“Leave me be!” the latter was demanding in a squealing hiccough, as the cessation of attack left him breath for words. “Leave me be, can’t yer? Fine lot--swellsh you are, to pick on one poor old man what never harmed none of you! Lemme ’_lone_!” as Dillingham with thoughts of diplomacy, edged closer. “That--that feller called me--p--panhandler! ’S a lie! I’m honesh, ’spectible workin’ man. Fought for m’ country in S-S-Shivil war. Got m’ hon’rable-dishcharge. Fought for m’ country while the most of you was in--in y’r cradles. I’m drunk too,” he confided squinting up at the unnerved Dillingham. “Drunk--or I wouldn’t a’ stholen thoshe thingsh. Perfec’ly shquare when I’m shober. Perf’ly. Learned t’drink while I was d--d’fendin’ m’ country. I’m--” His voice scaled a note or two, broke, and then meandered on, in time to prevent Dillingham’s interruption. His tone had shifted once more from the explanatory to the pugnacious. “If I had had my--my rightsh!” he bellowed, shrilly, glaring about him. “I’d be ridin’ in my carr’ge--m’own carr’ge! Yesh! Thash right. Own carr’ge. Got a boy whoshe rich--rich man. Whatsh’e do for me? Noshin’t’all! Don’t ev’n know I’m ’live. Till I struck Granite t’night, I didn’t know _he_’sh ’live. Firsh time been here in twenty yearsh. They shent m’t’ jail, lasht time, dammem! Poor ol’ Saul Con’ver!” He broke into senile, weak sobbing. And, from all over the room rose a confused whispering, a rustle, an indefinable electric thrill. Women whose escorts had led them to the door, halted and looked back in crass interest. Men glanced at one another, muttering queries that found no answer. Even Dillingham forgot at last his faint hope of restoring the shattered function to its former banal calm. Pair by pair, all eyes slowly focussed on Caleb Conover. But the most imaginative gazer could not descry emotion--whether of surprise, chagrin or fear--on the heavy mask of the Fighter’s face. For a moment there was a hush. The old man on the floor still sobbed in maudlin fashion. But no one heeded him. Then Caine arose. “I think,” he began, his pleasant, low-pitched voice breaking in like a dash of cool water on his hearers’ superheated senses, “I think there is no need for any of us to magnify this trifling break in our jolly evening; nor to allow it to mar in any way our spirit of good fellowship. May I propose that we--?” “Hold on,” interposed Caleb, quietly. He got to his feet and laid a detaining hand on Caine’s arm. “You mean well,” he said, “an’ I thank you. But I think this is where _I_ do the talkin’, an’ not you. I’ve never made a speech here before,” he went on, raising his voice, “An’ I never expected to. But I’ll ask you people to have patience with me for a minute or two. Because there’s one or two things that’s got to be said here an’ now. An’ I’m the one that’s got to say ’em.”