“Well, let that go,” said Arkwright.  “Also, she ought to be able to supply you with funds for your political machinery.”

Josh sat up as if this were what he had been listening for.

“That’s right!” cried he.  “Politics is hell for a poor man, nowadays.  The people are such thoughtless, short-sighted fools—­” He checked himself, and in a different tone went on:  “However, I don’t mean exactly that—­”

“You needn’t hedge, Josh, with me.”

“I don’t want you to be thinking I’m looking for a rich woman.”

“Not at all—­not at all,” laughed his friend.

“If she had too much money it’d be worse for my career than if she had none at all.”

“I understand,” said Arkwright.

“Enough money to make me independent—­if I should get in a tight place,” continued Josh.  “Yes, I must marry.  The people are suspicious of a bachelor.  The married men resent his freedom—­even the happily married ones.  And all the women, married and single, resent his not surrendering.”

“I never suspected you of cynicism.”

“Yes,” continued Craig, in an instantly and radically changed tone, “the people like a married man, a man with children.  It looks respectable, settled.  It makes ’em feel he’s got a stake in the country—­a home and property to defend.  Yes, I want a wife.”

“I don’t see why you’ve neglected it so long.”

“Too busy.”

“And too—­ambitious,” suggested Arkwright.

“What do you mean?” demanded Josh, bristling.

“You thought you’d wait to marry until you were nearer your final place in the world.  Being cut out for a king, you know—­why, you thought you’d like a queen—­one of those fine, delicate ladies you’d read about.”

Craig’s laugh might have been confession, it might have been mere amusement.  “I want a wife that suits me,” said he.  “And I’ll get her.”

It was Arkwright’s turn to be amused.  “There’s one game you don’t in the least understand,” said he.

“What game is that?”

“The woman game.”

Craig shrugged contemptuously.  “Marbles!  Jacks!” Then he added:  “Now that I’m about ready to marry, I’ll look the offerings over.”  He clapped his friend on the shoulder.  “And you can bet your last cent I’ll take what I want.”

“Don’t be too sure,” jeered Arkwright.

The brougham was passing a street lamp that for an instant illuminated Craig’s face.  Again Arkwright saw the expression that made him feel extremely uncertain of the accuracy of his estimates of the “wild man’s” character.

“Yes, I’ll get her,” said Josh, “and for a reason that never occurs to you shallow people.  I get what I want because what I want wants me—­for the same reason that the magnet gets the steel.”

Arkwright looked admiringly at his friend’s strong, aggressive face.

“You’re a queer one, Josh,” said he.  “Nothing ordinary about you.”