“Is your father going to speak?” Wint shook his head. “No,” he said frankly. “Dad’s all right. He’s been absolutely fine. But--he says he wouldn’t know what to say. He’s no speaker, you know.” “I’ve heard him do very well.” Wint laughed. “You probably wrote those speeches for him yourself.” And B. B. good-naturedly acknowledged the corn. “About half past seven?” Wint asked, as he got up to go; and B. B. agreed to the hour, and said he would be there. When he had left B. B., Wint telephoned the furnace to make sure of Davy Morgan; and Morgan said energetically that he surely would be on hand. “I’ve some few things to say, also,” he declared. “I can talk when they get me mad, Wint. And I’m mad enough, to-day.” Wint said: “All right; go as far as you like. This is a fight. It’s no pink tea.” And he dropped in on Sam O’Brien. But Sam was not in the restaurant. His underling told Wint the fat man had been out all day. “He went looking for Jack Routt,” the man explained. “He found him,” said Wint. “Well, tell Sam I’m counting on him to be at the Rink to-night.” From the restaurant, he crossed the street to Dick Hoover’s office. Dick and his father were busy, so that Wint was alone for a time. Then he decided people might think he was hiding; so he came downstairs and out to the street again, and went to the barber shop for a haircut. Jim Radabaugh was there; and Jim shifted the bulge in his cheek and shook hands with Wint and said: “You’re there, boss. I’d say you’re there.” Marshall, the barber, violated all the traditions of his craft by being a silent man. He said nothing whatever while he trimmed Wint’s crisp hair; and Wint was glad of that. He would not hide. But he did not want to talk overmuch. When he came out of the barber shop, he saw Amos and Sam O’Brien and Peter Gergue on the other side of the street. They were walking purposefully, coming uptown from the direction of Amos’s home. They saw him, and Amos waved his hand in greeting; then Peter spoke to Amos, and left the others, and came across to Wint, scratching the back of his head. Wint said: “Hello, Peter.” Gergue grinned. “Well, Wint, you’ve started something.” Wint nodded. “I suppose so.” “You’ve made ’em talk, Wint. That never hurt a bit.” “I think you told me that once before,” Wint agreed, laughing. “Well, and it’s so,” Gergue insisted. He looked all around, took Wint’s arm. “Let’s walk along,” he suggested. Amos and Sam had disappeared. Wint said: “I’ve been looking for Sam. I want to see him.” “What about?” “He’s going to speak at my meeting to-night. At least I want him to.” Gergue chuckled; and he gripped Wint’s arm as though he knew a thing or two, which he might tell if he chose. “Oh, he’ll speak,” he said. “Sam’ll speak.” “I’ve counted on him.” “You going to speak, ain’t you?” Gergue asked. “Why, yes. Naturally.” “Fixed you up a speech, have you?” “Not yet. I’ll--just say whatever comes up at the time. Anything.”