not hear the words, but he could
the voices, and he noted that for the first five minutes one was
jovial, the other sullen; and for the next five minutes one was
persuasive, the other contradictory; and for the third five minutes one
was angry and the other back to its old sullenness. Then he saw that
Danny O'Flannigan jerked himself to his feet and strode away, leaving
Handy Mike stolidly smoking on the side porch.

"Humph!" muttered Bob. "Danny hung to longer 'n I thought he would.
Must be somethin' special's up."

It was on the next night that Jim, from his perch on the back fence,
saw the checkered trousers and tall hat on his own doorstep. Bob, on
the grass below, could not see, so Jim held his breath while the door
opened and his father admitted Danny O'Flannigan to the house.

Jim's heart swelled, and his eyes flashed with pride. Now, we should
see how a _man_ dealt with this thing. Surely now there would be no
fifteen minutes' dallying. Danny O'Flannigan would soon find out what
sort of a person he had to deal with. He would see that dad was not
Handy Mike.

It was on Jim's lips to speak to Bob, that Bob might share with him the
sight of Danny O'Flannigan's discomfiture. He longed to display this
overwhelming proof of the falseness of Bob's assertion that dad would
sell his vote; but--best let by-gones be by-gones; he had punished Bob
for that, and, after all, Handy Mike _was_ Bob's father. He could tell
Bob of it later--how dad had sent Danny O'Flannigan to the right-about
at once. Yes, that was the better way.

So Jim schooled himself to hide his exultation, and he listened with
well-feigned interest to Bob's animated account of the morning's fire.

Two, three, five minutes passed, and Danny O'Flannigan had not come
out. Jim hitched about on his narrow perch, and sent furtive glances
across the expanse of yard to his own door. Six, seven, ten minutes
passed; Jim's throat grew dry, and his fingers cold at their tips. His
eyes had long ago ceased to look at Bob; they were fixed in growing
horror on that closed door, behind which were dad--and that man.
Eleven, thirteen, fifteen minutes passed.

"I--I'm goin' in now," faltered Jim. "I--I reckon I don't feel well,"
he finished thickly, as he slipped to the ground and walked unsteadily
across the yard.

In the woodshed he stopped short at the kitchen door. A murmur of
voices came from far inside, and Jim's knees shook beneath him--it was
n