CHAPTER X

MERRY DODGES A DEAD HEAT

Somehow I sensed it as a kind of a batty excursion at the start. You see, he'd asked me offhand would I come, and I'd said "Sure, Bo," careless like, not thinkin' any more about it until here Saturday afternoon I finds myself on the way to spend the week-end with J. Meredith Stidler.

Sounds imposing don't it? But his name's the weightiest part of J. Meredith. Course, around the Corrugated offices we call him Merry, and some of the bond clerks even get it Miss Mary; which ain't hardly fair, for while he's no husky, rough-neck specimen, there's no sissy streak in him, either. Just one of these neat, finicky featherweights, J. Meredith is; a well finished two-by-four, with more polish than punch. You know the kind,—fussy about his clothes, gen'rally has a pink or something in his coat lapel, hair always just so, and carries a vest pocket mirror. We ain't got a classier dresser in the shop. Not noisy, you understand: quiet grays, as a rule; but made for him special and fittin' snug around the collar.

Near thirty, I should guess Merry was, and single, of course. No head of a fam'ly would be sportin' custom-made shoes and sleeve monograms, or havin' his nails manicured reg'lar twice a week. I'd often wondered how he could do it too, on seventy-five dollars a month.

For J. Meredith wa'n't even boss of his department. He just holds down one of the stools in the audit branch, where he has about as much show of gettin' a raise as a pavin' block has of bein' blown up Broadway on a windy day. We got a lot of material like that in the Corrugated,—just plain, simple cogs in a big dividend-producin' machine, grindin' along steady and patient, and their places easy filled when one wears out. A caster off one of the rolltop desks would be missed more.

Yet J. Meredith takes it cheerful. Always has a smile as he pushes through the brass gate, comin' or goin', and stands all the joshin' that's handed out to him without gettin' peevish. So when he springs this over-Sunday invite I don't feel like turnin' it down. Course, I'm wise that it's sort of a charity contribution on his part. He puts it well, though.

"It may be rather a dull way for you to pass the day," says he; "but I'd like to have you come."

"Let's see," says I. "Vincent won't be expectin' me up to Newport until later in the season, the Bradley Martins are still abroad, I've cut the Reggy Vanderbilts, and—well, you're on, Merry. Call it the last of the month, eh?"

"The fourth Saturday, then," says he. "Good!"

I was blamed near lettin' the date get past me too, when he stops me as I'm pikin' for the dairy lunch Friday noon. "Oh, I say, Torchy," says he, "ah—er—about tomorrow. Hope you don't mind my mentioning it, but there will be two other guests—ladies—at dinner tomorrow night."

He seemed some fussed at gettin' it out; so I catches the cue quick. "That's easy," says I. "Count me out until another time."

"Oh, not at all," says he. "In fact, you're expected. I merely wished to suggest, you know, that—er—well, if you cared to do so, you might bring along a suit of dark clothes."

"I get you," says I. "Swell comp'ny. Trust me."

I winks mysterious, and chuckles to myself, "Here's where I slip one on J. Meredith." And when I packs my suitcase I puts in that full evenin' regalia that I wins off'm Son-in-Law Ferdy, you remember, in that real estate deal. Some Cinderella act, I judged that would be, when Merry discovers the meek and lowly office boy arrayed like a night-bloomin' head waiter. "That ought to hold him for a spell," thinks I.

But, say, you should see the joint we fetches up at out on the south shore of Long Island that afternoon. Figurin' on a basis of seventy-five per, I was expectin' some private boardin' house where Merry has the second floor front, maybe, with use of the bath. But listen,—a clipped privet hedge, bluestone drive, flower gardens, and a perfectly good double-breasted mansion standin' back among the trees. It's a little out of date so far as the lines go,—slate roof, jigsaw work on the dormers, and a cupola,—but it's more or less of a plute shack, after all. Then there's a real live butler standin' at the carriage entrance to open the hack door and take my bag.

"Gee!" says I. "Say, Merry, who belongs to all this?"

"Oh! Hadn't I told you?" says he. "You see, I live with my aunt. She is—er—somewhat peculiar; but——"

"I should worry!" I breaks in. "Believe me, with a joint like this in her own name, I wouldn't kick if she had her loft full of hummin' birds. Who's next in line for it?"

"Why, I suppose I am," says J. Meredith, "under certain conditions."

"Z-z-zin'!" says I. "And you hangin' onto a cheap skate job at the Corrugated!"

Well, while he's showin' me around the grounds I pumps out the rest of the sketch. Seems butlers and all that was no new thing to Merry. He'd been brought up on 'em. He'd lived abroad too. Studied music there. Not that he ever meant to work at it, but just because he liked it. You see, about that time the fam'ly income was rollin' in reg'lar every month from the mills back in Pawtucket, or Fall River, or somewhere.

Then all of a sudden things begin to happen,—strikes, panics, stock grabbin' by the trusts. Father's weak heart couldn't stand the strain. Meredith's mother followed soon after. And one rainy mornin' he wakes up in Baden Baden, or Monte Carlo, or wherever it was, to find that he's a double orphan at the age of twenty-two, with no home, no cash, and no trade. All he could do was to write an S. O. S. message back to Aunt Emma Jane. If she hadn't produced, he'd been there yet.

But Aunty got him out of pawn. Panics and so on hadn't cleaned out her share of the Stidler estate—not so you'd notice it! She'd been on the spot, Aunt Emma had, watchin' the market. Long before the jinx hit Wall Street she'd cashed in her mill stock for gold ballast, and when property prices started tumblin' she dug up a lard pail from under the syringa bush and begun investin' in bargain counter real estate. Now she owns business blocks, villa plots, and shore frontage in big chunks, and spends her time collectin' rents, makin' new deals, and swearin' off her taxes.

You'd most thought, with a perfectly good nephew to blow in some of her surplus on, she'd made a fam'ly pet of J. Meredith. But not her. Pets wasn't in her line. Her prescription for him was work, something reg'lar and constant, so he wouldn't get into mischief. She didn't care what it brought in, so long as he kept himself in clothes and spendin' money. And that was about Merry's measure. He could add up a column of figures and put the sum down neat at the bottom of the page. So he fitted into our audit department like a nickel into a slot machine. And there he stuck.

"But after sportin' around Europe so long," says I, "don't punchin' the time clock come kind of tough?"

"It's a horrible, dull grind," says he. "Like being caught in a treadmill. But I suppose I deserve nothing better. I'm one of the useless sort, you know. I've no liking, no ability, for business; but I'm in the mill, and I can't see any way out."

For a second J. Meredith's voice sounds hopeless. One look ahead has taken out of him what little pep he had. But the next minute he braces up, smiles weary, and remarks, "Oh, well! What's the use?"

Not knowin' the answer to that I shifts the subject by tryin' to get a line on the other comp'ny that's expected for dinner.

"They're our next-door neighbors," says he, "the Misses Hibbs."

"Queens?" says I.

He pinks up a little at that. "I presume you would call them old maids," says he. "They are about my age, and—er—the truth is, they are rather large. But really they're quite nice,—refined, cultured, all that sort of thing."

"Specially which one?" says I, givin' him the wink.

"Now, now!" says he, shakin' his head. "You're as bad as Aunt Emma. Besides, they're her guests. She asks them over quite often. You see, they own almost as much property around here as she does, and—well, common interests, you know."

"Sure that's all?" says I, noticin' Merry flushin' up more.

"Why, of course," says he. "That is—er—well, I suppose I may as well admit that Aunt Emma thinks she is trying her hand at match-making. Absurd, of course."

"Oh-ho!" says I. "Wants you to annex the adjoinin' real estate, does she?"

"It—it isn't exactly that," says he. "I've no doubt she has decided that either Pansy or Violet would make a good wife for me."

"Pansy and Violet!" says I. "Listens well."

"Perhaps their names are hardly appropriate; but they are nice, sensible, rather attractive young women, both of them," insists Merry.

"Then why not?" says I. "What's the matter with the Hymen proposition?"

"Oh, it's out of the question," protests J. Meredith, blushin' deep. "Really I—I've never thought of marrying anyone. Why, how could I? And besides I shouldn't know how to go about it,—proposing, and all that. Oh, I couldn't! You—you can't understand. I'm such a duffer at most things."

There's no fake about him bein' modest. You could tell that by the way he colored up, even talkin' to me. Odd sort of a gink he was, with a lot of queer streaks in him that didn't show on the outside. It was more or less entertainin', followin' up the plot of the piece; but all of a sudden Merry gets over his confidential spasm and shuts up like a clam.

"Almost time to dress for dinner," says he. "We'd best be going in."

And of course my appearin' in the banquet uniform don't give him any serious jolt.

"Well, well, Torchy!" says he, as I strolls into the parlor about six-thirty, tryin' to forget the points of my dress collar. "How splendid you look!"

"I had some battle with the tie," says I. "Ain't the bow lopsided?"

"A mere trifle," says he. "Allow me. There! Really, I'm quite proud of you. Aunty'll be pleased too; for, while she dresses very plainly herself, she likes this sort of thing. You'll see."

I didn't notice any wild enthusiasm on Aunty's part, though, when she shows up. A lean, wiry old girl, Aunty is, with her white hair bobbed up careless and a big shell comb stickin' up bristly, like a picket fence, on top. There's nothin' soft about her chin, or the square-cut mouth, and after she'd give me one glance out of them shrewd, squinty eyes I felt like she'd taken my number,—pedigree, past performances, and cost mark complete.

"Howdo, young man?" says she, and with out wastin' any more breath on me she pikes out to the front door to scout down the drive for the other guests.

