"And I brought it on myself. So we do seek it, don't we? And trouble, I must hold, _is_ like woman. 'Waits' I strike out as unpleasantly suggestive; let it go. So, then, trouble is like a lovely woman, loveliest _when_ conquered. Now, Miss Dunning, if you have a spark of human kindness you won't turn me down on that proposition. By the way, I have something put down about trouble." He was laughing. Dicksie asked herself if this could be the man about whom floated so many accusations of coldness and cruelty and death. He drew a note-book from a waistcoat pocket. "Oh, it's in the note-book! There comes the black note-book," exclaimed McCloud. "Don't make fun of my note-book!" "I shouldn't dare." McCloud pointed to it as he spoke to Dicksie. "You should see what is in that note-book: the record, I suppose, of every man in the mountains and of a great many outside." "And countless other things," added Marion. "Such as what?" asked Dicksie. "Such as you, for example," said Marion. "Am I a thing?" "A sweet thing, of course," said Marion ironically. "Yes, you; with color of eyes, hair, length of index finger of the right hand, curvature of thumb, disposition--whether peaceable or otherwise, and prison record, if any." "And number of your watch," added McCloud. "How dreadful!" Whispering Smith eyed Dicksie benignly. "They are talking this nonsense to distract us, of course, but I am bound to read you what I have here, if you will graciously submit." "Submit? I _wait_ to hear it," laughed Dicksie. "My training in prosody is the slightest, as will appear," he continued, "and _synecdoche_ and _Schenectady_ were always on the verge of getting mixed when I went to school. My sentiment may be termed obvious, but I want to offer a slight apology on behalf of trouble; it is abused too much. I submit this "SONG TO TROUBLE "Here's to the measure of every man's worth, Though when men are wanting it grieves us. Hearts that are hollow we're better without, Hearts that are loyal it leaves us. "Trouble's the dowry of every man's birth, A nettle adversity flings us; It yields to the grip of the masterful hand, When we play coward it stings us. "Chorus." "Don't say chorus; that's common." "I have to say chorus. My verses don't speak for themselves, and no one would know it was a chorus if I didn't explain. Besides, I'm short a line in the chorus, and that is what I'm waiting for to finish the song. "Chorus: "Then here's to the bumper that proves every friend! And though in the drinking it wrings us, Here's to the cup that we drain to the end, And here's to-- There I stick. I can't work out the last line." "And here's to the hearts that it brings us!" exclaimed Dicksie. "Fine!" cried McCloud. "'Here's to the hearts that it brings us!'"