"Fact," said Finnegan, who, having crossed his legs, plunged his hands into his pockets and cocked one eye, said impressively: "Dink, you're wrong." "I am--am I?" "But never mind; I'm here. Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan--ready and willing." "Irishman, I do believe you're embarrassed," said Stover, surprised. "I'm not," said Finnegan indignantly. "Only--only, I want to be impressive. Dink, you're getting in wrong again." "What in thunder----" "You are, Dink, you are. But don't worry; I'm here. In the first place, you can't forget what every one else has forgotten." "Forget what?" "The late unpleasantness," said Finnegan, with an expelling wave of his hand. "That's over, spiked, dished, set back, covered up, cobwebbed, no flowers and no tombstone." "I know." "No, you don't--that's just it. You've got it on your mind--brooding and all that sort of thing." Stover sat down and stared at the Lilliputian philosopher. "Well, I like your nerve!" "Don't--don't start in like that," said Finnegan, rolling up his sleeves over his funny, thin forearms, "cause I shall have to thrash you." "Well, go on," said Stover suddenly. "You're not in Coventry--you never have been. You're one of us," said Dennis glibly. "BUT--I repeat BUT--you can't be one of us if you don't believe in your own noddle that you are one of us! Get that? That's deep--no charge, always glad to oblige a customer." "Keep on," said Stover, leaning back. "With your kind permission, directly. It's all in this--you haven't got the trick." "The trick?" "The trick of conversation. That's not just it. The trick of answering back. Aha, that's better! Scratch out first sentiment. Change signals!" "There's something in that," said Stover, genuinely amazed. "You blush." "What?" "The word was blush," said Finnegan firmly. "I saw you--Finnegan saw you and grieved. And why? Because you didn't have the trick of answering back." "Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan," said Stover slowly, "I believe you are a whole-hearted little cuss. Also, you're not so far off, either. Now, since this is a serious conversation, this is where I stand: I went through Hades last spring--I deserved it and it's done me good. I've come back to make good. Savez? And that's a serious thing, too. Now if you have one particular theory about your art of conversation to elucidate--eluce." "One theory!" said Finnegan, chirping along as he perceived the danger-point passed. "I'm a theorist, and a real theorist doesn't have one theory; he has dozens. Let me see; let me think, reflect, cogitate, tickle the thinker. Best way is to start at the A, B, C--first principles, all that sort of thing. Supposin', supposin' you come into the room with that hat on--it's a bum hat, by the way--and some one pipes up; 'Get that at the fire sale?' What are you going to answer?" "Why, I suppose I'd grin," said Stover slowly, "and say: 'How did you guess it?'" "Wrong," said Finnegan. "You let him take the laugh." "Well, what?"