"Maybe," Dick went on after a moment, "you think I oughtn't to work this game against you. And maybe I oughtn't. But if I didn't somebody would beat us both out. They're all working it. It's the only game that pays nowadays. And besides, I need the money. It isn't out yet, but I'm going to be married—and she's used to a lot of money. I've been doing pretty well, but if I land this job I'll be fixed and able to give her the things she deserves. Do you blame me, old man?"
A troubled smile was on David's lips. "Not wholly, Dick."
There was another silence, awkward now, and then Dick began to move toward the door. But with his hand on the knob he turned.
"Davy, why don't you play the game? You've got the stuff. If you only could put it across, if you had the punch, you could go any distance. I—I'm not quite big enough to step down for a better man, but I'd rather have you beat me than any other man alive. Why don't you try it?"
The troubled smile lingered. "I can't, old man."
David did not hear the door close. For a long time he sat staring vaguely at his sketch.
But that night, when he was alone with his work once more, the old faith rushed back into his heart. Dick was wrong—he must be wrong! The committee were honorable men; they held a position of trust. Surely they could see how much better his plans were than Dick's. And surely they could not be tricked into passing them by for a hodgepodge that would only bring ridicule down upon their church.
He was ashamed that he had lost faith, even for a day.
Toward the end of the two months Shirley began to grow a little impatient with his industry.
"Will it never be finished?" she would sigh plaintively. "You never have any time to spare for me any more."