Clive’s eyes grew wistful with envy; yet abated none of the unconscious criticism wherewith they were still scrutinizing the Fighter. His lack of response confused Caleb; who started off on a new tack. “Yes, Billy’s a great boy. He used to have a lot of cunnin’ tricks, too, when he was little. He’s outgrowin’ ’em now. Used to tiptoe up behind me an’ put both his dirty little hands over my eyes an’ say: ‘Guess who’s here?’ An’ then I’d guess ‘General Grant’ an’ ‘Abe Lincoln’ and ‘Queen Victoria’ an’ ‘Tom Platt’ an’ a lot of other big guns; till all of a sudden I’d guess ‘Billy Shevlin!’ An’ he’d squeal out ‘Yes!’ Not much sense in it. But kind of cute for such a little feller. I remember some folks were callin’ there one day an’ I wanted him to play that game, to show off before ’em. But he was kind of bashful and wouldn’t. An’ that made me mad; so I cuffed him over the head. An’ since then, somehow, he’s never played it any more.” “I don’t wonder!” gasped Clive. “I--excuse me, sir,” he caught himself up, “I didn’t mean to be rude.” “Go ahead!” laughed Caleb, “That ain’t rude. It’s bein’ honest. Don’t let ’em make a Miss Nancy of you by teachin’ you to ’pologize an’ say ‘please,’ an’ ‘Sir’ an’ all those folderols.” “I _like_ to say them,” retorted Clive, “And I’m not a Miss Nancy. Last week I thrashed a boy two years older than I am.” “Look out, Conover!” warned Caine, solemnly, “He may pick you for the next victim.” At the sound of the name, Clive had glanced sharply at Caleb. “I beg your pardon,” he put in, now, “But you aren’t ‘Brute’ Conover, are you?” “Clive!” admonished Caine, with what severity he could summon up. “I b’lieve I’ve been called that a few times,” answered Caleb, in high good humor. “Why?” “Because,” said Clive, backing toward the door, “from what I read in the newspapers about you,--and from something I once heard Grandpapa say,--I don’t think I care to know you, Mr. Conover. I’m sorry. Goodnight.” * * * * * Caleb Conover had not known there were so many kinds of forks in existence. From his oyster plate they stretched away to the left in what seemed an interminable vista. Had Desirée told him to begin with the left-hand fork and work inward, as the courses progressed? Or was it the right-hand fork he was to begin with and work outward? A furtive glance at Letty, on his right, solved the problem. Then, the same glance sweeping the table, he found he was the only person whose doubled napkin had not disappeared. He pulled it unnoticed down to his knee. A roll fell from its hidden interior and crashed to the floor with a report that sounded to him loud enough to shake the house. But the sound passed unheard, in the ripple of talk. Caleb kicked the offending bit of bread further under the table and sombrely attacked his oysters.