A tall, loppy female with mustard-colored hair and haughty manners tows us to a place in a dark corner and shoves a menu at us. You know the tearoom brand of waitress maybe, and how distant they can be? But this one fairly sneers at us as she takes our order; although I kind of shrivels up in the chair and acts as humble as I know how.

"That ain't Sister Evelyn, is it?" says I, as she disappears towards the back.

"No, no," says Steele. "Miss Webb is at the little cashier's desk, by the door. And that is Webb, behind the counter, talking to those ladies."

"Oh!" says I. "Him with the pale hair and the narrow mouth? Huh! He is Lizzie-like, ain't he?"

He's a slim, thin-blooded, sharp-faced gent, well along in the thirties, I should judge, with gray showin' in his forelock, and a dear little mustache pointed at the ends; the sort of chappy who wears a braid-bound cutaway and a wrist watch, you know. He's temptin' his customers with silver-set turquoise necklaces, and abalone cuff links, and moonstone sets, and such; doin' it dainty and airy, and incidentally displayin' a job of manicurin' that's the last word in fingernail decoration. Such smooth, highbrow conversation goes with it too!

"Oh, yes, Madam," I overhears him gurgle. "Quite so, I assuah you. We import these direct from Cairo; genuine scarabs, taken from ancient mummy cases. No, not Rameses; these are of the Thetos period. Rather rare, you know. And here is an odd trifle, if you will permit me. Oh, no trouble at all. Really! When we find persons of such discriminating taste as you undoubtedly have we——"

"Say," I remarks low to Steele, "he's some swell kidder, ain't he? He'll be chuckin' her under the chin next. What a sweet thing he is! It's a shame to waste all that on a side street too. He ought to be farther up in the shoppin' district and on the avenue."

"Do you think so?" says J. Bayard. "I've been considering that—setting him up in first-class style on a big scale. But of course I should like to be sure that is what he wants most."

"That's my best guess," says I. "I'll bet he'd eat it up. Spring it on him and see."

"Perhaps I will when he's through," says J. Bayard. "There! They're going now."

He was wrong: they was only startin' to go. They had to come back twice and look at something all over again, after which Gerald follows 'em to the door and holds it open for 'em while they exchange a few last words. So it's ten minutes or more before Steele has a chance to call him over, get him planted in the extra chair, and begin breakin' the news to him about Pyramid's batty will.

And even after all them years Webb flushes pink in the ears at the mention of the name. "Oh, yes, Gordon," says he. "I—I did hold a position at one time in his office. Misunderstanding? Not at all. He treated me shamefully. Rank injustice, it was! He—he was by no means a gentleman, by no means!"

"I hear you tried to assassinate him with a mop," says I.

"I—I was not quite myself," says Gerald, colorin' still more. "You see, he put me in such a false position before those Chicago men; and when I tried to tell them the truth he—well, he acted brutally. I ask you, Mr. McCabe, what would you have done?"

"Me?" says I. "I expect I'd slapped him rough on the wrist, or something like that. But you know he was always a little quick about such things, and when it was all over he was gen'rally sorry—if he had time. You see he remembered your case. Now the idea is, how can that little affair of yours be squared?"

"It may have been a little affair to him," says Gerald, poutin' a bit sulky; "but it wasn't so to me. It—it changed my whole life—utterly!"

"Of course," puts in J. Bayard soothin'. "We understand that, Mr. Webb."

"But you've come out all right; you struck something just as good, or better, eh?" and I waves round at the teashop. "Course, you ain't catchin' the business here you might if you was located better. And I expect you feel like you was wastin' your talents on a place this size. But with a whole second floor near some of the big Fifth avenue department stores, where you could soak 'em half a dollar for a club sandwich and a quarter for a cup of tea,—a flossy, big joint with a hundred tables, real French waiters from Staten Island, and a genuine Hungarian orchestra, imported from East 176th street, where you could handle a line of Mexican drawnwork, and Navajo blankets, and Russian samovars, and——"

"No, no!" breaks in Gerald peevish. "Stop!"

"Eh?" says I, gawpin' at him.

"If you are proposing all that as a—a recompense for being publicly humiliated," says he, "and having my career entirely spoiled—well, you just needn't, that's all. I do not care for anything of the kind."

I gasps. Then I gazes foolish over at J. Bayard to see if he has anything to offer. He just scowls at me and shakes his head, as much as to say:

"There, you see! You've messed things all up."

"All right, Mr. Webb," says I. "Then you name it."

