better man. Why, thar's Jim Weatherby; he'll do first rate."

"His dogs are setters," fretted Will. "I don't want him; I want
Christopher Blake--he saved my life, you know."

"So he did, so he did," admitted Fletcher; "and he shan't be a
loser by that, suh," he added, turning to Carraway. "When you go
over thar, you can carry my check along for five hundred
dollars."

The lawyer smiled. "Oh, I'll take it," he answered, "and I'll
very likely bring it back."

The boy looked at Carraway. "You tell him to come, sir," he
pleaded. His eyes were so like Fletcher's--small, sparkling,
changing from blue to brown--that the lawyer's glance lingered
upon the other's features, seeking some resemblance in them,
also. To his surprise he found absolutely none, the high,
blue-veined forehead beneath the chestnut hair, the straight,
delicate nose; the sensitive, almost effeminate curve of the
mouth, must have descended from the "worthless drab" whom he had
beheld in the severe white light of Fletcher's scorn. For the
first time it occurred to Carraway that the illumination had been
too intense.

"I'll tell him, certainly," he said quietly after a moment; "but
I don't promise that he'll come, you understand."

"Oh, I won't thank him," cried the boy eagerly. "It isn't for
that I want him--tell him so. Maria says he hates a fuss."