The Major put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “My boy,” he said very gravely, “you’re dealing with a problem which neither I nor anybody else can solve for you. It is a problem to be settled by law, but the law is that of your own conscience. Now, I submit, the court of conscience is supplemental to the courts of the land, but it is severer in its judgments. The other courts may give you the benefit of a doubt, but hardly the court of conscience. And if there were prejudice----” There he checked himself. “No; I’ll say no more; for I’ve no right to seek to influence you unduly. You must reach your own decision for yourself.” “I understand, sir,” said Sam, with a gravity matching the Major’s. The pressure on his shoulder increased. “If I’m a judge of human nature, young man,” the Major declared, “you _will_ settle this thing for yourself, and you’ll settle it right!” CHAPTER XX SAM MAKES A SPEECH It was late in the afternoon of Sam’s visit to the Major, and the club members were gathered in their house. Sam, silent and preoccupied, was sitting in one corner. The Shark, in another, was somewhat skeptically regarding Step Jones, who was describing, for the benefit of the assembled company, a number of big fish that day caught through the ice of the mill-pond. Step’s arms were long, and his imagination was active. “Gee, but those pickerel were regular old granddaddies!” he averred. “Smallest was this long.” He spread his hands. “Then came two or three about this size.” Another illustration. “Then there was the biggest.” And Step’s hands were moved farther apart. “Aw, come off!” jeered the Trojan. “You’re thinking of ’em all, put end to end.” “I’m not,” Step insisted. “What’ll you bet ’twasn’t this long?” “Huh! You’re dreaming!” “Dreaming nothing! Didn’t I see the fish?” “You didn’t see any five-foot pickerel.” “Tell you I saw one the length I’m showing you.” Up sprang the Shark, and strode across the room, pulling a tape-measure from his pocket as he advanced. A good deal to Step’s embarrassment, he insisted upon making careful measure of the distance between the outstretched palms. “Four feet, three and seven-eighths inches,” he announced. “Umph! Some fish, Step; yes, some fish!” Step lost no time in lowering his arms. “Well, you fellows can josh if you want to; but you can’t prove I’m wrong.” There was a shout of derision. “No, sir--I won’t take off an inch!” declared Step. The Shark grinned. “All right, Step. Only that couldn’t have been a pickerel; it must have been a muskellunge.” “’Longe in the mill-pond! Sure thing!” snickered Poke. “No, no,” Herman Boyd put in. “Step’s mixed--that’s all. He’s thinking of what Sam caught--Little Perrine and Tom Orkney.” Over in his corner Sam roused at the name. “Who’s talking about Orkney?” he called out. “I am,” said Herman. “Any news of him?” “No, thank fortune!” Herman was not an especially vindictive fellow; but he had disliked Tom exceedingly.