"Do you mean," says he, "that Mr. Gordon intended to leave me something in his will; that he—er—considered I was entitled to some—ah——"

"That's the idea, more or less," says I. "Only Mr. Steele here, he's been tryin' to dope out what would suit you best."

"Could—could it be in the form of a—a cash sum?" asks Gerald.

I sighs relieved and looks inquirin' at Steele. He nods, and I nods back.

"Sure thing," says I.

"How much?" demands Webb.

"Time out," says I, "until Mr. Steele and I can get together."

So while Gerald is pacin' nervous up and down between the tables we makes figures on the back of the menu. We begins by guessin' what he was gettin' when he was fired, then what salary he might have been pullin' down in five years, at the end of ten, and so on, deductin' some for black times and makin' allowances for hard luck. But inside of five minutes we'd agreed on a lump sum.

"What about twenty thousand?" says I.

Gerald gulps once or twice, turns a little pale, and then asks choky, "Would—would you put that in writing?"

"I can give you a voucher for the whole amount," says Steele.

"Then—then please!" says Gerald, and he stands over J. Bayard, starin' eager, while the paper is bein' made out. He watches us both sign our names.

"This is drawn," says Steele, "on the attorney for the estate, and when you present it he will give you a check for——"

"Thanks," says Gerald, reachin' trembly for the voucher.

For a minute he stands gazin' at it before he stows it away careful in an inside vest pocket. Then all of a sudden he seems to straighten up. He squares his shoulders and stiffens his jaw.

"Evelyn!" he sings out. "Ho, Evelyn!"

It ain't any smooth, ladylike tone he uses, either. A couple of stout female parties, that's been toyin' with lobster Newburg patties and chocolate eclairs and gooseberry tarts, stops their gossipin' and glares round at him indignant.

"Evelyn, I say!" he goes on, fairly roarin' it out.

At that out comes Sister from behind her little coop lookin' panicky. Also in from the kitchen piles the haughty waitress with the mustard-tinted hair, and a dumpy, frowzy one that I hadn't noticed before. The haughty one glares at Gerald scornful, almost as if he'd been a customer.

"Why—why, Brother dear!" begins Evelyn, still holdin' open the novel she'd been readin'. "What is the matter?"

"I'm through, that's all," he announces crisp.

"You—you are what?" asks his sister.

"Through," says Gerald loud and snappy. "I'm going to quit all this—now, too. I'm going to close up, going out of the business. Understand? So get those women out of here at once."

"But—but, Gerald," gasps Evelyn, "they—you see they are——"

"I don't care whether they've finished or not," says he. "It doesn't matter. They needn't pay. But clear 'em out. Right away!"

She had big dark eyes, Sister Evelyn. She was thinner than Gerald, and a few years older, I should guess. Anyway, her hair showed more gray streaks. She had a soft, easy voice and gentle ways. She didn't faint, or throw any emotional fit. She just looks at Gerald mildly reproachful and remarks:

"Very well, Brother dear," and then glides down the aisle to the two heavy-weight food destroyers.

We couldn't hear just what she told 'em, but it must have been convincin'. They gathers up their wraps and shoppin' bags and sails out, sputterin' peevish.

"Here, Celia!" commands Gerald, turnin' to the waitresses. "You and Bertha pull down those front shades—tight, mind you! Then turn on the dome and side lights—all of 'em."

We sat watchin' the proceedin's, Steele and me, with our mouths open, not knowin' whether to go or stay. Evelyn stands starin' at him too. In a minute, though, he whirls on her.

"You needn't think I've gone crazy, Evelyn," he says. "I was never more sane. But something has happened. I've just had a windfall. You'd never guess. From old Gordon; you remember, the beast who——"

"Yes, I know," says Evelyn. "Mr. Steele has been talking to me about it."

"Has, eh?" says Gerald. "Well, I trust it wasn't you who gave him that idea about keeping me in this fool business for the rest of my life. Ugh! Talking sappy to an endless stream of silly women, palming off on them such useless junk as this! Look at it! Egyptian scarabs, made in Connecticut; Ceylonese coral, from North Attleboro, Mass.; Bohemian glassware, from Sandsburg, Pa.; Indian baskets woven by the Papago tribe, meaning Rutherford, N. J. Bah! For nearly twelve years I've been doing this. And you're to blame for it, you and Irene and Georgianna. You got me into it when I could find nothing else to do, and then somehow I couldn't seem to get out. Lying and smirking and dickering day after day—sickening! But I'm through. And just as a relief to my feelings I'm going to finish off a lot of this rubbish before I go. Watch!"

