“I’ll put some of my men on the track of it to-morrow,” answered Caleb. “By the time they’re through, I guess there won’t be many crooks left in the State who’ll dare to use Dey Shevlin’s name in their fake mess’ges. Maybe you’re right ’bout its not bein’ Blacarda himself. I’m kind of glad, too. He’ll get enough gruellin’ to-morrow without any extrys thrown in.” “Poor old Blacarda! I’m afraid you’ll take away his perpetual grievance against you and leave him nothing but grief.” “Grievance!” scoffed Conover. “He’s got no grievance. All’s he’s got is a grouch. There’s all the diff’rence in the world between the two. A white man with sense may have a grievance. But only a sorehead an’ a fool will let their grievance sour into a grouch. Blacarda’s grouch against me is doin’ him more harm than all my moves could. He hates me. That’s where he makes his mistake. Hate’s the heaviest handicap a feller can carry into a fight. If you’ve got a grievance against a man or want to get the best of him, don’t ever spoil your chances by hatin’ him. It won’t do him any hurt, an’ it’ll play the dickens with your own brain an’ nerves.” “I suppose,” queried Caine ironically, “there was no hatred in your attack on Blacarda in his hotel room last spring? Pure, high-souled justice?” “No,” grumbled Caleb. “It was hate. An’ I got it out of my system the quickest, easiest way I could. If I’d bottled all that up an’ let it ferment till now, I’d be layin’ awake nights, losing sleep an’ health an’ nerve while I figgered out how cute he’d look with his throat cut from ear to ear. As it is, I’ve no more hard feelin’ about crushin’ Blacarda than I’d have if he was a perfec’ stranger. Yes, son, hate harms the hater a lot more’n it harms the hatee. You can bank on that.” “I wonder if young Hawarden will agree with your peaceful doctrine,” hazarded Caine, “when he hears how some financial heeler has taken his name in vain in that telegram?” “He’ll most likely hunt the feller up an’ lick him,” responded Conover. “He’s all right, that boy is. I’ve took a shine to him. Pity he ain’t got some commonsense ambition instead of hankerin’ after litterchoor. Kind of petty trade for a grown man, ain’t it?” “No,” dissented Caine. “I should call slow starvation one of the big things of life. There’s nothing petty about it that I can see.” “That’s the answer, hey? He told me ’bout a feller he’d met once at the Antlers who made twenty thousan’ a year just by writin’ novels ’bout s’ciety. Now, Hawarden knows all ’bout the s’ciety game. I sh’d think he’d write such stories fine.” “The stories of Jack’s that I’ve read,” answered Caine, “all centre around labor problems and other things the boy knows as little about as if he had taken a postgraduate course in ignorance. He couldn’t write a society story if he tried.” “Why not? I sh’d think--”