They arrives on the tick of six-forty-five, and inside of three minutes Aunty has shooed us into the dinin' room. And, say, the first good look I had at Pansy and Violet I nearly passed away. "Rather large," Merry had described 'em. Yes, and then some! They wa'n't just ordinary fat women; they was a pair of whales,—big all over, tall and wide and hefty. They had their weight pretty well placed at that; not lumpy or bulgy, you know, but with them expanses of shoulder, and their big, heavy faces—well, the picture of slim, narrow-chested Merry Stidler sittin' wedged in between the two, like the ham in a lunch counter sandwich, was most too much for me. I swallows a drink of water and chokes over it.

I expect Merry caught on too. I'd never seen him so fussed before. He's makin' a brave stab at bein' chatty; but I can tell he's doin' it all on his nerve. He glances first to the right, and then turns quick to the left; but on both sides he's hemmed in by them two human mountains.

They wa'n't such bad lookers, either. They has good complexions, kind of pleasant eyes, and calm, comf'table ways. But there was so much of 'em! Honest, when they both leans toward him at once I held my breath, expectin' to see him squeezed out like a piece of lead pipe run through a rollin' machine.

Nothin' tragic like that happens, though. They don't even crowd him into the soup. But it's an odd sort of a meal, with J. Meredith and the Hibbs sisters doin' a draggy three-handed dialogue, while me and Aunty holds down the side lines. And nothin' that's said or done gets away from them narrow-set eyes, believe me!

Looked like something wa'n't goin' just like she'd planned; for the glances she shoots across the table get sharper and sourer, and finally, when the roast is brought in, she whispers to the butler, and the next thing J. Meredith knows, as he glances up from his carvin', he sees James uncorkin' a bottle of fizz. Merry almost drops his fork and gawps at Aunty sort of dazed.

"Meredith," says she, snappy, "go on with your carving! Young man, I suppose you don't take wine?"

"N-n-no, Ma'am," says I, watchin' her turn my glass down. I might have chanced a sip or two, at that; but Aunty has different ideas.

I notice that J. Meredith seems to shy at the bubbly stuff, as if he was lettin' on he hated it. He makes a bluff or two; but all he does is wet his lips. At that Aunty gives a snort.

"Meredith," says she, hoistin' her hollow-stemmed glass sporty, "to our guests!"

"Ah, to be sure," says Merry, and puts his nose into the sparkles in dead earnest.

Somehow the table chat livens up a lot soon after that. It was one of the Miss Hibbs askin' him something about life abroad that starts Merry off. He begins tellin' about Budapest and Vienna and a lot more of them guidebook spots, and how comf'table you can live there, and the music, and the cafes, and the sights, gettin' real enthusiastic over it, until one of the sisters breaks in with:

"Think of that, Pansy! If we could only do such things!"

"But why not?" says Merry.

"Two women alone?" says a Miss Hibbs.

"True," says J. Meredith. "One needs an escort."

"Ah-h-h-h, yes!" sighs Violet.

"Ah-h-h, yes!" echoes Pansy.

"James," puts in Aunty just then, "fill Mr. Stidler's glass."

Merry wa'n't shyin' it any more. He insists on clickin' rims with the Hibbs sisters, and they does it real kittenish. Merry stops in the middle of his salad to unload that old one about the Irishman that the doctor tried to throw a scare into by tellin' him if he didn't quit the booze he'd go blind within three months. You know—when Mike comes back with, "Well, I'm an old man, and I'm thinkin' I've seen most everything worth while." Pansy and Violet shook until their chairs creaked, and one of 'em near swallows her napkin tryin' to stop the chuckles.

In all the time I've known J. Meredith I'd never heard him try to spring anything comic before; but havin' made such a hit with this one he follows with others, robbin' the almanac regardless.

"Oh, you deliciously funny man!" gasps Pansy, tappin' him playful on the shoulder.

Course, it wa'n't any cabaret high jinks, you understand. Meredith was just limbered up a little. In the parlor afterwards while we was havin' coffee he strings off quite a fancy line of repartee, fin'lly allowin' himself to be pushed up to the piano, where he ripples through a few things from Bach and Beethoven and Percy Moore. It's near eleven o'clock when the Hibbs sisters get their wraps on and Merry starts to walk home with 'em.

"You might wait for me, Torchy," says he, pausin' at the door.

"Nonsense!" says Aunt Emma Jane.

"Time young people were in bed. Good night, young man."

There don't seem to be any chance for a debate on the subject; so I goes up to my room. But it's a peach of a night, warm and moony; so after I turns out the light I camps down on the windowseat and gazes out over the shrubby towards the water. I could see the top of the Hibbs house and a little wharf down on the shore.

I don't know whether it was the moonlight or the coffee; but I didn't feel any more like bed than I did like breakfast. Pretty soon I hears Merry come tiptoein' in and open his door, which was next to mine. I was goin' to hail him and give him a little josh about disposin' of the sisters so quick; but I didn't hear him stirrin' around any more until a few minutes later, when it sounds as if he'd tiptoed downstairs again. But I wasn't sure. Nothin' doin' for some time after that. And you know how quiet the country can be on a still, moonshiny night.

I was gettin' dopy from it, and was startin' to shed my collar and tie, when off from a distance, somewhere out in the night, music breaks loose. I couldn't tell whether it was a cornet or a trombone; but it's something like that. Seems to come from down along the waterfront. And, say, it sounds kind of weird, hearin' it at night that way. Took me sometime to place the tune; but I fin'lly makes it out as that good old mush favorite, "O Promise Me." It was bein' well done too, with long quavers on the high notes and the low ones comin' out round and deep. Honest, that was some playin'. I was wide awake once more, leanin' out over the sill and takin' it all in, when a window on the floor below goes up and out bobs a white head. It's Aunty. She looks up and spots me too.

"Quite some concert, eh?" says I.

"Is that you, young man?" says she.

"Uh-huh," says I. "Just takin' in the music."

"Humph!" says she. "I believe it's that fool nephew of mine."

"Not Merry?" says I.

"It must be," says she. "And goodness knows why he's out making an idiot of himself at this time of night! He'll arouse the whole neighbourhood."

"Why, I was just thinkin' how classy it was," says I.

"Bah!" says Aunty. "A lot you know about it. Are you dressed, young man?"

I admits that I am.

"Then I wish you'd go down there and see if it is Merry," says she. "If it is, tell him I say to come home and go to bed."

"And if it ain't?" says I.

"Go along and see," says she.

I begun to be sorry for Merry. I'd rather pay board than live with a disposition like that. Down I pikes, out the front door and back through the shrubby. Meantime the musician has finished "Promise Me" and has switched to "Annie Laurie." It's easy enough to get the gen'ral direction the sound comes from; but I couldn't place it exact. First off I thought it must be from a little summer house down by the shore; but it wa'n't. I couldn't see anyone around the grounds. Out on the far end of the Hibbs's wharf, though, there was somethin' dark. And a swell time I had too, buttin' my way through a five-foot hedge and landin' in a veg'table garden. But I wades through tomatoes and lettuce until I strikes a gravel path, and in a couple of minutes I'm out on the dock just as the soloist is hittin' up "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms." Aunty had the correct dope. It's Merry, all right. The first glimpse he gets of me he starts guilty and tries to hide the cornet under the tails of his dress coat.

"No use, Merry," says I. "You're pinched with the poultry."

"Wha-a-at!" says he. "Oh, it's you, is it, Torchy? Please—please don't mention this to my aunt."

"She beat me to it," says I. "It was her sent me out after you with a stop order. She says for you to chop the nocturne and go back to the hay."

"But how did she—— Oh, dear!" he sighs. "It was all her fault, anyway."

"I don't follow you," says I. "But what was it, a serenade?"

"Goodness, no!" gasps J. Meredith. "Who suggested that?"

"Why, it has all the earmarks of one," says I. "What else would you be doin', out playin' the cornet by moonlight on the dock, if you wa'n't serenadin' someone?"

"But I wasn't, truly," he protests. "It—it was the champagne, you know."

"Eh?" says I. "You don't mean to say you got stewed? Not on a couple of glasses!"

"Well, not exactly," says he. "But I can't take wine. I hardly ever do. It—it goes to my head always. And tonight—well, I couldn't decline. You saw. Then afterward—oh, I felt so buoyant, so full of life, that I couldn't go to sleep. I simply had to do something to let off steam. I wanted to play the cornet. So I came out here, as far away from anyone as I could get."

"Too thin, Merry," says I. "That might pass with me; but with strangers you'd get the laugh."

"But it's true," he goes on. "And I didn't dream anyone could hear me from here."

"Why, you boob," says I, "they could hear you a mile off!"

"Really?" says he. "But you don't suppose Vio—I mean, the Misses Hibbs could hear, do you?"

"Unless it's their habit to putty up their ears at night," says I.

"But—but what will they think?" he gasps breathless.

"That they're bein' serenaded by some admirin' friend," says I. "What's your guess?"

"Oh—oh!" says Merry, slumpin' down on a settee. "I—I had not thought of that."

"Ah, buck up!" say I. "Maybe you can fake an alibi in the mornin'. Anyway, you can't spend the night here. You got to report to Aunty."

He lets out another groan, and then gets on his feet. "There's a path through the bushes along here somewhere," says he.

"No more cross country work in full dress clothes for me," says I. "We'll sneak down the Hibbs's drive where the goin's easy."

We was doin' it real sleuthy too, keepin' on the lawn and dodgin' from shadow to shadow, when just as we're passin' the house Merry has to stub his toe and drop his blamed cornet with a bang.

Then out from a second story window floats a voice: "Who is that, please?"

Merry nudges me in the ribs. "Tell them it's you," he whispers.

"Why, it's—it's me—Torchy," says I reluctant.

