“I like to get my recruits when they’re bleeding raw.  I like them when the salt of truth can sting deep...”

How Storch lived Fred could only guess.  But he managed always to jingle a silver coin or two and keep a crust of bread in the house.  His fare was frugal to the point of being ascetic.  Once or twice, as if moved by Fred’s physical weakness, he brought some scraps of beef home and brewed a few cups of steaming bouillon, and again, one Sunday morning he went out and bought a half dozen eggs which he converted into an impossibly tough omelet.  But for the most part he lived on coffee and fresh French bread and cheese.  It was on this incredible fare that Fred Starratt won back his strength.  His exhaustion was an exhaustion of the spirit, and food seemed to have little part in either his disorder or his recovery.

Whatever Storch’s specific grievance with life, he never voiced it and in this he won Fred’s admiration.  He liked to jangle the discordant passions of others, but his own he muffled into complete silence.  He had worked at almost every known calling.  It seemed that he came and disappeared always as suddenly and in his wake a furrow of men harrowed to supreme unrest yielded up a harvest sown of dragon’s teeth.  He was an idea made flesh, patient, relentless, almost intangible.  He flashed upon new horizons like a cloud from the south and he vanished as completely once he had revived hatred with his insinuating showers.  He was, as he had said on that first meeting with Fred, a fanatic, a high priest.  He called many, but he chose few.

One night after the others had left Fred said to him: 

“Do you realize what you are doing? ...  You are working up these men to a frenzy.  Some morning we shall wake to find murder done.”

“How quickly you are learning,” Storch answered, flinging his coat aside.

“Are you fair?” Fred went on, passionately.  “If you have your convictions, why not risk your own hide to prove them?  Why make cats’-paws of the others?”

Storch took out his pipe and lighted it deliberately.  “Prospective martyrs are as plentiful as fish in a net,” he answered.  “Of what good is the sea’s yield without fishermen? ...  I sacrifice myself and who takes my place?  Will you?”

Fred turned on him suddenly.  “You are not training me to be your successor, I hope,” he said, with a slight sneer.  “Because I lie here without protest is no reason that I approve.  Indeed, I wonder sometimes if I do quite right to permit all this...  There are authorities, you know.”

Storch looked at him steadily.  “The door is open, my friend.”

Fred gave a little gesture of resignation.

“You know perfectly well that I’m not built to betray the man who gives me shelter.”

“Oh, I’m not sheltering you for love!”

“You have some purpose, of course.  I understand that.  But you’re wasting time.”

“Well, I’ll risk it...  I know well enough you’re not a man easily won to an abstract hatred...  But a personal hatred very often serves as good a turn...  Everything is grist to my mill.”