He did not wish to be alone, just then; he wanted companionship, friendly and impersonal. So he sat down beside the boy, and filled his pipe, and lighted it, and asked amiably: “What are you reading, son?” The boy was too absorbed to answer. He brushed at his ear with his hand as though a fly buzzed there, and turned a dogeared page. But the sound of Wint’s voice so near him woke the old man; he stirred, opened his eyes, looked all about. And he reached across and laid a hand like a claw on Wint’s arm. “Play checkers?” he asked hoarsely. “Play checkers, do you?” “A little,” Wint said. “I’ll play you,” the old man challenged. “I’m a good player. I always was. Played all my life. Played every night, right here at this table, with the best player in the county, for seven years.” His skinny old hands were feverishly arranging the pieces, while Wint took his place by the board. “I beat him, too,” the old man boasted. “Beat him lots of times. He’d say so himself. He would, but he had to go and die.” There was resentment in his voice, as at a personal wrong. He said curtly: “Your move,” and spoke no more. Wint moved, the old man countered. On Wint’s fifth move--he was an indifferent player--the old man cackled gleefully. “That beats you,” he cried. “Heh, heh, heh! That beats you, now.” It did; and Wint lost the next game, and the next, as easily. His success put the old man in the best of humor. He laughed much between games, studying the board with fixed intensity while the play was in progress. Wint watched the old man as much as he watched the board; he studied the old fellow, with a curiously wistful eye. This old wreck of manhood had been a boy once; a baby once, in a mother’s arms. No doubt she had dreamed dreams for him. Dreamed he might be President, some day. Might be anything.... This is one of the things that makes babies fascinating; their potentialities. There is no greater gamble than to bring a baby into the world. Wint, considering this, thought of Hetty’s baby. The baby that had died. As well, perhaps. Otherwise, it might have come, some day, to playing checkers in the Weaver House. He put the thought aside abruptly. At least, it would have lived. Even this old man had lived. No doubt life had been reasonably sweet to him till his antagonist died. “Had to go and die....” The old man accused him. “You ain’t trying to play, young fellow. Now don’t you go easy on me. I’ll show you some things.” And Wint gave more of his attention to the game. He was playing when the door opened and Jack Routt came in; he did not look around till Jack exclaimed behind him: “Wint! By God, I thought you’d be here!” He looked up then, and said: “Hello, Jack,” in a calm voice, and went on with his play. Routt dropped on the seat beside him and caught his arm. “Here, Wint,” he protested, “I want to talk to you. Where’d you pick up that old duck? Listen. I want to.... Let’s go outside.”