"Oh! Ah!" says a couple of voices in chorus. Then one of 'em goes on, "The young man who is visiting dear Meredith?"

"Yep," says I. "Same one."

"But it wasn't you playing the cornet so beautifully, was it?" comes coaxin' from the window.

"Tell them yes," whispers Merry, nudgin' violent.

"Gwan!" I whispers back. "I'm in bad enough as it is." With that I speaks up before he can stop me, "Not much!" says I. "That was dear Meredith himself."

"Oh-oh!" says the voices together. Then there's whisperin' between 'em. One seems urgin' the other on to something, and at last it comes out. "Young man," says the voice, smooth and persuadin', "please tell us who—that is—which one of us was the serenade intended for?"

This brings the deepest groan of all from J. Meredith.

"Come on, now," says I, hoarse and low in his ear. "It's up to you. Which?"

"Oh, really," he whispers back, "I—I can't!"

"You got to, and quick," says I. "Come now, was it Pansy?"

"No, no!" says he, gaspy.

"Huh!" says I. "Then Violet gets the decision." And I holds him off by main strength while I calls out, "Why, ain't you on yet? It was for Violet, of course."

"Ah-h-h-h! Thank you. Good night," comes a voice—no chorus this time: just one—and the window is shut.

"There you are, Merry," says I. "It's all over. You're as good as booked for life."

He was game about it, though, Merry was. He squares it with Aunty before goin' to bed, and right after breakfast next mornin' he marches over to the Hibbses real business-like. Half an hour later I saw him strollin' out on the wharf with one of the big sisters, and I knew it must be Violet. It was his busy day; so I says nothin' to anybody, but fades.

And you should have seen the jaunty, beamin' J. Meredith that swings into the Corrugated Monday mornin'. He stops at the gate to give me a fraternal grip.

"It's all right, Torchy," says he. "She—she'll have me—Violet, you know. And we are to live abroad. We sail in less than a month."

"But what about Pansy?" says I.

"Oh, she's coming with us, of course," says he. "Really, they're both charming girls."

"Huh!" says I. "That's where you were when I found you. You're past that point, remember."

"Yes, I know," says he. "It was you helped me too, and I wish in some way I could show my——"

"You can," says I. "Leave me the cornet. I might need it some day myself."



CHAPTER XI

THE PASSING BY OF BUNNY

It's a shame the way some of these popular clubmen is bothered with business. Here was Mr. Robert, only the other day, with an important four-cue match to be played off between four-thirty and dinnertime; and what does the manager of our Chicago branch have to do but go and muss up the schedule by wirin' in that he might have to call for headquarters' advice on that Burlington order maybe after closin' time.

"Oh, pshaw!" remarks Mr. Robert, after he's read the message.

"The simp!" says I. "Guess he thinks the Corrugated gen'ral offices runs night and day shifts, don't he?"

"Very well put," says Mr. Robert. "Still, it means rather a big contract. But, you see, the fellows are counting on me for this match, and if I should—— Oh, but I say, Torchy," he breaks off sudden, "perhaps you have no very important engagement for the early evening?"

"Me?" says I. "Nothing I couldn't scratch. I can shoot a little pool too; but when it comes to balk line billiards I expect I'd be a dub among your crowd."

"Refreshing modesty!" says Mr. Robert. "What I had in mind, however, was that you might wait here for the message from Nixon, while I attend to the match."

"Oh, any way you choose," says I. "Sure I'll stay."

"Thanks," says he. "You needn't wait longer than seven, and if it comes in you can get me on the 'phone and—— No, it will be in code; so you'd best bring it over."

And it wa'n't so much of a wait, after all, not more'n an hour; for at six-fifteen I've been over to the club, had Mr. Robert called from the billiard room, got him to fix up his answer, and am pikin' out the front door with it when he holds me up to add just one more word. Maybe we was some conspicuous from Fifth-ave., him bein' still in his shirt sleeves and the steps bein' more or less brilliant.

Anyway, I'd made another start and was just gettin' well under way, when alongside scuffs this hollow-eyed object with the mangy whiskers and the mixed-ale breath.

"Excuse me, young feller," says he, "but——"

"Ah, flutter by, idle one!" says I. "I'm no soup ticket."



"But just a word, my friend," he insists.

"Save your breath," says I, "and have it redistilled. It's worth it."

"Thanks," he puffs out as he shuffles along at my elbow; "but—but wasn't that Bob Ellins you were just talking to?"

"Eh?" says I, glancin' at him some astonished; for a seedier specimen you couldn't find up and down the avenue. "What do you know about him, if it was?"

"More than his name," says the wreck. "He—he's an old friend of mine."

"Oh, of course," says I. "Anyone could tell that at a glimpse. I expect you used to belong to the same club too?"

"Is old Barney still on the door?" says he.

And, say, he had the right dope on that. Not three minutes before I'd heard Mr. Robert call the old gink by name. But that hardly proved the case.

"Clever work," says I. "What was it you used to do there, take out the ashes."

"I don't wonder you think so," says he; "but it's a fact that Bob and I are old friends."

"Why don't you tackle him, then," says I, "instead of botherin' a busy man like me? Go back and call him out."

"I haven't the face," says he. "Look at me!"

"I have," says I, "and, if you ask me, you look like something the cat brought in."

He winces a little at that. "Don't tell Bob how bad it was, then," says he. "Just say you let me have a fiver for him."

"Five bucks!" says I. "Say, I'm Mr. Robert's office boy, not his bank account."

"Two, then?" he goes on.

"My, but I must have the boob mark on me plain!" says I.

"Couldn't you spare a half," he urges, "just a half, to get me a little something to eat, and a drink, and pay for a bed?"

"Oh, sure!" says I. "I carry a pocketful of halves to shove out to all the bums that presents their business cards."

"But Bob would give it back to you," he pleads. "I swear he would! Just tell him you gave it to—to——"

"Well?" says I. "Algernon who?"

"Tell him it was for Melville Slater," says he. "He'll know."

"Melly Slater, eh?" says I. "Sounds all aright. But I'd have to chew it over first, even for a half. I have chances of gettin' stung like this about four times a day, Melly. And, anyway, I got to file a message first, over at the next corner."

"I'll wait outside," says he.

"That's nice of you," says I. "It ain't any cinch you'll connect, though."

But as I dashes into a hotel where there's a blue sign out he leans up against a window gratin', sort of limp and exhausted, and it looks like he means to take a sportin' chance.

How you goin' to tell, anyway? Most of 'em say they've been thrown out of work by the trusts, but that they've heard of a job in Newark, or Bridgeport, or somewhere, which they could get if they could only rustle enough coin to pay the fare. And they'll add interestin' details about havin' a sick wife, or maybe four hungry kids, and so on.

But this rusty bunch of works has a new variation. He's an old friend of the boss. Maybe it was partly so too. If it was—well, I got to thinkin' that over while the operator was countin' the words, and so the next thing I does is to walk over to the telephone queen and have her call up Mr. Robert.

"Well?" says he, impatient.

"It's Torchy again," says I. "I've filed the message, all right. But, say, there's a piece of human junk that I collected from in front of the club who's tryin' to panhandle me for a half on the strength of bein' an old chum of yours. He says his name's Melville Slater."

"Wha-a-at!" gasps Mr. Robert. "Melly Slater, trying to borrow half a dollar from you?"

"There's no doubt about his needin' it," says I. "My guess is that a half would be a life saver to him just now."

"Why, it doesn't seem possible!!" says Mr. Robert. "Of course, I haven't seen Melly recently; but I can't imagine how—— Did you say he was still there?"

"Hung up on the rail outside, if the cop ain't shooed him off," says I.

"Then keep him there until I come," says Mr. Robert. "If it's Melly, I must come. I'll be right over. But don't say a word to him until I get there."

"Got you," says I. "Hold Melly and keep mum."

I could pipe him off through the swing door vestibule; and, honest, from the lifeless way he's propped up there, one arm hangin' loose, his head to one side, and that white, pasty look to his nose and forehead—well, I didn't know but he'd croaked on the spot. So I slips through the cafe exit and chases along the side street until I meets Mr. Robert, who's pikin' over full tilt.

"You're sure it's Melly Slater, are you?" says he.

"I'm only sure that's what he said," says I. "But you can settle that soon enough. There he is, over there by the window."

"Why!" says Mr. Robert. "That can never be Melly; that is, unless he's changed wonderfully." With that he marches up and taps the object on the shoulder. "I say," says he, "you're not really Melly Slater, are you?"

There's a quick shiver runs through the man against the rail, and he lifts his eyes up cringin', like he expected to be hit with a club. Mr. Robert takes one look, and it almost staggers him. Next he reaches out, gets a firm grip on the gent's collar, and drags him out into a better light, twistin' the whiskered face up for a close inspection.

"Blashford!" says he, hissin' it out unpleasant. "Bunny Blashford!"

"No, no!" says the gent, tryin' to squirm away. "You—you've made a mistake."

"Not much!" says Mr. Robert. "I know those sneaking eyes of yours too well."

"All right," says he; "but—but don't hit me, Bob. Don't."

"You—you cur!" says Mr. Robert, holding him at arm's length and glarin' at him hostile.

"A ringer, eh?" says I.

"Worse than that," says Mr. Robert, "a sneaking, contemptible hound! Trying to pass yourself off for Melly, were you?" he goes on. "Of all men, Melly! What for?"

"I—I didn't want you to know I was back," whines Bunny. "And I had to get money somehow, Bob—honest, I did."

