“After five years of herdin’ with beasts,--only bein’ treated worse’n the S. P. C. A. would let any beast be treated,--they turned my father loose. They’d set the prison mark on him; they’d taught him to keep comp’ny with blackguards; they’d made him callous to everything decent, an’ taken away his citizenship. Havin’ done which, they gen’rously sets him free an’ gives him a chance to be a Godfearin’, upright man in future. Who’ll hire a convict? Who’ll give him a show? No one--You know that as well as I do. How can he hold up his head among men who haven’t had the bad luck to be caught? What was left for my father to do? To ’sociate with the only class that’d take him as an equal. To turn to the drink that made him forget they’d branded him as an outcast. That’s what he did. I ain’t sayin’ it’s right. I ain’t sayin’ that Saul Conover’s a noble lookin’ work of God as he slinks against that post there. The drink that comforted him so long has knocked out his manhood. The hard luck an’ starvin’ has turned him old and ugly an’ bad-shaped. In short, he’s what S’ciety an’ a lovin’ Paternal Gov’ment has made him. An’--he’s my father, God help him! An’ the man who says I’m ashamed of him, lies!” Amid the oppressed silence, Caleb Conover crossed over to where his father stood cowed and half-sobered. As gently as a woman, he put his arm about the old man’s twisted shoulders and drew him toward the door. A lane was made for their passage. From somewhere in the crowd came the sound of a woman’s stifled sob. Jack Hawarden impulsively clapped his hands together. There was an instant’s shocked silence. Then--no one could afterward explain why--the lad’s example was followed from all quarters of the dining hall; and a rattle of incongruous applause re-echoed through the place. As Conover, half-leading, half-supporting the wizened form, neared the door, young Hawarden barred his path. With boyish hero-worship shining in his eyes, Jack thrust out his hand. Caleb gripped it in silence and passed on, out into the darkness. None followed the strange pair as they left the clubhouse. Neither father nor son spoke a word until they were alone in the starlit road, far beyond earshot of the club. Then Caleb stopped, glancing back as though fearful lest some inquisitive guest might have come out to witness the sequel to the banquet hall scene. The night air had still further cleared the drink-fog from the old man’s brain. Clutching his son by the sleeve, and tremblingly patting the Fighter’s big hand, he whimpered: “Gawd bless you, boy! It’s a proud man I am this night. You’re not ashamed of your poor old father what worked so hard for you an’ loves you so an’--” With a gesture of loathing, Caleb shook off the weak clasp.