“He came down last night and suggested that I drown my sorrows,” Wint explained. “I--” He hesitated. “You see, Jack and I--I’ve always counted him my best friend. But I seemed to see through him last night. I--don’t count him my friend any more.” “We-ell,” Amos drawled, “I can’t say as I blame you for that. I’ll say he don’t talk friendly about you.” Wint, flushing, asked quickly: “You don’t believe what he’s saying?” Amos shook his head. “I know a hangover when I see one; and I know when I don’t.” Wint nodded. “I’m not starting in again on the booze at this stage of the game.” “No; I’d guess not.” Wint sat down beside Amos on the tumbled bed. “Now, Amos, let’s get down to tacks. I said last night I was going to stick; and I meant it. I mean it all the more, now, with you to back me. The thing is--” Amos turned his head toward the door. “Some one coming,” he said; and Wint heard steps on the stair, and Mrs. Moody’s cheerful harangue. He got up quickly. His father stood in the doorway. In the long moment of silence that followed the appearance of the elder Chase, Wint put his whole heart into the effort to read his father’s face. Was there anger there? Or shame? Or bitter reproach? Reason enough, in all conscience, for any one of these emotions. He stared deep into his father’s eyes. The elder Chase came into the room, one stiff step; and he looked at Wint, and at B. B., and at Amos. His lips twitched a little at sight of Amos, then set firmly together again. That was all. Wint moved toward him a little. “Dad....” he said huskily. His father’s eyes searched Wint’s. The older man’s voice was shaking. He said slowly: “Routt is telling Hardiston you are drunk, down here.” Wint nodded. “Yes; I’d heard.” “I heard him telling men this thing.” Wint said nothing; the older man’s face lighted fiercely. “I knew he lied, Wint. I knew he lied.” Wint flushed with the sudden rush of happiness within him. He looked from his father to Amos. “Dad,” he said, “there’s one thing. I know my friends now.” “Routt is no friend.” “I know.” “I always told you.” “Yes.” “He....” Wint laughed softly. “Forget Jack Routt, dad. I’ve other friends. Amos, here.” Chase’s face hardened; he said, without expression, “Amos?” “He and B. B. came to me when I thought I hadn’t a friend in the world. You and Amos have got to make it up, dad. You’ve got to. Please.” The older man hesitated; then he turned to Amos. “All right,” he said. “I ... Wint’s friends are mine.” Amos got up from the bed and took the offered hand; and he smiled shrewdly. “I did play you dirty, Chase,” he confessed. “I admit it. But doing it--I played a good trick on your son. Didn’t I now?” Chase said slowly: “Yes.” “Wouldn’t you rather have him as he stands?” Amos asked. “Wouldn’t you rather have him as he stands--than the way he was a year ago?” “Yes. God knows.” Amos said slowly: “When you’re sorest at me--just give me credit for that.”