"Bah!" says Mr. Robert. "You—you——"

But he ain't got any such vocabulary as old Hickory Ellins has; so here, when he needs it most, all he can do is express his deep disgust by shakin' this Bunny party like a new hired girl dustin' a rug. He jerks him this way and that so reckless that I was afraid he'd rattle him apart, and when he fin'lly lets loose Bunny goes all in a heap on the sidewalk. I'd never seen Mr. Robert get real wrathy before; but it's all over in a minute, and he glances around like he was ashamed.

"Hang it all!" says he, gazin' at the wreck. "I didn't mean to lay my hands on him."

"He's in punk condition," says I. "What's to be done, call an ambulance?"

That jars Mr. Robert a lot. I expect he was so worked up he didn't know how rough he was handlin' him, and my suggestin' that he's qualified Bunny for a cot sobers him down in a minute. Next thing I knows he's kneelin' over the Blashford gent and liftin' his head up.

"Here, what's the matter with you?" says Mr. Robert.

"Don't! Don't strike me again," moans Bunny, cringin'.

"No, no, I'm not going to," says Mr. Robert. "And I apologize for shaking you. But what ails you?"

"I—I'm all in," says Bunny, beginnin' to sniffle. "Don't—don't beat me! I—I'm going to die; but—but not here, like—like this. I—I don't want to live; but—but I don't want to finish this way, like a rat. Help me, Bob, to—to finish decent. I know I don't deserve it from you; but—but you wouldn't want to see me go like this—dirty and ragged? I—I want to die clean and—and well dressed. Please, Bob, for old time's sake?"

"Nonsense, man!" says Mr. Robert. "You're not going to die now."

"Yes, I am, Bob," says Bunny. "I—I can tell. I want to, anyway. I—I'm no good. And I'm in rotten shape. Drink, you know, and I've a bad heart. I'm near starved too. It's been days since I've eaten anything—days!"

"By George!" says Mr. Robert. "Then you must have something to eat. Here, let me help you up. Torchy, you take the other side. Steady, now! I didn't know you were in such a condition; really, I didn't. And we'll get you filled up right away."

"I—I couldn't eat," says Bunny. "I don't want anything. I just want to quit—only—not like this; but clean, Bob, clean and dressed decent once more."

Say, maybe you can guess about how cheerin' it was, hearin' him say that over and over in that whiny, tremblin' voice of his, watchin' them shifty, deep-set eyes glisten glassy under the light. About as comfortin' a sight, he was, as a sick dog in a corner. And of all the rummy ideas to get in his nut—that about bein' dressed up to die! But he keeps harpin' away on it until fin'ly Mr. Robert takes notice.

"Yes, yes!" says the boss. "We'll attend to that, old man. But you need some nourishment in you first."

So we drags him over to the opposite corner, where there's a drugstore, and got a glass of hot milk under his vest. Then I calls a taxi, and we all starts for the nearest Turkish bath joint.

"That's all, Torchy," says Mr. Robert. "I won't bother you any more with this wretched business. You'd best go now."

"Suppose something happens to him?" says I. "You'll need a witness, won't you?"

"I hadn't thought of that," says he.

"There's no tellin'," says I. "Them coroners deputies are mostly boneheads. I'd better stay on the job."

"I know of no one I'd rather have, Torchy," says he.

Course, he was stretchin' it there. But we fixes it up that while Bunny is bein' soaked out I'll have time to pluck some eats. Meanwhile Mr. Robert will 'phone his man to dig out one of his old dress suits, with fixin's, which I'm to collect and have waitin' for Blashford.

"Better have him barbered some too, hadn't I?" says I.

"A lot," says Mr. Robert, slippin' me a couple of tens for expenses. "And when he's all ready call me at the club."

So, take it all around, I has quite some busy evenin'. I stayed long enough to see Bunny wrapped in a sheet and helped into the steam-room, and then I hustles out for a late dinner. It's near nine-thirty before I rings Mr. Robert up again, and reports that Bunny would pass a Board of Health inspection now that he's had the face herbage removed, that he's costumed proper and correct, and that he's decided not to die immediate.

"Very well," says Mr. Robert. "What does he want to do now?"

"He wants to talk to you," says I.

"The deuce he does!" says Mr. Robert. "Well, I suppose we might as well have it out; so bring him up here."

That's how it happens I'm rung in on this little club corner chat; for Mr. Robert explains that whatever passes between 'em it might be as well to have someone else hear.

And, say, what a diff'rence a little outside upholstery can make, eh? The steamin' out had helped some, I expect, and a couple more glasses of hot milk had braced him up too; but blamed if I'd expect just a shave and a few open-face clothes could change a human ruin into such a perky lookin' gent as this that leans back graceful against the leather cushions and lights up one of Mr. Robert's imported cigarettes. Course, the eye hollows hadn't been filled in, nor the face wrinkles ironed out; but somehow they only gives him a sort of a distinguished look. And now that his shoulders ain't slumped, and he's holdin' his chin up once more, he's almost ornamental. He don't even seem embarrassed at meetin' Mr. Robert again. If anyone was fussed, it was the boss.

"Well?" says he, as we gets settled in the cozy corner.

"Seems natural as life here; eh, Bob?" says Bunny, glancin' around approvin'. "And it's nearly four years since I—er——"

"Since you were kicked out," adds Mr. Robert. "See here, Bunny—just because I've helped you out of the gutter when I thought you were half dead, don't run away with the idea that I've either forgotten or forgiven!"

"Oh, quite so," says he. "I'm not asking that."

"Then you've no excuse," goes on Mr. Robert, "for the sneaking, cowardly way in which you left little Sally Slater waiting in her bridal gown, the house full of wedding guests, while you ran off with that unspeakable DeBrett person?"

"No," says Bunny, flippin' his cigarette ashes off jaunty, "no excuse worthy of the name."

"Cad!" says Mr. Robert.

Bunny shrugs his shoulders. "Precisely," says he. "But you are not making the discovery for the first time, are you? You knew Sally was far too good for me. Everyone did, even Brother Melly. It couldn't have been much of a secret to either of you how deep I was with the DeBrett too. Yet you wanted me to go on with Sally. Why? Because the governor hadn't chucked me overboard then, because I could still keep up a front?"

"You might have taken a brace," says Mr. Robert.

"Not I!" says Bunny. "Anyway, not after Trixie DeBrett got hold of me. The trouble was, Bob, you didn't half appreciate her. She had beauty, brains, wit, a thousand fascinations, and no more soul than a she boa constrictor. I was just a rabbit to her, a meal. She thought the governor would buy her off, say, for a couple hundred thousand or so. I suppose he would too, if it hadn't been for the Sally complication. He thought a lot of little Sally. And the way it happened was too raw. I don't blame him, mind you, nor any of you. I don't even blame Trixie. That was her game. And, by Jove! she was a star at it. I'd go back to her now if she'd let me."

"You're a fool!" snorts Mr. Robert.

"Always was, my dear Bob," says Bunny placid. "You often told me as much."

"But I didn't think," goes on Mr. Robert, "you'd get as low as—as tonight—begging!"

"Quite respectable for me, I assure you," says Bunny. "Why, my dear fellow, during the last few years there's been hardly a crime on the calendar I shouldn't have committed for a dollar—barring murder, of course. That requires nerve. How long do you suppose the few thousands I got from Aunt Eunice lasted? Barely six months. I thought I knew how to live rather luxuriously myself. But Trixie! Well, she taught me. And we were in Paris, you know. I didn't cable the governor until I was down to my last hundred-franc note. His reply was something of a stinger. I showed it to Trixie. She just laughed and went out for a drive. She didn't come back. I hear she picked up a brewer's son at Monte Carlo. Lucky devil, he was!

"And I? What would you expect? In less than two weeks I was a stowaway on a French liner. They routed me out and set me to stoking. I couldn't stand that, of course; so they put me to work in the kitchens, cleaning pots, dumping garbage, waiting on the crew. I had to make the round trip too. Then I jumped the stinking craft, only to get a worse berth on a P. & O. liner. I worked with Chinese, Lascars, coolies, the scum of the earth; worked and ate and slept and fought with them. I crawled ashore and deserted in strange ports. I think it was at Aden where I came nearest to starving the first time. And I remember the docks at Alexandria. Sometimes the tourists threw down coppers for the Arab and Berber boys to scrabble for. It's a pleasant custom. I was there, in that scrabbling, cursing, clawing rabble. And when I'd had a good day I spent my coppers royally in a native dance-hall which even guides don't dare show to the trippers.

"Respectability, my dear Bob, is all a matter of comparison. I acquired a lot of new standards. As a second cabin steward on a Brazos liner I became quite haughty. Poverty! You don't know what it means until you've rubbed elbows with it in the Far East and the Far South. Here you have the Bowery Mission bread line. That's a fair sample, Bob, of our American opulence. Free bread!"

"So you've been in that, have you?" asks Mr. Robert.

"Have I?" says Bunny. "I've pals down there tonight who will wonder what has become of me."

Mr. Robert shudders. And, say, it made me feel chilly along the spine too.

"Well, what now?" says Mr. Robert. "I suppose you expect me to find you some sort of work?"

"Not at all," says Bunny. "Another of those cigarettes, if you don't mind. Excellent brand. Thanks. But work? How inconsiderate, Bob! I wasn't born to be useful. You know that well enough. No, work doesn't appeal to me."

Mr. Robert flushes up at that. "Then," says he, pointin' stern, "there's the door."

"Oh, what's the hurry?" says Bunny. "This is heaven to me, all this,—the old club, you know, and good tobacco, and—say, Bob, if I might suggest, a pint of that '85 vintage would add just the finishing touch. Come, I haven't tasted a glass of fizz since—well, I've forgotten. Just for auld lang syne!"

Mr. Robert gasps, hesitates a second, and then pushes the button. Bunny inspects the label critical when it's brought in, waves graceful to Mr. Robert, and slides the bottle back tender into the cooler.

