“From who?” cried Tutt in ungrammatical surprise.

“Never mind!” soothed Miss Wiggin.  “Anyway, it wasn’t Raphael B. Hogan.”

“Who certainly completely satisfies your definition so far as preying upon the ignorant and helpless is concerned,” said Mr. Tutt.  “That man is a human hyena—­worse than a highwayman.”

“Yet he’s a swell dresser,” interjected Tutt.  “Owns his house and lives in amity with his wife.”

“Doubtless he’s a loyal husband and a devoted father,” agreed Mr. Tutt.  “But so, very likely, is the hyena.  Certainly Hogan hasn’t got the excuse of necessity for doing what he does.”

“Don’t you suppose he has to give up good and plenty to somebody?” demanded Tutt.  “Cops and prison keepers and bondsmen and under sheriffs, and all kinds of crooked petty officials.  I should worry!”

  "Great fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ’em,
  And little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum,"

quoted Miss Wiggin reminiscently.

“A flea has to be a flea,” continued Tutt.  “He, or it, can’t be anything else, but Hogan doesn’t have to be a lawyer.  He could be an honest man if he chose.”

“He?  Not on your life!  He couldn’t be honest if he tried!” roared Mr. Tutt.  “He’s just a carnivorous animal!  A man eater!  They talk about scratching a Russian and finding a Tartar; I’d hate to scratch some of our legal brethren.”

“So would I!” assented Tutt.  “I guess you’re right, Mr. Tutt.  Christianity and the Golden Rule are all right in the upper social circles, but off Fifth Avenue there’s the same sort of struggle for existence that goes on in the animal world.  A man may be all sweetness and light to his wife and children and go to church on Sundays; he may even play pretty fair with his own gang; but outside of his home and social circle he’s a ravening wolf; at least Raphael B. Hogan is!”

* * * * *

The subject of the foregoing entirely accidental conversation was at that moment standing contemplatively in his office window smoking an excellent cigar preparatory to returning to the bosom of his family.  Raphael B. Hogan believed in taking life easily.  He was accustomed to say that outside office hours his time belonged to his wife and children; and several times a week he made it his habit on the way home to supper to stop at the florist’s or the toy shop and bear away with him inexpensive tokens of his love and affection.  On the desk behind him, over which in the course of each month passed a lot of very tainted money, stood a large photograph of Mrs. Hogan, and another of the three little Hogans in ornamented silver frames, and his face would soften tenderly at the sight of their self-conscious faces, even at a moment when he might be relieving a widowed seamstress of her entire savings-bank account.  After five o’clock this hyena purred at his wife and licked his cubs; the rest of the time he knew no mercy.