as sincere.

"Then if you admire him, why don't you like him?"

He reflected.

"I don't like the expression of his teeth," he admitted. "They're too
pointed. He looks like he'd bite. I don't think he'd care much who he
bit, either; it would all depend on who got in his way."

Seeing me look at him wonderingly, he paused in his work, stretched
his legs under the table, and grinned up at me.

"I'm not saying he oughtn't to put his best foot foremost," he agreed.
"We'd all do that, if we only knew how. And I'm not saying he ought to
tell on himself, or that anybody's got any business getting under his
guard. I don't hanker to know anybody's faults, or to find out what
they've got up their sleeves besides their elbows, unless I have to.
Why, I'd as soon ask a fellow to take off his patent leathers to prove
he hadn't got bunions, or to unbutton his collar, so I'd be sure it
wasn't fastened onto a wart on the back of his neck. Personally I
don't want to air anybody's bumps and bunions. It's none of my
business. I believe in collars and shoes, myself. _But_ if I see
signs, I can believe all by my lonesome they've got 'em, can't I?"

"Exactly. Your deductions, my dear Sherlock, are really marvelous. A
gentleman wears good shoes and clean collars--wherefore, you don't
like the expression of his teeth!" said I, ironically.

"Slap me on the wrist some more, if it makes you feel good," he
offered brazenly. "For he may--and I sure don't." His grin faded, the
old pucker came to his forehead.

"Parson, maybe the truth is I'm not crazy over him because people like
him get people like me to seeing too plainly that things aren't fairly
dealt out. Why, think a minute. That man's got about all a man can
have, hasn't he? In himself, I mean. And if there's anything more he
fancies, he can reach out and get it, can't he? Well, then, some folks
might get to thinking that folks like him--get more than they deserve.
And some ... don't get any more than they deserve," he finished, with
grim ambiguity.

"Do you like him yourself?" he demanded, as I made no reply.

"I admire him immensely."

"Does Madame like him?" he came back.

"Madame is a woman," I said, cautiously. "Also, you are to remember
that if Madame doesn't, she is only one against many. All the rest of
them seem to adore him."

"Oh, the rest of them!" grunted John Flint, and scowled. "Huh! If it
wasn't for Madame and a few more like her, I'd say women and hens are
the