“But I—­I was a single man then,” The Laird sputtered, almost inarticulate with fury and astonishment.

“He was a single man yesterday but he’s a married man to-day.  And she loves him.  She adores him.  You can see it in her eyes when his name is mentioned.  And she had no reason to behave herself, had she?  She has behaved herself for three long years, but did she win anybody’s approbation for doing it?  I’m telling you a masterful man like him might have had her without the wedding ring, for love’s sake, if he’d cared to play a waiting game and stack the cards on her.  After all, she’s human.”

Suddenly he commenced to weep with fury, the tears cascading into his whiskers making him look singularly ridiculous in comparison with the expression on his face, which was anything but grievous.  “Marriage!  Marriage!” he croaked.  “I know what it is.  I married a fat-head—­and so did my wife.  We’ve never known romance; never had anything but a quiet, well-ordered existence.  I’ve dwelt in repression; never got out of life a single one of those thrills that comes of doing something daring and original and nasty.  Never had an adventure; never had a woman look at me like I was a god; married at twenty and never knew the Grand Passion.”  He threw up his arms.  “Oh-h-h, God-d-d!  If I could only be young again I’d be a devil!  Praise be, I know one man with guts enough to tell ’em all to go to hell.”

With a peculiar little moving cry he started for the door.

“Andrew,” The Laird cried anxiously.  “Where are you going?”

“None of your infernal business,” the rebel shrilled, “but if you must know, I’m going down to the Sawdust Pile to kiss the bride and shake a man’s hand and wish him well.  After I’ve done that I’ll deliver your message.  Mark me, he’ll never take those bonds.”

“Of course he will, you old fool.  They belong to him.”

“But he refused to make a profit at the expense of his own father.  He gave them to you and he’s not an Indian giver.”

“Andrew, I have never known you to act in such a peculiar manner.  Are you crazy?  Of course he’ll take them.  He’ll have to take them in order to get out of Port Agnew.  I doubt if he has a dollar in the world.”

Mr. Daney beat his chest gorilla fashion.  “He doesn’t need a dollar.  Boy and man, I’ve loved that—­ahem! son of yours.  Why, he always did have guts.  Keep your filthy money.  The boy’s credit is good with me.  I’m no pauper, even I if do work for you.  I work for fun.  Understand.  Or do you, Hector McKaye?”

“If you dare to loan my son as much as a thin dime I’ll fire you out of hand.”

Mr. Daney jeered.  “How?” he demanded very distinctly, and yet with a queer, unusual blending of the sentence with a single word, as if the very force of his breath had telescoped every syllable, “would you like to stand off in that corner there and take a long runnin’ jump at yourself, proud father?”