better remain a suggestion, then."

He turned his back on Scales, and began to arrange the papers on his desk. It was the signal that the conference was over. Luke and Beverley soon left, but Scales remained.

"I don't think you quite appreciate your own position in this affair," Scales remarked.

"My position? What do you know of my position?"

"More than I cared to say before the others. I would like to ask you a question."

"Ask away," Masterman retorted grimly.

"Well then, do you know the real reason why Clark preached that sermon?"

"Oh, I suppose it was the expression of the new-fangled socialism he professes."

"In part, yes. But there was a personal element, too. Do you recollect a church you built at Orchard Green about ten years ago?"

Masterman's face darkened, for he knew very well what was coming. He had received more than one letter lately from the trustees of Orchard Green Church, who complained that the west wall of the edifice was sinking, owing to imperfect foundations. It would have to be rebuilt, and they naturally traced their disaster to his bad workmanship. Hitherto he had taken no notice of these letters. The people who wrote them were not persons of any influence. They had no legal claim upon him. Of course his work had been properly certified by the architect at the time of its completion, and in any case the lapse of ten years made him immune from all responsibility. Nevertheless, it was not an affair that he cared to have generally known, and he was startled at Scales' reference to the Orchard Green Church.

"Well," Scales continued, "it seems Clark has friends at Orchard Green. When he went to see them a little time ago, they told him that the walls of the church were sinking. They had uncovered a part of the foundations to discover the cause, and had found instead of sound concrete a rotten mixture of oyster-shells and road-gravel. Of course they told him that you were the builder, and he came back raging. Then he preached his sermon."

"And you disapproved his sermon?"

"Certainly—certainly," Scales replied in an eager voice.

"Even though his facts were right?"

"Ah! I couldn't agree to that, sir. And I'm sure you wouldn't admit it."

Masterman threw away his cigar, lit another, and stood regarding Scales with a sardonic eye. Somehow the craft of the clerk did not appear to him the admirable quality that it had seemed half an hour earlier. To rob upon a large scale was one thing; to cheat the mind into false conclusions was quite another. The first he had done, and would do again; but by a strange paradox this robber in action remained honest in thought, and could not bring himself to say the thing he did not mean. He felt again that spasm of aversion to Scales, and with his aversion there was mixed a strong curiosity to know just how far the clerk's supple conscience would serve him, and what was the part he wished to play.

He wheeled suddenly upon Scales, and broke into a harsh laugh.

"Is that all you have to say?" he asked.

"Yes, that is all."

"Well, now listen to me. The facts about the Orchard Green Church are all right. I admit them. They wanted everything as cheap as could be; they wanted me cheap; so I gave them cheap work just to balance matters. Don't think that's an apology, for it isn't. As for Clark, I don't object to his saying anything he likes about the business, but I do object to his saying it from a pulpit. He wants to injure me, and so he can't complain if I get back at him. But there's two ways of fighting a man—one's face to face, and the other's by hitting him behind. I'm going to fight honest. And do you know, Scales, much as I dislike Clark, I really think I like him better than I like you, after all."

"I fail to understand——" Scales began.

"Oh no, you don't; you're much too clever for that. But if you do really want a little light, I'd have you remember this—that Archibold Masterman was never frightened yet by threats, and when he fights he fights fair."

III

THE BIG STRONG BEAST

The next morning Masterman wrote a letter to the overjoyed trustees of the Orchard Green Church, offering to make good without cost all defects of workmanship in the building which might be justly charged to him. He was careful to explain that while they had no legal claim on him, he regarded this work as a debt of honour.

He had just finished the letter when Arthur came into the office. Arthur's manner was constrained and almost timid. Masterman, on the contrary, was in his most jovial mood. He had just performed an act which was not only good in itself, but wise and politic; for, of course, he knew that his action toward the Orchard Green trustees would become public, and would be quoted to his credit.

"Well," he began, "getting a bit tired of doing nothing? Not that I grudge you your liberty, you know. I promised you a year to look around, before you settle to your life-work, and I shall stick to my bargain. But I confess it will be a glad day for me when I write 'Masterman & Son' over my doors."

"I'm very far from doing nothing, sir," he answered. "Oxford is one world, and London quite another. I am learning every day a lot of things Oxford never taught me."

"Of course you are. London's a big world, and the things it has to teach are the things that count. Not that Oxford isn't worth while too. It gives a man a start in life nothing else can give. That's why I sent you there, you know."

"Yes, I know, father, and I am grateful to you."

"Nothing to be grateful for, my boy. I owed it to you." His face softened with a musing look very unusual with him. "I got no kind of start myself, you know," he continued. "At fifteen I was working in a brickfield. When I went home at night, my father used to beat me. I don't think I ever hated any one as I hated my father. One day I struck back, and ran away from home. Queer thing—I was always sorry for that blow. I used to lie awake at nights for weeks after, wondering if I really hurt the old man. From that day to this I never saw him any more. But I'm still sorry for that blow. Sons shouldn't hit their parents, anyway. I ought to have let him go on beating me; he'd got the habit, and I could have stood it all right. Well, well, it's such a long time ago that I can hardly believe it ever happened."

He stopped suddenly, with a lift of the shoulders, as if he shook off the burden of that squalid past. But the rude words had left the son inexpressibly touched. A swift picture passed before his mind of a gaunt boy toiling over heavy tasks, ill-paid, cruelly used, wandering out into the world lonely and unguided, and a strong passion of pity and of wonder shook his heart. Above all, those artless words, "Sons shouldn't hit their fathers, anyway," fell upon him with the weight of a reproach. Had he not already condemned his father in his thoughts? He had known very well to whom Clark alluded in his sermon, and yet he had approved. He had entered the office that morning with the fixed intent of endorsing Clark's tacit accusation of his father. And now he found himself suddenly disarmed. That old sense of something big about his father came back to him with redoubled force. To start like that, shovelling clay in a brickyard for twelve hours a day, and to become what he was—oh! it needed a big man to do that, an Esau who was scarcely to be judged by the standards of smooth-skinned, home-staying Jacobs.

"I didn't know you had suffered all that, father. You never told me that before."

"There's a sight of things I've suffered that I wouldn't like you to know. But they were all in the day's work, and I don't complain. And that's one thing I want to say to you, and I may as well say it now. You've got a start I never had, and you won't suffer what I suffered, but I want you to know that the world's a pretty hard place to live in anyway. You can't