His mother kissed him good-by at the door; and that was unusual. It was the only sign she gave of what she must have been feeling. Wint had sometimes thought, impatiently, that she was a babbling old woman, never able to keep a thought to herself. He was learning a new respect for her. And something more. He had felt that he was justified in counting on his father and mother to stand by him; but he had expected and been prepared for questions and perhaps reproaches. There were no questions; there was never a reproach. It is often tactful to keep silent; and tact is sometimes a shade nobler than loyalty, than many another virtue. He hugged her close and hard, kissed her again; then he and his father walked away toward town. Shoulder to shoulder, swinging like brothers. They met people. Wint could see a furtive curiosity in the eyes of those they met. But he could bear that. He had anticipated coven jeers, perhaps an open jibe; and his muscles had hardened at the thought. They went into the Post Office together, and separated there. Wint met Dick Hoover; and Hoover gripped his hand and clapped his shoulder and told him he was all right. That heartened Wint. On his way from the Post Office, he encountered V. R. Kite, face to face, in front of the Bazaar. Kite dropped his eyes and scuttled to cover like a crab in seaweed. Wint chuckled with amusement. Hoover said: “He can’t face you.” Wint laughed good-naturedly. “Oh, Kite’s all right. He fights in the only way he knows....” He left Hoover in front of the _Journal_ office and went in. B. B. was there, stoking the decrepit stove, breaking up the clotted coals with a bit of wood, and pouring on fresh fuel. He greeted Wint smilingly; said: “Good afternoon!” “Hello, B. B.!” Wint rejoined, and sat down. “Still fussing with that stove?” B. B., amiably enough, said: “Yes. It’s a good stove. Perhaps it doesn’t look as well as it might; but it heats this office. That’s the way with a good many things that don’t look very well; they manage to do their work better than the fine-looking things. Did you ever stop to think of that?” “In other words,” Wint agreed, “beauty is only skin deep, even in stoves.” “Well, I’d rather have an ugly stove that would draw and give heat than a fine one that wouldn’t,” B. B. declared; and Wint said he did not blame him. B. B. sat down at his desk, working and talking at the same time. This was a way he had; a way he had to have, for there was nearly always some one in the office to talk to him. Wint said: “I almost forgot about my meeting to-night. Are you still willing to preside?” B. B. said: “Certainly.” “I thought you might have changed your mind.” “No indeed. At the Rink, is it?” “Yes.” “Who are your speakers?” “I’m not having any fine talent,” Wint said, smiling. “Just a couple of good friends of mine, Sam O’Brien and Davy Morgan. And if you’d be willing to say something--” “Oh, I always talk when I get a chance like that.” “Sure.”