"I got you into this, Ignace; and now I----" "You did not," said Prochnow. His pride of intellect, still unhumbled, forbade his acknowledgment of any such claim. "Oh, yes, I did, Ignace; and now I must get you out of it." "Are you going to see those men?" "I am." "Don't. There is still some hope left," said Prochnow thickly, "and you would only make matters worse. A great deal of unsuspected talent has been developed, it appears, by these experiments, as I have heard them called," he went on chokingly, with blazing eyes, in a gallant attempt at cold irony; "and much more may be waiting still. Enough, in fact, to justify a _concours_--how do you say?--a competition." He clenched his fists against his rigid thighs and turned his face away. "A competition? They say that now?" Little O'Grady threw off his blouse and jumped on it with both feet. "Where _is_ my hat?" he cried, running his fingers through his long, fluffy hair and toppling over a disregarded cast or two. Prochnow caught him by the arm. "You must not go," he said. But Little O'Grady was obsessed by a vision of the Grindstone directors--the whole Nine--assembled round the council-board in that shabby, out-of-date parlour. It had been hard to get them together for Dill and Giles and Prochnow and Adams, but there they sat now, waiting for him. A new figure entered the vision, the little Terence O'Grady they were expecting: the spokesman for honour, for fair play; the champion of the poor girls whose tenderest hopes had been blighted; the whip of scorpions that was to lash the ignorance, the ineptitude and the careless cruelty that had brought so many hearts and talents to fury and despair. "Get out of my way!" cried Little O'Grady. He pushed Prochnow aside, clapped on his hat and rushed from the room. He tumbled down five flights of stairs. At the bottom he met Gowan. "A competition!" cried O'Grady, with raging scorn. "I know," returned Gowan. "But there's something later. They have formed a committee, under the lead of an 'expert'--somebody that _I_ never heard, of--to pass the Winter Exhibition in review. They want to see which of us do the best work and to determine whether any of us at all can do good enough for their wants." "Ow!" shrieked O'Grady. "Furthermore, old Rosenberg has proposed to cut down the appropriation for decorations from twenty-five thousand to four. If they're bad, after all, so much less will the loss be." "Ow!" shrieked O'Grady again, as he tried to bolt past. "Where are you going?" asked Gowan. "To the Bank! To the Bank!" It was as if Revolutionary Paris were yelling, "_A la lanterne! a la lanterne!_"