uncouth surroundings, and the personality that had created them,
were actually being harbored behind the walls of the Wyandotte.

"What a hole!" grumbled Arkwright. He was in evening clothes, so
correct in their care and in their carelessness that even a woman
would have noted and admired. "What a mess! What a hole!"

"How's that?" came from the bedroom in an aggressive voice, so
penetrating that it seemed loud, though it was not, and much
roughened by open-air speaking. "What are you growling about?"

Arkwright raised his tone: "Filthy hole!" said he. "Filthy mess!"

Now appeared in the bedroom door a tall young man of unusual
strength and nearly perfect proportions. The fine head was carried
commandingly; with its crop of dark, matted hair it suggested the
rude, fierce figure-head of a Viking galley; the huge,
aggressively-masculine features proclaimed ambition, energy,
intelligence. To see Josh Craig was to have instant sense of the
presence of a personality. The contrast between him standing half-
dressed in the doorway and the man seated in fashionable and
cynically-critical superciliousness was more than a matter of
exteriors. Arkwright, with features carved, not hewn as were
Craig's, handsome in civilization's over-trained, overbred
extreme, had an intelligent, superior look also. But it was the
look of expertness in things hardly worth the trouble of learning;
it was aristocracy's highly-prized air of the dog that leads in
the bench show and tails in the field. He was like a firearm
polished and incrusted with gems and hanging in a connoisseur's
wall-case; Josh was like a battle-tested rifle in the sinewy hands