sire thinks I'd do better work at the
School of Mines and then in Europe. I'm sorry, too, confound it, even
if I know his head is level. I'd been looking forward to the pleasure
of romping along here for another year or two, and watching you get
changed into a parson. It would have been well worth my while, too. It
isn't every sinner like myself that has the chance to see a saint in
the making. I should have found it an edifying spectacle." Then
suddenly he broke off, and spoke with obvious sincerity. "Hang it all,
Scott! What's the use? Chuck theology, and come along with me and be
some sort of an engineer, or else the chemist old Mansfield has set his
heart on making out of you."

As he spoke, his hand tightened on Scott's arm. Under the street light
beside them, he could see the colour rush into the face of his
companion, as if in answer to the touch and the appeal; could see the
thin lips waver, then set themselves into a stern, hard line. Then,--

"It would break my mother's heart," Scott said gravely.

Instantly Opdyke flung up his head and relaxed the pressure of his
hand.

"Then--last call for science!" he said, with a carelessness which did
not quite ring true. "Your mother is worth the sacrifice, Brenton. I
saw that for myself, to-night."

It was not until they were settled at an initial-hacked table in the
smoke-thick air of Mory's that either of them spoke again. Then it was
Opdyke who broke the silence.

"Who's the girl, Brenton? Your Book of Chronicles hasn't mentioned her,
so far as I know."

"She's----" Scott hesitated, a little at a loss as to the proper way of
cataloguing Catie.

Opdyke nodded at the hesitation.

"Ja. I comprehend. Well, she's a pretty thing, and she knows her good
points," he answered. "That counts a lot, too, in a girl like that."

Scott turned on him a little bit pugnaciously, the more so by reason of
his own doubts of an hour before.

"Like what?" he queried curtly.

However, Opdyke had no idea of being betrayed into any indiscretion.

"Like her," he made tranquil answer, and then he bent above his glass
of beer and blew aside the froth. "She is sure to arrive," he went on,
after a minute. "The only thing I question is whether you may not have
to hustle a good deal, to keep up with her. You're a born student,
Brenton, and a sanctimonious grind. Nevertheless, when it comes to the
worldly question of arriving, you're a confoundedly lazy lubber, and I
suspect you alwa