Men like James Eustis and Judge Mayne despised Inglesby—­but gave him a wide berth.  They wouldn’t be enmeshed.  It was known that Major Appleby Cartwright had blackballed him.

“I can stand a man, suh, that likes to get along in this world—­within proper bounds.  But Inglesby hasn’t got any proper bounds.  He’s a—­a cross between a Republican mule and a party-bolting boa-constrictor, an’ a hybrid like that hasn’t got any place in nature.  On top of that he drinks ten cents a bottle grape juice and smokes five cent cigars.  And he’s got the brazen and offensive effrontery to offer ’em to self-respectin’ men!”

And here was Laurence, our little Laurence, training himself to overthrow this overgrown Goliath!  Well, if the boy could not bring this Philistine to the earth, he might yet manage to give him a few manful clumps on the head; perhaps enough to insure a chronic headache.

So thinking, I went in and watched John Flint finish a mounting-block from a plan in the book open upon the table, adding, however, certain improvements of his own.

He laid the block aside and then took a spray of fresh leaves and fed it to a horned and hungry caterpillar prowling on a bit of bare stem at the bottom of his cage.

“Get up there on those leaves, you horn-tailed horror!  Move on,—­you lepidopterous son of a wigglejoint, or I’ll pull your real name on you in a minute and paralyze you stiff!” He drew a long breath.  “You know how I’m beginning to remember their real names?  I swear ’em half an hour a day.  Next time you have trouble with those hickeys of yours, try swearing caterpillar at ’em, and you’ll find out.”

I laughed, and he grinned with me.

“Say,” said he, abruptly.  “I’ve been listening with both my ears to what that boy was talking to you about awhile ago.  Thinks he can buck the Boss, does he?”

“Perhaps he may,” I admitted.

“Nifty old bird, the Big Un,” said Mr. Flint, squinting his eyes.  “And,” he went on, reflectively, “he’s sure got your number in this burg.  Take you by and large, you lawabiders are a real funny sort, ain’t you?  Now, there’s Inglesby, handing out the little kids their diplomas come school-closing, and telling ’em to be real good, and maybe when they grow up he’ll have a job in pickle for ’em—­work like a mule in a treadmill, twelve hours, no unions, and the coroner to sit on the remains, free and gratis, for to ease the widow’s mind.  Inglesby’s got seats in all your churches—­first-aid to the parson’s pants-pockets.

“Inglesby’s right there on the platform at all your spiel-fests, smirking at the women and telling ’em not to bother their nice little noddles about anything but holding down their natural jobs of being perfect ladies—­ain’t he and other gents just like him always right there holding down their natural jobs of protecting ’em and being influenced to do what’s right?  Sure he is!  And nobody howls for the hook!  You let him be It—­him with a fist in the state’s jeans up to the armpit!