never met anybody like you before. You're the man can do things
and won't do them."

"I didn't say that. I said what I meant--that good health is better than
everything else in the world, and when you've got it, you should keep
it, if you can. I'm going to keep mine."

"Well, keep it in Montreal," said John Grier. "There's a lot doing there
worth while. Is fighting worth anything to one that's got aught in him?
There's war for the big things. I believe in war." He waved a hand.
"What's the difference between the kind of thing you've done to-day, and
doing it with the Belloc gang--with the Folson gang--with the Longville
gang--and all the rest? It's the same thing. I was like you when I was
young. I could do things you've done to-day while I laid the base of
what I've got. How old are you?"

"I'm thirty--almost thirty-one."

"You'll be just as well in Montreal to-morrow as you are here to-day,
and you'd be twice as clever," said John Grier. His eyes seemed to
pierce those of the younger man. "I like you," he continued, suddenly
catching Tarboe's arm. "You're all right, and you wouldn't run straight
simply because it was the straight thing to do."

Tarboe threw back his head and laughed and nodded. The old man's eyes
twinkled. "By gracious, we're well met! I never was in a bigger hole in
my life. One of my sons has left me. I bought him out, and he's joined
my enemy Belloc."

"Yes, I know," remarked Tarboe.

"My other son, he's no good. He's as strong as a horse--but he's no
good. He paints, he sculps. He doesn't care whether I give him money or
not. He earns his living as he wants to earn it. When Fabian left me, I
tried Carnac. I offered to take him in permanently. He tried it, but he
wouldn't go on. He got out. He's twenty-six. The papers are beginning to
talk about him. He doesn't care for that, except that it brings in cash
for his statues and pictures. What's the good of painting and statuary,
if you can't do the big things?"

"So you think the things you do are as big as the things that
Shakespeare, or Tennyson, or Titian, or Van Dyck, or Watt, or Rodin
do--or did?"

"Bigger-much bigger," was the reply.

The younger man smiled. "Well, that's the way to look at it, I suppose.
Think the thing you do is better than what anybody else does, and you're
well started."

"Come and do it too. You're the only man I've cottoned to in years. Come
with me, and I'll give you twelve thousand dollars a year; and I'll