Sharlee came and sat down by him again.  “Mr. Queed,” said she, “I don’t know whether you expect sympathy about what the Post directors did, or congratulations.”

“Oh, congratulations,” he answered at once.  “Considering that they wanted to discharge me a year ago, I should say that the testimonial they gave me represented a rather large change of front.”

“Personally, I think it is splendid.  But the important thing is:  does it satisfy you?”

“Oh, quite.”  He added:  “If they had gone outside for a man, I might have felt slighted.  It is very different with a man like West.  I am perfectly willing to wait.  You may remember that I did not promise to be editor in any particular year.”

“I know.  And when they do elect you—­you see I say when, and not if—­shall you pitch it in their faces, as you said?”

“No—­I have decided to keep it—­for a time at any rate.”

Sharlee smiled, but it was an inward smile and he never knew anything about it.  “Have you gotten really interested in the work—­personally interested, I mean?”

He hesitated.  “I hardly like to say how much.”

“The more you become interested in it—­and I believe it will be progressive—­the less you will mind saying so.”

“It is a strange interest-utterly unlike me—­”

“How do you know it isn’t more like you than anything you ever did in your life?”

That struck him to silence; he gave her a quick inquiring glance, and looked away at once; and Sharlee, for the moment entirely oblivious of the noise and the throng all about her, went on.

“I called that a magnificent boast once—­about your being editor of the Post.  Do you remember?  Isn’t it time I was confessing that you have got the better of me?”

“I think it is too soon,” he answered, in his quietest voice, “to say whether I have got the better of you, or you have got the better of me.”

Sharlee looked off down the street.  “But you certainly will be editor of the Post some day.”

“As I recall it, we did not speak only of editorial writing that night.”

“Oh, listen ...!”

From far away floated the strains of “Dixie,” crashed out by forty bands.  The crowd on the sidewalks stirred; prolonged shouts went up; and now all those who were seated on the porch arose at one motion and came forward.

Sharlee had to spring up to greet still another relative.  She came back in a moment, sincerely hoping that Mr. Queed would resume the conversation which her exclamation had interrupted.  But he spoke of quite a different matter, a faint cloud on his intelligent brow.

“You should hear Professor Nicolovius on these veterans of yours.”

“What does he say about them?  Something hateful, I’m sure.”

“Among other things, that they are a lot of professional beggars who have lived for forty years on their gray uniforms, and can best serve their country by dying with all possible speed.  Do you know,” he mused, “if you could hear him, I believe you would be tempted to guess that he is a former Union officer—­who got into trouble, perhaps, and was cashiered.”