“Yes, Mr. Vroom, my father was a convict. Not much of one; but as much as his small chances allowed. He was only weigher at the coal scales. He ‘fixed’ the scales an’ took his rake-off. That was all. It went on for a couple years. We got the only square meals I’d ever ate, durin’ that time. Then he was sent up; an’--well, Ma wasn’t used to scrubbin’. She took pneumonia an’ died the year before Dad got out. He never came back to our neighborhood, an’ I haven’t seen him since. He may be dead or in jail or a mine owner, for all I know--or care. I’m sorry, for the sake of your arg’ment, he wasn’t more of a criminal, Mr. Vroom. Now, if he’d been indicted for misappropriation of the Orphan’s Home trust funds, like your wife’s brother was; an’ if his family had had the indictment quashed by payin’ the right parties $18,400--” “You are out of order, Mr. Conover!” rebuked Standish, in answer to a look of frenzied protest from Vroom. “Your retort is--” “Is dead-true; an’ I’ve the means of layin’ my hands on the proof,” finished Caleb. “I’d do it, too--just for the sake of punishin’ a cur--if the cur’s brother-in-law, Mr. Vroom, didn’t happen to be a clubmate of mine.” “With a man like this on our rolls,” fumed an elderly Governor, “We shall lose our reputation for--” “If some of you fellers could get rid of your reputations,” interrupted Caleb, “you’d be in luck.” A man at Standish’s left had risen and was awaiting a moment of silence in which to speak. He was nattily clad in blue reefer and white duck trousers. A yachting cap lay on the table beside him. Every inch of his stalwart body from the curling black hair and pink cheeks down to the immaculate white canvas shoes bespoke a perfection of grooming that seemed vaguely redolent of scented soap and tailors’ models. His full red lips were curled back now from a double set of ultra-pearly teeth, and his eyes, which Desirée Shevlin had disrespectfully likened to twin chocolate pies, were glassy with wrath. “Well, Brother Blacarda,” hailed Conover, breaking off in his reply as his gaze rested on this latest opponent who stood threateningly above him, “What have _you_ got to say? Did you come to congratulate me on the Steeloid win-out, or have you somethin’ to add to the bokays that your little friends here have been tossin’ at me? Speak up, man! Stop lookin’ like ‘This-Nobby-Style-$7.49,’ an’ say what you’ve got to.” “You’ve played a trick on my Steeloid Company,” sputtered Blacarda, “that ought to land you in State’s Prison with your crook father. A trick that ought to put you out of the society of decent men. It will certainly put you out of this Club. Either you leave the Arareek or I do.” “Well, now, that’s too bad, Blacarda,” purred Caleb, “Us chappies at the Club will be real sorry to lose you. But if you _must_ go,--why take my blessin’ with you.”