"Ah-h-h!" says he. "And doesn't Henri have any more of those dainty little caviar canapes on hand? They go well with fizz."

"Canapes," says Mr. Robert to the waiter. "And another box of those gold-tipped Russians."

"A vous!" says Bunny, raisin' a glassful of bubbles and salutin'. "I'm as thirsty as a camel driver."

"But what I'd like to know," says Mr. Robert, "is what you propose doing."

"You, my dear fellow," says Bunny, settin' down the glass.

"Truly enterprising!" says Mr. Robert. "But you're going to be disappointed. In just ten minutes I mean to escort you to the sidewalk, and then wash my hands of you for good."

Bunny laughs. "Impossible!" says he. "In the first place, you couldn't sleep tonight, if you did. Secondly, I should hunt you up tomorrow and make a nuisance of myself."

"You'd be thrown out by a porter," says Mr. Robert.

"Perhaps," says he; "but it wouldn't look nice. I'd be in evening clothes, you see. The crowd would know at once that I was a gentleman. Reporters would come. I should tell a most harrowing tale. You'd deny it, of course; but half the people would believe me. No, no, Bob! Three hours ago, in my old rags, you might have kicked me into the gutter, and no one would have made any fuss at all. But now! Why, it would be absurd! I should make a mighty row over it."

"You threaten blackmail?" says Mr. Robert, leanin' towards him savage.

"That is one of my more reputable accomplishments," says Bunny. "But why force me to that? I have quite a reasonable proposal to submit."

"If it has anything to do with getting you so far away from New York that you'll never come back, I'll listen to it," says Mr. Robert.

"You state the case exactly," says Bunny. "In Paris I got to know a chap by the name of Dick Langdon; English, you know, and a younger son. His uncle's a Sir Something or Other. Dick was going the pace. He'd annexed some funds that he'd found lying around loose. Purely a family affair; no prosecution. A nice youth, Langdon. We were quite congenial.

"A year or so ago I ran across him again, down in Santa Marta. He was wearing a sun helmet and a white linen suit. He said he'd been shipped down there as superintendent of a banana plantation about twenty miles back from the port. He had half a hundred blacks and as many East Indian coolies under him. There was no one else within miles. Once a month he got down to see the steamer load and watch the white faces hungrily. I was only a cabin steward leaning over the rail; but he was so tickled to see me that he begged me to quit and go back to the plantation with him. He said he'd make me assistant superintendent, or permanent guest, or anything. But I was crazy to see New York once more. I wouldn't listen. Well, I've seen New York, seen enough of it to last a lifetime. What do you say?"

"When could you get a steamer?" asks Mr. Robert.

"The Arapequa sails at ten in the morning," says Bunny eager. "Fare forty-eight dollars one way. I could go aboard now. Dick would hail me as a man and a brother. I'm his kind. He'd see that I never had money enough to get away. I think I might possibly earn my keep bossing coolies too. And the pulque down there helps you to forget your troubles."

"Torchy," says Mr. Robert, "ask Barney to call a cab."

"And, by the way," Bunny is sayin' as I come back, "you might chuck in a business suit and a few white flannels into a grip, Bob. You wouldn't want me to arrive in South America dressed like this, would you?"

"Very well," says Mr. Robert. "But what I'm most concerned about is that you do arrive there."

"But how do you know, Mr. Robert," says I next mornin', "that he will?"

"Because I locked him in his stateroom myself," says he, "and bribed a steward not to let him out until he could see Barnegat light over the stern."

"Gee!" says I. "That's one way of losin' a better days' proposition. And in case any others like him turns up, Mr. Robert, have you got any more old dress suits?"

"If I have," says he, "I shall burn them."



CHAPTER XII

THE GLAD HAIL FOR TORCHY

I'll say this for Aunty: She's doin' her best. About all she's omitted is lockin' Vee in a safety deposit vault and forgettin' the combination.

Say, you'd most think I was as catchin' as a case of measles. I wish it was so; for once in awhile, in spite of Aunty, Vee gets exposed. That's all the good it does, though. What's a few minutes' chat with the only girl that ever was? It's a wonder we don't have to be introduced all over again. That would be the case with some girls. But Vee! Say, lemme put you wise—Vee's different! Uh-huh! I found that out all by myself. I don't know just where it comes in, or how, but she is.

All of which makes it just so much worse when she and Aunty does the summer flit. Course, I saw it comin' 'way back early in June, and then the first thing I know they're gone. I gets a bulletin now and then,—Lenox, the Pier, Newport, and so on,—sometimes from Vee, sometimes by readin' the society notes. Must be great to have the papers keep track of you, the way they do of Aunty. And it's so comfortin' to me, strayin' lonesome into a Broadway movie show of a hot evening to know that "among the debutantes at a tea dance given in the Casino by Mrs. Percy Bonehead yesterday afternoon was Miss Verona Hemmingway." Oh, sure! Say, how many moves am I from a tea dance—me here behind the brass rail at the Corrugated, with Piddie gettin' fussy, and Old Hickory jabbin' the buzzer?

And then, just when I'm peevish enough to be canned and served with lamb chops, here comes this glad word out of the State of Maine. "It's nice up here," says she; "but awfully stupid. VEE." That's all—just a picture postcard. But, say, I'd have put it in a solid gold frame if there'd been one handy.

As it is, I sticks the card up on the desk in front of me and gazes longin'. Some shack, I should judge by the picture,—one of these low, wide affairs, all built of cobblestones, with a red tile roof and yellow awnin's. Right on the water too. You can see the waves frothin' almost up to the front steps. Roarin' Rocks, Maine, is the name of the place printed underneath.

"Nice, but stupid, eh?" says I confidential to myself. "That's too bad. Wonder if I'd be bored to death with a week or so up there? I wonder what she'd say if——"

B-r-r-r-r! B-r-r-r-r-r! That's always the way! I just get started on some rosy dream, and I'm sailin' aloft miles and miles away, when off goes that blamed buzzer, and back I flop into this same old chair behind the same old brass rail! All for what? Why, Mr. Robert wants a tub of desk pins. I gets 'em from Piddie, trots in, and slams 'em down snappy at Mr. Robert's elbow.

"Eh?" says he, glancin' up startled.

"Said pins, dintcher?" says I.

"Why—er—yes," says he, "I believe I did. Thank you."

"Huh!" says I, turnin' on my heel.

"Oh—er—Torchy," he adds.

"Well?" says I over my shoulder.

"Might one inquire," says he, "is it distress, or only disposition?"

"It ain't the effect of too much fresh air, anyway," says I.

"Ah!" says he, sort of reflective. "Feeling the need of a half holiday, are you?"

"Humph!" says I. "What's the good of an afternoon off?"

He'd just come back from a two weeks' cruise, Mr. Robert had, lookin' tanned and husky, and a little later on he was goin' off on another jaunt. Course, that's all right, too. I'd take 'em oftener if I was him. But hanged if I'd sit there starin' puzzled at any one else who couldn't, the way he was doin' at me!

"Mr. Robert," says I, spunkin' up sudden, "what's the matter with me takin' a vacation?"

"Why," says he, "I—I presume it might be arranged. When would you wish to go?"

"When?" says I. "Why, now—tonight. Say, honest, if I try to stick out the week I'll get to be a grouch nurser, like Piddie. I'm sick of the shop, sick of answerin' buzzers, sick of everything!"

It wasn't what you might call a smooth openin', and from most bosses I expect it would have won me a free pass to all outdoors. But I guess Mr. Robert knows what these balky moods are himself. He only humps his eyebrows humorous and chuckles.

"That's rather abrupt, isn't it?" says he. "But perhaps—er—just where is she now, Torchy?"

I grins back sheepish. "Coast of Maine," says I.

"Well, well!" says he. "Then you'll need a two weeks' advance, at least. There! Present this to the cashier. And there is a good express, I believe, at eight o'clock tonight. Luck to you!"

"Mr. Robert," says I, choky, "you—you're I-double-It with me. Thanks."

"My best regards to Kennebunk, Cape Neddick, and Eggemoggen Reach," says he as we swaps grips.

Say, there's some boss for you, eh? But how he could dope out the symptoms so accurate is what gets me. Anyhow, he had the answer; for I don't stop to consult any vacation guidebook or summer tours pamphlet. I beats it for the Grand Central, pushes up to the ticket window, and calls for a round trip to Roaring Rocks.

"Nothing doing," says the guy. "Give you Bass Rocks, Seal Rocks, or six varieties of Spouting Rocks; but no Roaring ones on the list. Any choice?"

"Gwan, you fresh Mellen seed!" says I. "You got to have 'em. It says so on the card," and I shoves the postal at him.

"Ah, yes, my young ruddy duck," says he. "Postmarked Boothbay Harbor, isn't it? Bath for yours. Change there for steamer. Upper's the best I can do for you—drawing rooms all gone."

"Seein' how my private car's bein' reupholstered, I'll chance an upper," says I. "Only don't put any nose trombone artist underneath."

Yes, I was feelin' some gayer than a few hours before. What did I care if the old town was warmin' up as we pulls out until it felt like a Turkish bath? I was bound north on the map, with my new Norfolk suit and three outing shirts in my bag, a fair-sized wad of spendin' kale buttoned into my back pocket, and that card of Vee's stowed away careful. Say, I should worry! And don't they do some breezin' along on that Bar Harbor express while you sleep, though?

"What cute little village is this?" says I to Rastus in the washroom next mornin' about six-thirty A. M.

"Pohtland, Suh," says he. "Breakfast stop, Suh."

"Me for it, then," says I. "When in Maine be a maniac." So I tackles a plate of pork-and on its native heath; also a hunk of pie. M-m-m-m! They sure can build pie up there!

