“I’m not saying he oughtn’t to put his best foot foremost,” he agreed.  “We’d all do that, if we only knew how.  And I’m not saying he ought to tell on himself, or that anybody’s got any business getting under his guard.  I don’t hanker to know anybody’s faults, or to find out what they’ve got up their sleeves besides their elbows, unless I have to.  Why, I’d as soon ask a fellow to take off his patent leathers to prove he hadn’t got bunions, or to unbutton his collar, so I’d be sure it wasn’t fastened onto a wart on the back of his neck.  Personally I don’t want to air anybody’s bumps and bunions.  It’s none of my business.  I believe in collars and shoes, myself. But if I see signs, I can believe all by my lonesome they’ve got ’em, can’t I?”

“Exactly.  Your deductions, my dear Sherlock, are really marvelous.  A gentleman wears good shoes and clean collars—­wherefore, you don’t like the expression of his teeth!” said I, ironically.

“Slap me on the wrist some more, if it makes you feel good,” he offered brazenly.  “For he may—­and I sure don’t.”  His grin faded, the old pucker came to his forehead.

“Parson, maybe the truth is I’m not crazy over him because people like him get people like me to seeing too plainly that things aren’t fairly dealt out.  Why, think a minute.  That man’s got about all a man can have, hasn’t he?  In himself, I mean.  And if there’s anything more he fancies, he can reach out and get it, can’t he?  Well, then, some folks might get to thinking that folks like him—­get more than they deserve.  And some ... don’t get any more than they deserve,” he finished, with grim ambiguity.

“Do you like him yourself?” he demanded, as I made no reply.

“I admire him immensely.”

“Does Madame like him?” he came back.

“Madame is a woman,” I said, cautiously.  “Also, you are to remember that if Madame doesn’t, she is only one against many.  All the rest of them seem to adore him.”

“Oh, the rest of them!” grunted John Flint, and scowled.  “Huh!  If it wasn’t for Madame and a few more like her, I’d say women and hens are the two plum-foolest things God has found time to make yet.  If you don’t believe it, watch them stand around and cackle over the first big dunghill rooster that walks on his wings before them!  There are times when I could wring their necks.  Dern a fool, anyhow!” He wriggled in his chair with impatience.

“Liver,” said I, outraged.  “You’d better see Dr. Westmoreland about it.  When a man talks like you’re talking now, it’s just one of two things—­a liver out of whack, or plain ugly jealousy.”

“I do sound like I’ve got a grouch, don’t I?” he admitted, without shame.  “Well ... maybe it’s jealousy, and maybe it’s not.  The truth is, he rubs me rather raw at times, I don’t know just how or why.  Maybe it’s because he’s so sure of himself.  He can afford to be sure.  There isn’t any reason why he shouldn’t be.  And it hurts my feelings.”  He looked up at me, shrewdly.  “He looks all right, and he sounds all right, and maybe he might be all right—­but, parson, I’ve got the notion that somehow he’s not!”