With that he picks a teapot from our table, balances it careful in one hand, and sends it bang at a shelf full of blue and yellow pitchers.

Crash! Smash! Tinkle-tinkle!

It was a good shot. He got three or four of 'em at one clip.

Next he reaches for the sugar bowl and chucks that. More crash. More tinkle-tinkle. This time it was sort of a side-wipin' blow, and a full half-dozen fancy cream jugs bit the dust.

"Good eye!" says I, chucklin'. Even J. Bayard has to grin.

As for Sister Evelyn, she says never a word, but braces herself against a table and grips her hands together, like she was preparin' to have a tooth out. The dumpy waitress clutches the haughty one around the waist and breathes wheezy.

"Vases!" says Gerald, scowlin' at a shelf. "Silly vases!"

And with that he ups with a chair, swings it over his shoulder, and mows down a whole row of 'em. They goes crashin' onto the floor.

"Muh Gord!" gasps the dumpy tea juggler.

"Clean alley! Set 'em up on the other!" I sings out.

But Gerald is too busy to notice side remarks. His thin face is flushed and his eyes sparkle. Peelin' off the cutaway, he tosses it careless on a table.

"Look out for splinters!" says he as he heaves a chair into the showcase among the fake jew'lry, and with another proceeds to make vicious swipes at whatever's left on the shelves.

As a tearoom wrecker he was some artist, believe me! Not a blessed thing that could be smashed did he miss, and what he couldn't break he bent or dented.

"Ain't he just grand!" observes Celia to her dumpy friend. "My! I didn't think it was in him."

It was, though. A village fire department couldn't have done a neater job, or been more thorough. He even tosses down a lot of work baskets and jumps on 'em and kicks 'em about.

"There!" says he, after a lively session, when the place looks like it had been through a German siege. "Now it's all genuine junk, I guess."

Sister Evelyn gazes at him placid. "No doubt about that," she remarks. "And I hope you feel better, Brother dear. Perhaps you will tell me, though, what is to become of me now."

"I am going to leave some money for you," says he. "If you're silly enough, you can buy a lot more of this stuff and keep on. If you have any sense, you'll quit and go live with Irene."

"And you, Gerald?" asks Evelyn.

"I'm off," says he. "I'm going to do some real work, man's work. You saw that dark-looking chap who was in here a few days ago? That was Bentley, who used to be bank messenger in old Gordon's office. He was discharged without cause too. But he had no five sisters to make a sappy tearoom manager out of him. He went to the Argentine. Owns a big cattle ranch down there. Wants me to go in with him and buy the adjoining ranch. He sails day after to-morrow. I'm going with him, to live a wild, rough life; and the wilder and rougher it is the better I shall like it."

"Oh!" says Sister Evelyn, liftin' her eyebrows sarcastic. "Will you?"

Well, that's just what J. Bayard and I have been askin' each other ever since. Anyway, he's gone. Showed up here in the studio the last thing, wearin' a wide-brimmed felt hat with a leather band—and if that don't signify somethin' wild and rough, I don't know what does.

"Rather an impetuous nature, Gerald's," observes Steele. "I hope it doesn't get him into trouble down there."

"Who knows?" says I. "Next thing we may be hearin' how he's tried to stab some Spaniard with a whisk broom."



CHAPTER XV

SHORTY HEARS FROM PEMAQUID

It was mostly my fault. I'd left the Physical Culture Studio and was swingin' east across 42d-st. absentminded, when I takes a sudden notion to have lunch at my favorite chophouse joint on Broadway, and it was the quick turn I made that causes the collision.

I must have hit him kind of solid too; for his steel-rimmed glasses are jarred off, and before I can pick 'em up they've been stepped on.

"Sorry, old scout," says I. "Didn't know you'd dodged in behind. And it's my buy on the eyeglasses."

"Sho!" says he. "No great harm done, young man. But them specs did cost me a quarter in Portland, and if you feel like you——"

"Sure thing!" says I. "Here's a half—get a good pair this time."

"No, Son," says he, "a quarter's all they cost, and Jim Isham never takes more'n his due. Just wait till I git out the change."

So I stands there lookin' him over while he unwraps about four yards of fishline from around the neck of a leather money pouch. Odd old Rube he was, straight and lean, and smoked up like a dried herring.

"There you be," says he, countin' out two tens and a five.

Course, I'd felt better if he'd kept the half. The kale pouch wa'n't so heavy, and from the seedy blue suit and the faded old cap I judged he could use that extra quarter. But somehow I couldn't insist.

