“Aw, be still!  Prove—­prove nothin’.  When a cat and a sasser of milk’s shut up together and the milk’s gone, you don’t need proof to know where it’s gone, do you?  Don’t talk to me about proof, Jed Winslow.  Put a thief alongside of money and anybody knows what’ll happen.  Why, you know what’s happened yourself.  You know darn well Charlie Phillips has stole the money that’s gone from the bank.  Down inside you you’re sartin sure of it; and I don’t want any better proof of that than just your face, Shavin’s.”

This time Jed did not attempt to contradict.  Instead he tried a new hazard.

“Phin,” he pleaded, “don’t be too hard.  Just think of what’ll happen if you come out with that—­that wild-goose yarn of yours.  Think of Maud, poor girl.  You haven’t got anything against her, have you?”

“Yes, I have.  She’s stuck-up and nose in the air and looks at me as if I was some sort of—­of a bug she wouldn’t want to step on for fear of mussin’ up her shoes.  I never did like her, blast her.  But leavin’ that all to one side, she’s Sam Hunniwell’s young-one and that’s enough for me.”

“But she’s his only child, Phin.”

“Good enough!  I had a boy; he was an only child, too, you’ll remember.  Where is he now?  Out somewheres where he don’t belong, fightin’ and bein’ killed to help Wall Street get rich.  And who sent him there?  Why, Sam Hunniwell and his gang.  You’re one of ’em, Jed Winslow.  To hell with you, every one of you, daughters and all hands.”

“But, Phin—­just a minute.  Think of what it’ll mean to Charlie, poor young feller.  It’ll mean—­”

“It’ll mean ten years this time, and a good job, too.  You poor fool, do you think you can talk me out of this?  You, you sawdust-head?  What do you think I came into your hole here for?  I came here so’s you’d know what I was goin’ to do to your precious chums.  I wanted to tell you and have the fun of watchin’ you squirm.  Well, I’m havin’ the fun, plenty of it.  Squirm, you Wall Street bloodsucker, squirm.”

He fairly stood on tiptoe to scream the last command.  To a disinterested observer the scene might have had some elements of farce comedy.  Certainly Phineas, his hat fallen off and under foot, his scanty gray hair tousled and his pugnacious chin beard bristling, was funny to look at.  And the idea of calling Jed Winslow a “Wall Street bloodsucker” was the cream of burlesque.  But to Jed himself it was all tragedy, deep and dreadful.  He made one more desperate plea.

“But, Phin,” he begged, “think of his—­his sister, Charlie’s sister.  What’ll become of her and—­and her little girl?”

Phineas snorted.  “His sister,” he sneered.  “All right, I’ll think about her all right.  She’s another stuck-up that don’t speak to common folks.  Who knows anything about her any more’n they did about him?  Better look up her record, I guess.  The boy’s turned out to be a thief; maybe the sister’ll turn out to be—­”