go ’bout my winder-washin’ bus’ness meanwhile; knowin’ he’s too much took up with his little snake to do me any hurt. Why, son, ’twas one of _my_ men that put Blacarda up to this scheme of gettin’ a Special Session called so he could knock my Steeloid Comp’ny out.” Caine made no reply; but watched Caleb mop the perspiration of unwonted verbosity from his forehead. At last he asked, with his bantering smile: “Have you read _me_, by any chance?” “Have I read my A. B. C.?” retorted Caleb in fine contempt. “But--” “I’m not buyin’ a red can’py an’ givin’ two-dollar character readin’s,” said Conover brusquely, “Ever in the Adirondacks? Anything to do there?” “Plenty--for the man who can appreciate its glories,” retorted Caine with pleasant insolence, “Very little for a man of your type, I should fancy. Why?” “I hoped maybe you could put me on to some of the pointers,” answered Caleb. “It’s the first vacation I ever had. An’ I want all the fun out of it I can get. But I’m blest if I know where the fun comes in.” “A ward-heeler would probably regard a Corot in much the same way,” observed Caine, still inwardly smarting at the Fighter’s good natured contempt, “But surely Miss Shevlin must have told you in some of her letters the sort of life they lead there--something of her amusements? You can probably get a better idea of it all from her letters than from anything I could tell you. Doesn’t she--?” “Oh, ev’ry letter she writes is full of it,” acquiesced Caleb, gloomily, “But I can’t make out what the good times are. Just listen to this, f’r instance. First letter I had from her. No. The second.” From a drawer he drew a small metal case, unlocked and opened it. It was full of letters. Each envelope that met Caine’s inquisitive eye bore Desirée Shevlin’s handwriting. Selecting one from the budget, Caleb opened it with a strangely gentle motion of his stubby fingers, glanced in silence over a few lines, then read aloud: “‘It’s like some wonderful dream; and every day I’m afraid I shall wake up and find it isn’t so. The air is like crystal that has been dipped in balsam.’ Why in blazes,” interpolated Conover, in perplexity, “should anybody want to dip crystal in balsam. I can’t--” “Go on,” adjured Caine, “I understand.”