It's quite some State, Maine. Bath is several jumps on, and that next joint—— Say, it wa'n't until I'd changed to the steamer and was lookin' over my ticket that I sees anything familiar about the name. Boothbay! Why, wa'n't that the Rube spot this Ira Higgins hailed from? Maybe you remember,—Ira, who'd come on to see Mr. Robert about buildin' a new racin' yacht, the tall, freckled gink with a love affair on his mind? Why, sure, this was Ira's Harbor I was headed for. And, say, I didn't feel half so strange about explorin' the State after that. For Ira, you know, is a friend of mine. Havin' settled that with myself, I throws out my chest and roams around the decks, climbin' every flight of stairs I came to, until I gets to a comfy little coop on the very top where a long guy wearin' white suspenders over a blue flannel shirt is jugglin' the steerin' wheel.

"Hello, Cap!" says I. "How's she headin'?"

He ain't one of the sociable kind, though. You'd most thought, from the reprovin' stare he gives me, that he didn't appreciate good comp'ny.

"Can't you read?" says he.

"Ah, you mean the Keep-Out sign? Sure, Pete," says I; "but I can't see it from in here."

"Then git out where you can see it plainer," says he.

"Ah, quit your kiddin'!" says I. "That's for the common herd, ain't it? Now, I—— Say, if it'll make you feel any better, I'll tell you who I am."

"Say it quick then," says he. "Are you Woodrow Wilson, or only the Secretary of the Navy?"

"You're warm," says I. "I'm a friend of Ira Higgins of Boothbay Harbor."

"Sho!" says he, removin' his pipe and beginnin' to act human.

"Happen to know Ira?" says I.

"Ought to," says he. "First cousins. You from Boston?"

"Why, Cap!" says I. "What have I ever done to you? Now, honest, do I look like I—but I'll forgive you this time. New York, Cap: not Brooklyn, or Staten Island or the Bronx, you know, but straight New York, West 17th-st. And I've come all this way just to see Mr. Higgins."

"Gosh!" says he. "Ira always did have all the luck."

Next crack he calls me Sorrel Top, and inside of five minutes we was joshin' away chummy, me up on a tall stool alongside, and him pointin' out all the sights. And, believe me, the State of Maine's got some scenery scattered along the wet edge of it! Honest, it's nothin' but scenery,—rocks and trees and water, and water and trees and rocks, and then a few more rocks.

"How about when you hit one of them sharp ones?" says I.

"Government files a new edge on it," says he. "They keep a gang that does nothin' else."

"Think of that!" says I. "I don't see any lobsters floatin' around, though."

"Too late in the day," says he. "'Fraid of gittin' sunburned. You want to watch for 'em about daybreak. Millions then. Travel in flocks."

"Ye-e-es?" says I. "All hangin' onto a string, I expect. But why the painted posts stickin' up out of the water?"

"Hitchin' posts," says he, "for sea hosses."

Oh, I got a bunch of valuable marine information from him, and when the second mate came up he added a lot more. If I hadn't thought to tell 'em how there was always snow on the Singer and Woolworth towers, and how the East Side gunmen was on strike to raise the homicide price to three dollars and seventy-five cents, they'd had me well Sweeneyed. As it was, I guess we split about even.

Him findin' Boothbay Harbor among all that snarl of islands and channels wasn't any bluff, though. That was the real sleight of hand. As we're comin' up to the dock he points out Ira's boatworks, just on the edge of the town. Half an hour later I've left my baggage at the hotel and am interviewin' Mr. Higgins.

He's the same old Ira; only he's wearin' blue overalls and a boiled shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"Roarin' Rocks, eh?" says he. "Why, that's the Hollister place on Cunner Point, about three miles up."

"Can I get a trolley?" says I.

"Trolley!" says he. "Why, Son, there ain't any 'lectric cars nearer'n Bath."

"Gee, what a jay burg!" says I. "How about a ferry, then?"

Ira shakes his head. Seems Roarin' Rocks is a private joint, the summer place of this Mr. Hollister who's described by Ira as "richer'n Croesus"—whatever that might mean. Anyway, they're exclusive parties that don't encourage callers; for the only way of gettin' there is over a private road around the head of the bay, or by hirin' a launch to take you up.

"Generally," says Ira, "they send one of their boats down to meet company. Now, if they was expectin' you——"

"That's just it," I breaks in, "they ain't. Fact is, Ira, there's a young lady visitin' there with her aunt, and—and—well, Aunty and me ain't so chummy as we might be."

"Just so," says Ira, noddin' wise.

"Now my plan was to go up there and kind of stick around, you know," says I, "sort of in the shade, until the young lady strolled out."

Ira shakes his head discouragin'. "They're mighty uppish folks," says he. "Got 'No Trespass' signs all over the place—dogs too."

"Hellup!" says I. "What am I up against? Why don't Aunty travel with a bunch of gumshoe guards and be done with it?"

"Tell you what," says Ira, struck by a stray thought, "if lookin' the place over'll do any good, you might go out with Eb Westcott this afternoon when he baits. He's got pots all around the point."

That don't mean such a lot to me; but my middle name is Brodie. "Show me Eb," says I.

He wa'n't any thrillin' sight, Eb; mostly rubber hip boots, flannel shirt, and whiskers. He could have been cleaner. So could his old tub of a lobster boat; but not while he stuck to that partic'lar line of business, I guess. And, say, I know now what baitin' is. It's haulin' up lobster pots from the bottom of the ocean and decoratin' 'em inside with fish—ripe fish, at that. The scheme is to lure the lobsters into the pot. Seems to work too; but I guess a lobster ain't got any sense of smell.

"Better put on some old clothes fust," advised Eb, and as I always like to dress the part I borrows a moldy suit of oilskins from Ira, includin' one of these yellow sea bonnets, and climbs aboard.

It's a one-lunger putt-putt—and take it from me the combination of gasolene and last Tuesday's fish ain't anything like Eau d'Espagne! Quite different! Also I don't care for that jumpy up and down motion one of these little boats gets on, specially after pie and beans for breakfast. Then Eb hands me the steerin' ropes while he whittles some pressed oakum off the end of a brunette plug and loads his pipe. More perfume comin' my way!

"Ever try smokin' formaldehyde?" says I.

"Gosh, no!" says Eb. "What's it like?"

"You couldn't tell the difference," says I.

"We git tin tags off'm Sailor's Pride," says Eb. "Save up fifty, and you git a premium."

"You ought to," says I, "and a pension for life."

"Huh!" says Eb. "It's good eatin' too, Ever chaw any?" and he holds out the plug invitin'.

"Don't tempt me," says I. "I promised my dear old grandmother I wouldn't."

"Lookin' a little peaked, ain't you!" says he. "Most city chaps do when they fust come; but after 'bout a month of this——"

"Chop it, Eb!" says I. "I'm feelin' unhappy enough as it is. A month of this? Ah, say!"

After awhile we begun stoppin' to bait. Eb would shut off the engine, run up to a float, haul in a lot of clothesline, and fin'lly pull up an affair that's a cross between a small crockery crate and an openwork hen-coop. Next he'd grab a big needle and string a dozen or so of the gooey fish on a cord. I watched once. After that I turned my back. By way of bein' obligin', Eb showed me how to roll the flywheel and start the engine. He said I was a heap stronger in the arms than I looked, and he didn't mind lettin' me do it right along. Friendly old yap, Eb was. I kept on rollin' the wheel.

So about three P. M., as we was workin' our way along the shore, Eb looks up and remarks, "Here's the Hollister place, Roarin' Rocks."

Sure enough there it was, almost like the postcard picture, only not colored quite so vivid.

"Folks are out airin' themselves too," he goes on.

They were. I could see three or four people movin' about on the veranda; for we wa'n't more'n half a block away. First off I spots Aunty. She's paradin' up and down, stiff and stately, and along with her waddles a wide, dumpy female in pink. And next, all in white, and lookin' as slim and graceful as an Easter lily, I makes out Vee; also a young gent in white flannels and a striped tennis blazer. He's smokin' a cigarette and swingin' a racket jaunty. I could even hear Vee's laugh ripple out across the water. You remember how she put it too, "nice, but awfully stupid." Seems she was makin' the best of it, though.

And here I was, in Ira's baggy oilskins, my feet in six inches of oily brine, squattin' on the edge of a smelly fish box tryin' to hold down a piece of custard pie! No, that wa'n't exactly the rosy picture I threw on the screen back in the Corrugated gen'ral offices only yesterday. Nothing like that! I don't do any hoo-hooin', or wave any private signals. I pulls the sticky sou'wester further down over my eyes and squats lower in the boat.

"Look kind o' gay and festive, don't they?" says Eb, straightenin' up and wipin' his hands on his corduroys.

"Who's the party in the tennis outfit?" says I.

"Him?" says Eb, gawpin' ashore. "Must be young Hollister, that owns the mahogany speed boat. Stuck up young dude, I guess. Wall, five more traps to haul, and we're through, Son."

"Let's go haul 'em, then," says I, grabbin' the flywheel.

Great excursion, that was! Once more on land, I sneaked soggy footed up to the hotel and piked for my room. I shied supper and went to the feathers early, trustin' that if I could get stretched out level with my eyes shut things would stop wavin' and bobbin' around. That was good dope too.

I rolled out next mornin' feelin' fine and silky; but not so cocky by half. Somehow, I wa'n't gettin' any of the lucky breaks I'd looked for.

My total programme for the day was just to bat around Boothbay. And, say, of all the lonesome places for city clothes and a straw lid! Honest, I never saw so many yachty rigs in my life,—young chaps in white ducks and sneakers and canvas shoes, girls in middie blouses, old guys in white flannels and yachtin' caps, even old ladies dressed sporty and comf'table—and more square feet of sunburn than would cover Union Square. I felt like a blond Eskimo at a colored camp meetin'.

