“Sure,” Sheener told him. “We won’t get in the way. You’ll see. He’ll pick you out in a minute, old man. Leave it to me.” Evans nodded. “Quite so,” he said with some relief. “Quite so, to be sure.” So we waited. Waited till the train slid in at the end of the long train shed. Sheener gripped the old man’s arm. “There he comes,” he said sharply. “Take a brace, now. Stand right there, where he’ll spot you when he comes out. Right there, bo.” “You’ll step back a bit, eh, what?” Evans asked. “Don’t worry about us,” Sheener told him. “Just you keep your eye skinned for the boy. Good luck, bo.” We left him standing there, a tall, gaunt, shaky figure. Sheener and I drew back toward the stairs that lead to the elevated structure, and watched from that vantage point. The train stopped, and the passengers came into the station, at first in a trickle and then in a stream, with porters hurrying before them, baggage laden. The son was one of the first. He emerged from the gate, a tall chap, not unlike his father. Stopped for a moment, casting his eyes about, and saw the flower in the old man’s lapel. Leaped toward him hungrily. They gripped hands, and we saw the son drop his hand on the father’s shoulder. They stood there, hands still clasped, while the young man’s porter waited in the background. We could hear the son’s eager questions, hear the older man’s drawled replies. Saw them turn at last, and heard the young man say: “Taxi!” The porter caught up the bag. The taxi stand was at our left, and they came almost directly toward us. As they approached, Sheener stepped forward, a cheap, somewhat disreputable, figure. His hand was extended toward the younger man. The son saw him, looked at him in some surprise, looked toward his father inquiringly. Evans saw Sheener too, and a red flush crept up his gaunt cheeks. He did not pause, did not take Sheener’s extended hand; instead he looked the newsboy through and through. Sheener fell back to my side. They stalked past us, out to the taxi stand. I moved forward. I would have halted them, but Sheener caught my arm. I said hotly: “But see here. He can’t throw you like that.” Sheener brushed his sleeve across his eyes. “Hell,” he said huskily. “A gent like him can’t let on that he knows a guy like me.” I looked at Sheener, and I forgot old Evans and his son. I looked at Sheener, and I caught his elbow and we turned away. He had been quite right, of course, all the time. Blood will always tell. You can’t keep a fast horse in a poor man’s stable. And a man is always a man, in any guise. If you still doubt, do as I did. Consider Sheener. THE FIELD OF HONOR I