She laughed harshly and defiantly. “Sure I did.” Her eyes were watchful and on guard. Wint guessed that she expected him to reproach her, to warn her, to bid her mend her ways. But he did nothing of the kind. “Forget it,” he said. “It wasn’t anything.” Something wistful crept into her eyes, as though she would have said more. But Mrs. Chase came downstairs, and Hetty went on with her work, while Mrs. Chase volubly directed her. After breakfast, Wint and his father walked downtown together. The elder Chase asked stiffly: “Well, how did you find Amos?” “Same as ever,” Wint said. “Suppose he’s home for the summer.” “I guess so.” He wondered whether to tell his father what he had done; but something held his tongue. It may have been diffidence, a reluctant feeling that to tell his father this would be like an effort to justify himself in the elder Chase’s eyes. It may have been uncertainty as to what attitude the older man would take. It may have been a shrewd guess at the truth; that Chase would attribute the move to Amos, and oppose it on that ground. Wint had no illusions about his father’s attitude toward the Congressman. Chase held Amos as his enemy, without compromise. As they reached the first stores on the outskirts of the business section of Hardiston, they met Ned Bentley and another man, and exchanged greetings. Bentley grinned at Wint in a friendly way, and Wint knew that Bentley had heard of his order to Radabaugh. The elder Chase saw something had passed between them, and asked Wint: “What’s Bentley so cheerful about?” “Why, I don’t know,” said Wint. “He’s usually pretty good-natured.” He flushed at his own evasion, but the older man did not press the question, and a little later they separated. Foster, the city solicitor--Foster was an earnest young fellow, and took his office seriously--was waiting for Wint in what passed as Wint’s office, off the main room above the fire-engine house. Foster looked flurried; and he asked quickly: “Look here, Wint, Radabaugh says you told him to clean up the town.” Wint nodded idly, fumbling among the papers on his desk. “Yes, I did.” “Well, what’s the idea?” Foster demanded excitedly. “What’s the idea, anyway?” “The idea is to--clean up the town,” Wint told him. “You’re in earnest?” “Yes.” “You mean to stop bootlegging?” “Yes.” “Good Lord!” said Foster. The solicitor’s consternation gave Wint confidence. He asked: “Why, what’s wrong with that?” “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. But you’ll surely start something.” “I mean to stop something.” “There’ll be an awful row.” Wint said quietly: “If you don’t want to come through.... If you don’t want to make it stick, help me out, why, now’s the time to say so, and get out.” “Good Lord!” Foster cried. “Of course I’ll stick. Nothing suits me better. I’m.... I tell you, you don’t know what you’ve started. But I’m with you, Wint. All along the line. Absolutely.” Wint said: “That’s good.” “It’s a great chance for me,” Foster said.