friend's ultimate good. "Josh needs to have his comb cut," thought
he. "It's sure to be done, and he can bear it better now than
later. The lesson will teach him a few things he must learn. I
only hope he'll be able to profit by it."

When Josh appeared, Grant and the others with firmly-fixed
opinions of the character of the impending entertainment were not
a little disquieted. Joshua Craig, who stepped into the arena,
looked absolutely different from the Josh they knew. How had he
divested himself of that familiar swaggering, bustling
braggadocio? Where had he got this look of the strong man about to
run a race, this handsome face on which sat real dignity and real
power? Never was there a better court manner; the Justices, who
had been anticipating an opportunity to demonstrate, at his
expense, the exceeding dignity of the Supreme Court, could only
admire and approve. As for his speech, it was a straightway
argument; not a superfluous or a sophomoric word, not an attempt
at rhetoric. His argument--There is the logic that is potent but
answerable; there is the logic that is unanswerable, that gives no
opportunity to any sane mind, however prejudiced by association
with dispensers of luxurious hospitality, of vintage wines and
dollar cigars, however enamored of fog-fighting and hair-
splitting, to refuse the unqualified assent of conviction
absolute. That was the kind of argument Josh Craig made. And the
faces of the opposing lawyers, the questions the Justices asked
him plainly showed that he had won.

After the first ten minutes, when the idea that Craig could be or
ever had been laughable became itself absurd, Arkwright glanced
uneasily, jealously at Margaret. The face beneath the brim of her