There was never any use resenting Sam O’Brien. Wint laughed and said: “I’ll be the death of you if you don’t get me something to eat, Sam. Get a move on your old carcass.” After lunch, he had a word or two with men upon the street; but he did not want to talk to them. He wanted to get out of their way, out of sight. His nerves were beginning to jangle; he wanted something to happen. There was hanging over him a storm; he wanted the storm to break. He had a thought of going to V. R. Kite and flinging a defiance in that old buzzard’s gold-filled teeth. He liked to think of Kite as an old buzzard; the phrase pleased him. Men will always be pleased to find they have used words tellingly. The gift of speech is what distinguishes man from the animals; it is right that he should vaunt himself upon it. But in the end, Wint did not go to Kite; he went to Hoover’s office and hid himself in a back room with a law book. Neither Dick nor his father was there when he arrived; he counted on not being disturbed. He did not want to be disturbed. He wanted to be let alone. He was mistrustful of himself, of his motives and of his powers. In mid-afternoon, the telephone rang; and he answered, expecting a call for one or the other of the Hoovers. But when he spoke into the instrument, some one said: “Is this you, Wint?” He said it was; and the some one said: “This is Joan.” Wint said: “Oh!” He was uncomfortable, wondering what she wanted, why she had called. “I’ve just heard what you’ve done,” she said. “What’s that?” Wint asked. “Done what?” “About how you’re going to--to clean up Hardiston.” “Oh, that,” said Wint. “Yes.” “Central told me I could probably get you at the Hoover office.” “Yes. Yes, I’m here.” “I thought you might like to know that I’m glad you’re going to do this.” “That’s all right,” he said awkwardly. The old, stubborn resentment at any praise was awake in him; but there was a curious tincture of happiness, too. “It’s a good fight, Wint,” she said. “And--you’ll win.” Wint laughed uneasily. “Oh, sure,” he said. He did not want to talk about it; and Joan understood and said good-by. Wint stared thoughtfully at the telephone for a while; then he went back to his probing into the musty recesses of the law which he found so live and vital. But he was unable to keep his thoughts upon the book. They wandered. He kept thinking about V. R. Kite. He kept wondering what Kite would do. And he wished insistently that whatever Kite meant to do, he would do quickly. Wint was tired of waiting for the storm to break. CHAPTER III A HARD DAY FOR KITE