Binwell looked up for a moment, drawing back to the extreme end of the apartment. Suddenly he crouched and sprang into the air with an incredible lightness. It was a long oblique jump to the beam on which he caught; he did not wait a second but “skinned the cat” among the rafters with an admirable dexterity and dropped softly on his feet at the doorway. Once more there was a guffaw. “Go it, Shanks!” “He’s a servigrous jumper, sure!” “Spry as a deer!” It was a most pacific scene and the exhibition of agility seemed likely to promote only good fellowship and the pleasant passing of the hour until old Corbin remarked: “Yes, Jerry’s a good jumper, an’ a good runner, too, I hev hearn.” Binwell cast a quick glance over his shoulder; a light gleamed in his small, dark, defiant eye. Whether he did not pique himself on his speed, or whether he detected a sub-current of meaning in the comment, he was moved to demand abruptly: “Whar did ye ever see me run?” Old Corbin’s delight in the opportunity broadened his face by an inch or two. The display of intricate hieroglyphic wrinkles about his eyes was more than one might imagine possible to be described by age and fatness. His mouth distended to show the few teeth that had not yet forsaken his gums; his burly sides were shaking with laughter before he said, “I never _seen_ ye run, Jerry, but I hearn ez ye done some mighty tall runnin’ in the old war time.” There was a shout of derision from the crowd, most of the men having served in one army or the other. The object of this barbed ridicule looked as if he might sink through the floor. His face flushed, his abashed eyes dropped, he stood quivering and abject before them all. Ike had a quick pang of pity and resentment. And yet he was ashamed that this was the man who sat by his father’s hearth and shared their bread. It was only for a moment that he was sorry for Binwell. The recovery from all semblance of shame or wounded pride was instantaneous as he retorted: “That’s mighty easy ter say ’bout ennybody.” He whirled around on his light heel. “Naw, folks,” he cried out, “I ain’t much on the run; never footed it more’n jes’ fairly. But I tell ye—ef ye be tired o’ seein’ me jump—my jumpin’ ain’t nuthin’ ter my heftin’. I kin lift the heaviest man hyar an’ jump with him. Less see,” he affected to turn about and survey the burly, stalwart crowd. “Who pulls the beam at the highest figger?” He hesitated for a moment; then with a sudden dart that was like the movement of a fish, he seized on old Corbin. “Naw! naw!” wheezed the fat old fellow as the stringy, muscular arms encircled him. He strove to hold to his chair; it fell over in the fracas and eluded his grasp; he clutched at the window-sill—vainly; his hat dropped off; his face was scarlet, and he roared for help.