author who recalls being weaned as the first of his
many bitter experiences. Either Susan's mental life did not waken so
early or the record has faded. She remembers only the consolate husband,
her father; remembers him only too well. The backs of his square,
angry-looking hands were covered with an unpleasant growth of reddish
bristles; his nostrils were hairy, too, and seemed formed by Nature
solely for the purpose of snorting with wrath. It must not be held
against Susan that she never loved her father; he was not created to
inspire the softer emotions. Nor am I altogether certain just why he was
created at all.

Nevertheless, Robert Blake was in his soberer hours--say, from Tuesdays
to Fridays--an expert mechanic, thoroughly conversant with the interior
lack of economy of most makes of automobiles. He had charge of the
repair department of the Eureka Garage, New Haven, where my
not-too-robust touring car of those primitive days spent, during the
spring of 1907, many weeks of interesting and expensive invalidism. I
forget how many major operations it underwent.

It was not at the Eureka Garage, however, that I first met Bob Blake.
Nine years before I there found him again, I had defended him in
court--as it happens, successfully--on a charge of assault with intent
to kill. That was almost my first case, and not far--thank heaven--from
my last. Bob's defense, I remember, was assigned to me by a judge who
had once borrowed fifty dollars from my father, which he never repaid;
at least, not in cash. There are more convenient methods. True, my
father was no longer living at the time I was appointed to defend Bob;
but that is a detail.

Susan was then four years old. I can't say I recall her, if I even laid
eyes on her. But Mrs. Bob appeared as a witness, at my request--it was
all but her final appearance, poor woman; she died of an embolism within
a week--and I remember she told the court that a kinder husband and
father than Bob had never existed. I remember, too, that the court
pursed its lips and the gentlemen of the jury grinned approvingly, for
Mrs. Bob could not easily conceal something very like the remains of a
purple eye, which she attributed to hearing a suspicious noise one night
down cellar, a sort of squeaking noise, and to falling over the cat on
her tour of investigation--with various circumstantial _minutiae_ of no
present importance.

The important thing is, that Bob went scot-free and was as nearly