In front of the Post Office, Wint ran into Jack Routt. Routt had been out of town for a month or so on a business trip, and Wint had seen little of him since Amos went away. He was glad to see Jack, and said so. They shook hands, and Wint bought Routt a cigar. Routt studied Wint curiously. He wondered if it were true that Wint was keeping straight and doing well. And to find out, he asked laughingly: “Been over to see Mrs. Moody lately, old man?” Mrs. Moody was that virago who managed the Weaver House, that woman of the hideously beautiful false teeth. Wint flushed uncomfortably at mention of her. “No-o,” he said hesitantly. “That’s the boy,” said Routt. “You keep away from her. You let the stuff alone. You can’t monkey with it, the way some fellows can, old man.” And he watched Wint. There had been a time when this word would have acted as a challenge, when Wint would have snapped at the bait. But--Wint hesitated, he considered, he shook himself a little and said quietly: “I guess you’re right, Jack.” “You bet I’m right,” said Routt. Wint nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. When they separated, Routt went to his office and sat down with his feet on his desk to consider. And--he scowled. Matters were not going well with him. It did not suit him for Wint to keep straight. It did not suit him to lie supine under Amos Caretall’s injunction to let Wint alone. The Congressman’s command had irked him more than once, and more than once he had thought of V. R. Kite in that connection, and thought of going to Kite. He had a fairly definite idea that Amos would never help him along politically, and Kite might be able to. And--he remembered the word Wint had fastened on Kite on the day of his inauguration. He had called Kite a buzzard, and others had taken it up. The name seemed to fit; it tickled the sense of humor of Hardiston folks. But it did not tickle V. R. Kite. Kite ought to be ready to take means to crush Wint. And--that would please Routt. He had held off thus long in the belief that Wint would be his own ruin. He began to doubt this, now. It might be necessary to do something. Routt was of mean stuff, small and tawdry. He had been what Hardiston called a mean boy, a trouble-maker. He had an infinite capacity for hate, a curious shrewdness that enabled him to fasten on another’s weakest point. As boys, he and Wint had fought once. They fought over Joan, because Routt teased her till she cried. Wint had whipped him, though Routt was the taller and the heavier of the two. Routt had never forgotten that; but Wint forgot it as soon as the incident was over. Wint forgot, and Routt remembered. Circumstances threw them much together; they grew up as friends; Routt behaved himself; people decided that he had outgrown his meanness. Wint liked him, did not distrust him, accepted him for what he seemed--a friend.