As everyone was either comin' from or goin' to the docks, I wanders down there too, and loafs around watchin' the steamers arrive, and the big sailin' yachts anchored off in the harbor, and the little boats dodgin' around in the choppy water. There's a crisp, salty breeze that's makin' the flags snap, the sun's shinin' bright, and take it altogether it's some brilliant scene. Only I'm on the outside peekin' in.

"What's the use?" thinks I. "I'm off my beat up here."

Fin'lly I drifts down to the Yacht Club float, where the launches was comin' in thick. I must have been there near an hour, swappin' never a word with anybody, and gettin' lonesomer by the minute, when in from the harbor dashes a long, low, dark-colored boat and comes rushin' at the float like it meant to make a hydroplane jump. At the wheel I gets sight of a young chap who has sort of a worried, scared look on his face. Also he's wearin' a striped blazer.

"Young Hollister, maybe," thinks I. "And he's in for a smash."

Just then he manages to throw in his reverse; but it's a little late, for he's got a lot of headway. Honest, I didn't think it out. And I was achin' to butt into something. I jumped quick, grabbed the bow as it came in reach, shoved it off vigorous, and brought him alongside the fenders without even scratchin' the varnish.

"Thanks, old chap," says he. "Saved me a bad bump there. I—I'm greatly obliged."

"You're welcome," says I. "You was steamin' in a little strong."

"I haven't handled the Vixen much myself," says he. "You see, our boatman's laid up,—sprained ankle,—and I had to come down from the Rocks for some gasolene."

"Oh! Roarin' Rocks?" says I.

"Yes," says he. "Where's that fool float tender?"

"Just gone into the clubhouse," says I. "Maybe I could keep her from bumpin' while you're gone."

"By Jove! would you?" says he, handin' over a boathook.

Even then I wasn't layin' any scheme. I helps when they puts the gas in, and makes myself generally useful. Also I'm polite and respectful, which seems to make a hit with him.

"Deuced bother," says he, "not having any man. I had a picnic planned for today too."

"That so?" says I. "Well, I'm no marine engineer, but I'm just killin' time around here, and if I could help any way——"

"Oh, I say, but that's jolly of you," says he, "I wonder if you would, for a day or so? My name's Hollister, Payne Hollister."

He wasn't Payne to me. He was Joy. Easy? Why, he fairly pushes me into it! Digs a white jumper out of a locker for me, and a little round canvas hat with "Vixen" on the front, and trots back uptown to buy me a swell pair of rubber-soled deck shoes. Business of quick change for yours truly. Then look! Say, here I am, just about the yachtiest thing in sight, leanin' back on the steerin' seat cushions of a classy speed boat that's headed towards Vee at a twenty-mile clip.



CHAPTER XIII

AUNTY FLAGS A ROSY ONE

Lemme see, I was headed out of Boothbay Harbor, Maine, bound for Roarin' Rocks, wa'n't I? Hold the picture,—me in a white jumper and little round canvas hat with "Vixen" printed across the front, white shoes too, and altogether as yachty as they come. Don't forget young Mr. Payne Hollister at the wheel, either; although whether I'd kidnapped him, or he'd kidnapped me, is open for debate.

Anyway, here I was, subbin' incog for the reg'lar crew, who was laid up with a sprained ankle. All that because I'd got the happy hail from Vee on a postcard. It wa'n't any time for unpleasant thoughts then; but I couldn't help wonderin' how soon Aunty would loom on the horizon and spoil it all.

"So there's a picnic on the slate, eh?" I suggests.

Young Mr. Hollister nods. "I'd promised some of the folks at the house," says he. "Guests, you know."

"Oh, yes," says I, feelin' a little shiver flicker down my spine.

I knew. Vee was a guest there. So was Aunty. The picnic prospects might have been more allurin'. But I'd butted in, and this was no time to back out. Besides, I was more or less interested in sizin' up Payne Hollister. Tall, slim, young gent; dark, serious eyes; nose a little prominent; and his way of speakin' and actin' a bit pompous,—one of them impatient, quick-motioned kind that wants to do everything in a minute. He keeps gettin' up and starin' ahead, like he wa'n't quite sure where he was goin', and then leanin' over to squint at the engine restless.

"Just see if those forward oil cups are full, will you?" says he.

I climbs over and inspects. Everything seems to be O. K.; although what I don't know about a six-cylinder marine engine is amazin'.

"We're slidin' through the water slick," says I.

"She can turn up much faster than this," says he; "only I don't dare open her wide."

I was satisfied. I could use a minute or so about then to plot out a few scenarios dealin' with how a certain party would act in case of makin' a sudden discovery. But I hadn't got past picturin' the cold storage stare before the Hollister place shows up ahead, Payne throttles the Vixen down cautious, shoots her in between a couple of rocky points, and fetches her up alongside a rope-padded private float. There's some steps leadin' up to the top of the rocks.

"Do you mind running up and asking if they're ready?" says Payne.

"Why, no," says I; "but—but who do I ask?"

"That's so," says he. "And they'll not know who you are, either. I'll go. Just hold her off."

Me with a boathook, posin' back to for the next ten minutes, not even darin' to rubber over my shoulder. Then voices, "Have you the coffee bottles?"—"Don't forget the steamer rugs."—"I put the olives on the top of the sandwiches."—"Be careful when you land, Mabel dear."—"Oh, we'll be all right." This last from Vee.

Another minute and they're down on the float, with Payne Hollister explainin', "Oh, I forgot. This is someone who is helping me with the boat while Tucker's disabled." I touches my hat respectful; but I'm too busy to face around—much too busy!

"Now, Cousin Mabel," says young Hollister, "right in the middle of that seat! Easy, now!"

A squeal from Mabel. No wonder! I gets a glimpse of her as she steps down, and, believe me, if I had Mabel's shape and weight you couldn't tease me out on the water in anything smaller'n the Mauretania! All the graceful lines of a dumplin', Mabel had; about five feet up and down, and 'most as much around. Vee is on one side, Payne on the other, both lowerin' away careful; but as she makes the final plunge before floppin' onto the seat she reaches out one paw and annexes my right arm. Course that swings me around sudden, and I finds myself gazin' at Vee over Payne Hollister's shoulders, not three feet away.

"Oh!" says she, startled, and you couldn't blame her. I just has to lay one finger on my lips and shake my head mysterious.

"All right!" sings out Payne, straightenin' up. "Always more or less exciting getting Cousin Mabel aboard; but it's been accomplished. Now, Verona!"

As he gives her a hand she floats in as light as a bird landin' in a treetop. I could feel her watchin' me curious and puzzled as I passes the picnic junk down for Hollister to stow away. Course, it wa'n't any leadin'-heavy, spotlight entrance I was makin' at Roarin' Rocks; but it's a lot better, thinks I, than not bein' there at all.

"Oh, dear," sighs Mabel, "what a narrow, uncomfortable seat!"

"Is it, really?" asks Vee. "Can't it be fixed someway, Payne?"

"Lemme have a try?" says I. With that I stuffs extra cushions around her, folds up a life preserver to rest her feet on, and drapes her with a steamer rug.

"Thanks," says she, sighin' grateful and rewardin' me with a display of dimples. "What is your name, young man?"

"Why," says I, with a glance at Vee, "you can just call me Bill."

"Nonsense!" says Mabel. "Your name is William."

"William goes, Miss," says I; and as she snuggles down I chances a wink Vee's way. No response, though. Vee ain't sure yet whether she ought to grin or give me the call-down.

"Cast off!" says Payne, and out between the rocks we shoot, with Aunty and Mrs. Hollister wavin' from the veranda. Anyway, that was some relief. This wa'n't Aunty's day for picnickin'.

She didn't know what she was missin', I expect; for, say, that's good breathin' air up off Boothbay. There's some life and pep to it, and rushin' through it that way you can't help pumpin' your lungs full. Makes you glow and tingle inside and out. Makes you want to holler. That, and the sunshine dancin' on the water, and the feel of the boat slicin' through the waves, the engine purrin' away a sort of rag-time tune, and the pennants whippin', and all that scenery shiftin' around to new angles, not to mention the fact that Vee's along—well, I was enjoyin' life about then. Kind of got into my blood. Everything was lovely, and I didn't care what happened next.

Me bein' the crew, I expect I should have been fussin' around up front, coilin' ropes, or groomin' the machinery. But I can't make my eyes behave. I has to turn around every now and then and grin. Mabel don't seem to mind.

"William," says she, signalin' me, "see if you can't find a box of candy in that basket."

I hops over the steerin' seat back into the standin' room and digs it out. Also I lingers around while Mabel feeds in a few pieces.

"Have some?" says she. "You're so good-natured looking."

"That's my long suit," says I.

Then I see Vee's mouth corners twitching and she takes her turn. "You live around here, I suppose, William?" says she.

"No such luck," says I. "I come up special to get this job."

"But," puts in Mabel, holdin' a fat chocolate cream in the air, "Tucker wasn't hurt until yesterday."

"That's when I landed," says I.

"Someone must have sent you word then," says Vee, impish.

"Uh-huh," says I. "Someone mighty special too. Sweet of her, wa'n't it?"

"Oh! A girl?" asks Mabel, perkin' up.

"The girl," says I.

"Tee-hee!" snickers Mabel, nudgin' Vee delighted. "Is—is she very nice, William? Tell us about her, won't you?"

"Oh, do!" says Vee, sarcastic.

"Well," says I, lookin' at Vee, "she's about your height and build."

