"Why don't you change it, then?"

Tarboe laughed. "If I was boss like you, I'd change it, but I'm not, and
I stick to my own job."

The old man came close to him, and steadily explored his face and eyes.
"I've never met anybody like you before. You're the man can do things
and won't do them."

"I didn't say that. I said what I meant--that good health is better than
everything else in the world, and when you've got it, you should keep it,
if you can. I'm going to keep mine."

"Well, keep it in Montreal," said John Grier. "There's a lot doing there
worth while. Is fighting worth anything to one that's got aught in him?
There's war for the big things. I believe in war." He waved a hand.
"What's the difference between the kind of thing you've done to-day, and
doing it with the Belloc gang--with the Folson gang--with the Longville
gang--and all the rest? It's the same thing. I was like you when I was
young. I could do things you've done to-day while I laid the base of
what I've got. How old are you?"

"I'm thirty--almost thirty-one."

"You'll be just as well in Montreal to-morrow as you are here to-day, and
you'd be twice as clever," said John Grier. His eyes seemed to pierce
those of the younger man. "I like you," he continued, suddenly catching
Tarboe's arm. "You're all right, and you wouldn't run straight simply
because it was the straight thing to do."