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54 Mr. Boylecitement as I saw more and more clearlyhow near I had come to having a part inliving drama."He could have done it with a revolver,easy," said Hank, looking up at thestars."And if he had been there to shoot atthe coyote, he would have dropped it inits tracks; he would have blown theheart out of it!""Not much he wouldn't!" Hank protested,rising upon his elbow. "Hewould have—he would have "He lay down again."What would he have done?" I persisted,eager to thrash out the topic.No answer.Suddenly my breath left me. Thingswhirled. I could only sit there in thehalf-light, gaping, one hand outstretchedin a gesture that would never be finished."I know what Bud Howland wouldhave done," I said at length, trying tocontrol my voice." What would he have done ? " I couldhardly hear him." He would have made only a fair shot,not good or bad, just as you did." Iwaited. "Wouldn't he?"There was a long silence; then—"It's been kind of lonesome for melately," he muttered, "till I met up withyou."I leaned toward him."What are you reaching out for, perfessor?""For your hand, Bud Howland," Icried. " For your hand !"MR.BOYLEBy Mary Raymond Shipman AndrewsILLUSTRATION (FRONTISPIECE) BY ALONZOKIMBALLIN a big room in the basementof a big building ahandful of grave-faced ladsworked. They workedwith a vigor, an intensity,a whole-heartedness which,summed up and stood on end and rammedinto a cannon or converted into waterpoweror concentrated on the WhiteHouse, would have driven a South Americanrevolution or run large factories orhandled the nation tidily for a month.There was no lack of earnestness or responsibilityin the office of the Law Recordon this night or on any night.No more was there lack of brains.These were the picked men of the lawschool of a great university, the board ofeditors of a review whose large reputationit was theirs to guard and to enlarge.They guarded it and tried to enlarge itevery night of their young lives, till aboutone of the morning, with all their mightand main. An informed observer lookinginto the pleasant, spacious office atsuch a time would have been seized, like-ly, with a prophetic interest in the facesbent, in the light of electric "rubbernecks,"over ponderous volumes, oversheets upon sheets of big, thin paper.That sallow lad with the square jaw andthe burning, dark eyes, around whoseswivel chair were piled up calfskin tomes—was one regarding a future chief justiceof the Supreme Court, inspecting hisrather unattractive countenance? Theboy with the thin, carved features andsandy hair and historic name—would hecome to be as celebrated, perhaps, as hisgrandfather? And the roly-poly youth,beaming and dimpling even as he divedinto "Wigmore on Evidence"—was Fatekeeping the dignity of a judge's gown inreserve for his easy curves?The observer of hypothesis would havereflected that all of these had provedthemselves, as far as twenty-three yearsmay be proved, to have brains and character,before they reached this holy ofholies of the Record office, the most enviedhonor of the course. All of them hadsurrendered eagerly society and diverse