"How interesting!" says Mabel, with another nudge. "Go on. What kind of hair?"

"Never was any like it," says I.

"But her complexion," insists Mabel, "dark or fair?"

"Pink roses in the mornin', with the dew on," says I.

"Bravo!" says Mabel, clappin' her hands. "And her eyes?"

"Why," says I, "maybe you've looked down into deep sea water on a still, gray day? That's it."

"She must be a beauty," says Mabel.

"Nothing but," says I.

"I hope she has a nice disposition too," says she.

"Nope," says I, shakin' my head solemn.

"Humph! What's the matter with that?" says Vee.

"Jumpy," says I. "Red pepper and powdered sugar; sometimes all sugar, sometimes all pepper, then again a mixture. You never can tell."

"Then I'd throw her over," says Vee.

"Honest, would you?" says I, lookin' her square in the eye.

"If I didn't like her disposition, I would," says she.

"But that's the best part of her to me," says I. "Adds variety, you know, and—well, I expect it's about the only way I'm like her. Mine is apt to be that way too."

"Why, of course," comes in Mabel. "If she was as pretty as all that, and angelic too——"

"You got the idea," says I. "She'd be in a stained glass window somewhere, eh?"

"You're a silly boy!" says Vee.

"That sounds natural," says I. "I often get that from her."

"And is she living up here?" asks Mabel. "Visiting," says I. "She's with her——"

"William," breaks in Vee, "I think Mr. Hollister wants you."

I'd most forgot about Payne; for, while he's only a few feet off, he's as much out of the group as if he was ashore. You know how it is in one of them high-powered launches with the engine runnin'. You can't hear a word unless you're right close to. And Payne's twistin' around restless.

"Yes, Sir?" says I, goin' up and reportin'.

"Ask Miss Verona if she doesn't want to come up here," says he. "I—I think it will trim the boat better."

"Sure," says I. But when I passes the word to Vee I translates. "Mr. Hollister's lonesome," says I, "and there's room for another."

"I've been wondering if I couldn't," says Vee.

"You can," says I. "Lemme help you over."

Gives me a chance for a little hand squeeze and another close glimpse into them gray eyes. I don't make out anything definite, though. But as she passes forward she puckers her lips saucy and whispers, "Pepper!" in my ear. I guess, after all, when you're doin' confidential description you don't want to stick too close to facts. Makin' it all stained glass window stuff is safer.

I goes back to Mabel and lets her demand more details. She's just full of romance, Mabel is; not so full, though, that it interferes with her absorbin' a few eats now and then. Between answerin' questions I'm kept busy handin' out crackers, oranges, and doughnuts, openin' the olive bottle, and gettin' her drinks of water. Reg'lar Consumers' League, Mabel. I never run a sausage stuffin' machine; but I think I could now.

"You're such a handy young man to have around," says Mabel, after I've split a Boston cracker and lined it with strawb'ry jam for her; "so much better than Tucker."

"That's my aim," says I, "to make you forget Tucker."

Yes, I was gettin' some popular with Mabel, even if I was in wrong with Vee. They seems to be havin' quite a chatty time of it, Payne showin' her how to steer, and lettin' her salute passin' launches, and explainin' how the engine worked. As far as them two went, Mabel and me was only so much excess baggage.

"Why, we're clear out beyond Squirrel!" exclaims Mabel at last. "Ask Payne where we're going to stop for our picnic. I'm getting hungry."

"Oh, yes," says Payne, "we must be thinking about landing. I had planned to run out to Damariscove; but that looks like a fog bank hanging off there. Perhaps we'd better go back to Fisherman's Island, after all. Tell her Fisherman's."

I couldn't see what the fog bank had to do with it—not then, anyway. Why, it was a peach of a day,—all blue sky, not a sign of a cloud anywhere, and looked like it would stay that way for a week. He keeps the Vixen headed out to sea for awhile longer, and then all of a sudden he circles short and starts back.

"Fog!" he shouts over his shoulder to Mabel.

"Oh, bother!" says Mabel. "I hate fog. And it is coming in too."

Yes, that bank did seem to be workin' its way toward us, like a big, gray curtain that's bein' shoved from the back drop to the front of the stage. You couldn't see it move, though; but as I watched blamed if it don't creep up on an island, a mile or so out, and swallow it complete, same as a picture fades off a movie screen when the lights go wrong. Just like that. Then a few wisps of thin mist floats by, makin' things a bit hazy ahead. Squirrel Island, off to the left, disappears like it had gone to the bottom. The mainland shore grows vague and blurred, and the first thing we know we ain't anywhere at all, the scenery's all smudged out, and nothin' in sight but this pearl-gray mist. It ain't very thick, you know, and only a little damp. Rummy article, this State of Maine fog!

Young Hollister is standin' up now, tryin' to keep his bearin's and doin' his best to look through the haze. He slows the engine down until we're only just chuggin' along.

"Let's see," says he, "wasn't Squirrel off there a moment ago?"

"Why, no," says Vee. "I thought it was more to the left."

"By Jove!" says he. "And there are rocks somewhere around here too!"

Funny how quick you can get turned around that way. Inside of three minutes I couldn't have told where we were at, any more'n if I'd been blindfolded in a cellar. And I guess young Hollister got to that condition soon after.

"We ought to be making the south end of Fisherman's soon," he observes.

But we didn't. He has me climb out on the bow to sing out if I see anything. But, say, there was less to see than any spot I was ever in. I watched and watched, and Payne kept on gettin' nervous. And still we keeps chuggin' and chuggin', steerin' first one way and then the other. It seemed hours we'd been gropin' around that way when——

"Rocks ahead!" I sings out as something dark looms up. Payne turns her quick; but before she can swing clear bang goes the bow against something solid and slides up with a gratin' sound. He tries backin' off; but she don't budge.

"Hang it all!" says Payne, shuttin' off the engine. "I guess we're stuck."

"Then why not have the picnic right here?" pipes up Mabel.

"Here!" snaps Payne. "But I don't know where we are."

"Oh, what's the difference?" says Mabel. "Besides, I'm hungry."

"I want to get out of this, though," says Payne. "I mean to keep going until I know where I am."

"Oh, fudge!" says Mabel. "This is good enough. And if we stay here and have a nice luncheon perhaps the fog will go away. What's the sense in drifting around when you're hungry?"

That didn't seem such bad dope, either. Vee sides with Mabel, and while Payne don't like the idea he gives in. We seem to have landed somewhere. So we carts the baskets and things ashore, finds a flat place up on the rocks, and then the three of us tackles the job of hoistin' Mabel onto dry land. And it was some enterprise, believe me!

"Goodness!" pants Mabel, after we'd got her planted safe. "I don't know how I'm ever going to get back."

We didn't, either; but after we'd spread out five kinds of sandwiches within her reach, poured hot coffee out of the patent bottles, opened the sardines and pickles, set out the cake and doughnuts, Mabel ceases to worry.

Payne don't, though. He swallows one sandwich, and then goes back to inspect the boat. He announces that the tide is comin' in and she ought to float soon; also that when she does he wants to start back.

"Now, Payne!" protests Mabel. "Just when I'm comfortable!"

"And there isn't any hurry, is there?" asks Vee.

I wa'n't so stuck on buttin' around in the fog myself; so when he asks me to go down and see if the launch is afloat yet, and I finds that she can be pushed off easy, I don't hurry about tellin' him so. Instead I climbs aboard and develops an idea. You see, when I was out with Eb Westcott in his lobster boat the day before I'd noticed him stop the engine just by jerkin' a little wire off the spark plug. Here was a whole bunch of wires, though. Wouldn't do to unhitch 'em all. But along the inside of the boat is a little box affair that they all lead into, with one big wire leadin' out. Looked kind of businesslike, that one did. I unhitches it gentle and drapes it over a nearby screwhead. Then I strolls back and reports that she's afloat.

"Good!" says Payne. "I'll just start the engine and be tuning her up while the girls finish luncheon."

Well, maybe you can guess. I could hear him windin' away at the crankin' wheel, windin' and windin', and then stoppin' to cuss a little under his breath.

"What's the matter?" sings out Mabel.

She was one of the kind that's strong on foolish questions.

"How the blazes should I know?" raps back young Hollister. "I can't start the blasted thing."

"Never mind," says Mabel cheerful. "We haven't finished the sandwiches yet."

Next time I takes a peek Payne has his tool kit spread out and is busy takin' things apart. He's getting' himself all smeared up with grease and oil too. Pity; for he'd started out lookin' so neat and nifty. Meanwhile we'd fed Mabel to the limit, got her propped up with cushions, and she's noddin' contented.

"Guess I'll do some exploring" says I.

"But I've been wanting to do that this half-hour," says Vee.

"Well, let's then," says I.

"Go on," says Mabel, "and tell me about it afterward."

Oh, yes, we explores. Say, I'm a bear for that too! You have to go hand in hand over the rocks, to keep from slippin'. And the fog makes it all the nicer. We didn't go far before we came to the edge. Then we cross in another direction, and comes to more edge.

"Why, we're on a little island!" says Vee.

"Big enough for us," says I. "Here's a good place to sit down too." We settles ourselves in a snug little corner that gives us a fine view of the fog.

"How silly of you to come away up here," says Vee, "just because—well, just because."

"It's the only wise move I was ever guilty of," says I. "I feel like I had Solomon in the grammar grade."

"But how did you happen to get here—with Payne?" says she.

"Hypnotized him," says I. "That part was a cinch."

"And until to-day you didn't know where we were, or anything," says she.

"I scouted around a bit yesterday afternoon," says I. "Saw you too."

"Yesterday!" says she. "Why, no one came near all the afternoon; that is, only a couple of lobstermen in a horrid, smelly old boat."