t. But if I didn't somebody
would beat us both out. They're all working it. It's the only game
that pays nowadays. And besides, I need the money. It isn't out yet,
but I'm going to be married--and she's used to a lot of money. I've
been doing pretty well, but if I land this job I'll be fixed and able
to give her the things she deserves. Do you blame me, old man?"

A troubled smile was on David's lips. "Not wholly, Dick."

There was another silence, awkward now, and then Dick began to move
toward the door. But with his hand on the knob he turned.

"Davy, why don't you play the game? You've got the stuff. If you only
could put it across, if you had the punch, you could go any distance.
I--I'm not quite big enough to step down for a better man, but I'd
rather have you beat me than any other man alive. Why don't you try
it?"

The troubled smile lingered. "I can't, old man."

David did not hear the door close. For a long time he sat staring
vaguely at his sketch.

But that night, when he was alone with his work once more, the old
faith rushed back into his heart. Dick was wrong--he must be wrong!
The committee were honorable men; they held a position of trust.
Surely they could see how much better his plans were than Dick's. And
surely they could not be tricked into passing them by for a hodgepodge
that would only bring ridicule down upon their church.

He was ashamed that he had lost faith, even for a day.

Toward the end of the two months Shirley began to grow a little
impatient with his industry.

"Will it never be finished?" she would sigh plaintively. "You never
have any time to spare for me any more."

"You see," he would explain, "there are so many details to be worked
out in a thing like this, and I mustn't slur over any of them. We must
make it the best we can. And it will soon be done."

But a little throb of regret would clutch his heart as he said that.

And one evening he did come to the end, the illustrative sketches
complete, the beautiful plans all made, the last calculation for the
specifications set down.

"There! It's done."

He propped a sketch on the easel and leaned back, sighing.

Shirley looked up from her novel. "Thank goodness--at last! Are you
sure you've made it the very best you can?"

"Yes." He looked long at the sketch, a strange wistfulness in his
eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever do as well again."

"Suppose it shouldn't win, after all?"