“So plain that it’s plumb ugly,” replied Caleb, “But you’ll do it just the same. If it ain’t the Star, it’ll be one of the other papers. That story’s goin’ to be in print by to-morrow mornin’. You speak ’bout likin’ me an’ bein’ in my debt. The best way you can show that likin’ an’ gratitood is by doin’ as I ask now. The Star’s the best paper in Granite an’ it’s read by the best people. Don’t you s’pose I’d rather have folks get their first idee of the story from such a paper as that than to have ’em see it plastered all over the front page of some screechin’ sheet, in letters two feet high?”
“But,” argued Caine, “What sense is there in doing it at all?”
“From a grown man’s point of view,” admitted Caleb, “There ain’t a mite of sense in it. It’s straight craziness. But if you think I’m goin’ to let Dey go around knowin’ the trooth about her old crook of a father who she worships, you’re wrong. She thinks he was a measly saint with a tin halo. An’ she gets pleasure out of thinkin’ it. An’ she’s goin’ to go right on thinkin’ it to the end of the game. What sort of a yellow dog would I be to let her hear things about him that’d make her cry an’ that would sure break her heart? There’s another thing: She’s got into a good crowd now. She goes to folks’ houses an’ has a good time there. Who’s goin’ to invite a crook’s daughter to their house? Or, do you think she’d go to such places, knowin’ how they thought of her father? Not her. She’d die first. Why, ev’ry time folks looked at her in the street, she’d be thinkin’ to herself: ‘It ain’t because I’m so pretty an’ ’cause my eyes look like two chunks of heaven, an’ ’cause when I smile at you it makes you feel as if someone had lent you money.’ She’d think: ‘They’re pointin’ me out as the daughter of Shevlin who stole cash from the city!’ No, no, son! She ain’t goin’ to have none of those things happen to her. Not while Caleb Conover’s on deck. Butterfly smashin’ ain’t in my line. That’s why I say you’ve got to help me. An’ you’ll do it, too.”
“Of course you know,” suggested Caine, “that this will ruin those weird social ambitions of yours?”
“I know nothin’ of the sort. Even if I did, I s’pose I’d have it to do just the same. But it won’t. I’m too well off to go to jail; or to have folks say: ‘Get out!’ when I say ‘Let me in!’ There’ll be a sight of talk in the papers an’ all through the State. But folks get tired talkin’, after awhile. An’ I never get tired risin’. So I’ll win out. When I flash on ’em that merger of the Up-State R. R. with my C. G. & X., they’ll see I’m too big a man to be sat on. That’s comin’ off next week, by the way. An’ bigger schemes to foller. Oh, folks won’t be sore on me long! So you see it ain’t such a great stunt of heroism I’m doin’ for the little girl after all. Now you’d better start. For we—”
“But Miss Shevlin? She will read what the papers are bound to say of you. She will hear what her friends—”
“Yes,” ruefully admitted the Fighter, “She will. I’ll have to take my chances on that. If she drops me, why it’s better’n if s’ciety dropped her. Better for ev’rybody concerned. Unless maybe for me. How’s Miss Standish?”
“Quite well, thank you. She—”
“I’ve been meanin’ to come ’round and pay that dinner call. But I’ve been pretty busy. An’ Dey says there’s no great hurry.”
“Just now,” answered Caine, remembering Letty’s moist appeal, “The Standish household is a little upset. I’d call sometime later, if I were you. They will understand. Clive Standish is down with mumps, poor little chap.”