Westmoreland may be president of the Peace League, and tell us that force is all wrong.  Nevertheless, his great-grandmother was born in Tipperary.

We kept the Butterfly Man indoors for a week, while Westmoreland doctored a viciously black eye and sewed up his lip.  Morning and afternoon Appleboro called, and left tribute of fruit and flowers.

“Gad, suh, he behaved like one of Stonewall Jackson’s men!” said Major Cartwright, pridefully.  “No yellow in him; he’s one of us!”

At nights came the Polish folks, and these people whom he had once despised because they “hadn’t got sense enough to talk American,” he now received with a complete and friendly understanding.

“I just come by and see how you make to feel, Meester.”

“Oh, I feel fine, Joe, thank you.”

There would be an interval of absolute silence, which, did not seem to embarrass either visited or visitor.  Then: 

“Baby better now?” Meester would ask, interestedly.

“That beeg doctor, he oil heem an’ make heem well all right.”

After awhile:  “I mebbe go now, Meester.”

“Good-night,” said the host, briefly.

At the door the Pole would turn, and look back, with the wistfully animal look of the Under Dog.

“Those cheeldren, they make to get you the leetle bug.  You mebbe like that, Meester, yes?  They make to get you plenty much bug, those cheeldren.  We all make to get you the bug, Meester, thank you.”

“That’s mighty nice of you folks.”  Then one felt the note in the quiet voice which explained his hold upon people.

“Hell, no.  We like to do that for you, Meester.  Thank you.”  And closing the door gently after him, he would slink off.

“They don’t need to be so allfired grateful,” said John Flint frankly.  “Parson, I’m the guy to be grateful.  I got a whole heap more out of that shindy than a black eye and a pretty mouth.  I was bluemolding for a man-tussle, and that scrap set me up again.  You see—­I wasn’t sure of myself any more, and it was souring on my stomach.  Now I know I haven’t lost out, I feel like a white man.  Yep, it gives a fellow the holiday-heart to be dead sure he’s plenty able to use his fists if he’s got to.  Westmoreland’s right about that.”

I was discreetly silent.  God forgive me, in my heart I also was most sinfully glad my Butterfly Man could and would use his fists when he had to.  I do not believe in peace at any price.  I know very well that wrong must be conquered before right can prevail.  But I shouldn’t have been so set up!

“Here,” said he one morning.  “Ask Madame to give this to Jan’s wife.  And say, beg her for heaven’s sake to buy some salve for her eyelids, will you?” “This” was a small roll of bills.  “I owe it to Jan,” he explained, with his twistiest smile.

Westmoreland’s skill removed all outward marks of the fray, and the Butterfly Man went his usual way; but although he had laid at rest one cruel doubt, he was still in deep waters.  Because of his stress his clothes had begun to hang loosely upon him.