"All right, Cap," says I. "Next time I turn sudden I'll stick my hand out." I was movin' off when I notices him still standin' sort of hesitatin'. "Well?" I adds. "Can I help?"

"You don't happen to know," says he, "of a good eatin' house where it don't cost too all-fired much to git a square meal, do you?"

"Why," says I, "I expect over on Eighth-ave., you could——" And then I gets this rash notion of squarin' the account by blowin' him to a real feed. Course, I might be sorry; but he looks so sort of lonesome and helpless that I decides on takin' a chance. "Say, you come with me," says I, "and lemme stack you up against the real thing in Canadian mutton chops."

"If it don't cost over twenty-five cents," says he.

"It won't," says I, smotherin' a grin. He wa'n't a grafter, anyway, and the only way I could ease his mind on the expense question was to let him hand me a quarter before we went in, and make him think that covered his share. Max, the head waiter, winks humorous as he sees who I'm towin' in; but he gives us a table by a Broadway window and surprises the old boy by pullin' out his chair respectful.

"Much obliged, Mister," says Jim Isham. "Much obliged."

With that he hangs his old cap careful on the candle shade. It's one of these oldtime blizzard headpieces, with sides that you can turn down over your ears and neck. Must have worn that some constant; for from the bushy eyebrows up he's as white as a piece of chalk, and with the rest of his face so coppery it gives him an odd, skewbald look.

I expected a place like Collins's, with all its pictures and rugs and fancy silverware, would surprise him some; but he don't seem at all fussed. He tucks his napkin under his chin natural and gazes around int'rested. He glances suspicious at a wine cooler that's carted by, and when the two gents at the next table are served with tall glasses of ale he looks around as if he was locatin' an exit. Next he digs into an inside pocket, hauls out a paper, spreads it on the table, and remarks:

"Let's see, Mister—jest about where are we now?"

I gives him the cross street and the Broadway number, and he begins tracin' eager with his finger. Fin'lly he says:

"All correct. Right in the best of the water."

"Eh?" says I. "What's that you've got there?"

"Sailin' directions," says he, smilin' apologetic. "You mustn't mind; but for a minute there, seein' all the liquor bein' passed around, I didn't know but what I'd got among the rocks and shoals. But it's all right. Full ten fathom, and plenty of sea room."

"Too tarry for me," says I. "Meanin' what, now?"

He chuckles easy. "Why, it's this way," says he: "You see, before I starts from home I talks it over with Cap'n Bill Logan. 'Jim,' says he, 'if you're goin' to cruise around New York you need a chart.'—'Guess you're right, Cap'n Bill,' says I. 'Fix me up one, won't ye?' And that's what he done. You see, Cap'n Bill knows New York like a book. Used to sail down here with ice from the Kennebec, and sometimes, while he was dischargin' cargo, he'd lay in here for a week at a time. Great hand to knock around too, Cap'n Bill is, and mighty observin'."

"So he made a map for you, did he?" says I.

"Not exactly," says Mr. Isham. "Found one in an old guide book and fixed it up like a chart, markin' off the reefs and shoals in red ink, and the main channels in black fathom figures. Now here's Front and South-sts., very shoal, dangerous passin' at any tide. There's a channel up the Bowery; but it's crooked and full of buoys and beacons. I ain't tackled that yet. I've stuck to Broadway and Fifth-ave. All clear sailin' there."

"Think so?" says I. "Let's see that chart?"

He passes it over willin' enough. And, say, for a sailor's guide to New York, that was a peach! Cap'n Bill Logan's idea seems to have been to indicate all the crooked joints, gamblin' halls, and such with red daggers. Must have been some investigator too; for in spots they was sprinkled thick, with the names written alongside. When I begun readin' some of 'em, though, I snickers.

"What's this on the Bowery?" says I. "Suicide Hall?"

"You bet!" says he. "Cap'n Bill warned me about that special."

"Did, eh?" says I. "Well, he needn't; for it's been out of business for years. So has Honest John Kelly's, and Theiss's, and Stevenson's. What vintage is this, anyway? When was it your friend took in the sights last?"

"Wall, I guess it's been quite awhile," says Jim Isham, rubbin' his chin. "Let's see, Bill opened the store in '95, and for a couple of years before that he was runnin' the shingle mill. Yes, it must have been nigh twenty years ago."

"Back in the days of the Parkhurst crusade," says I. "Yes, I expect all them dives was runnin' full blast once. But there ain't one of 'em left."

"Sho!" says he. "You don't say! Gov'ment been improvin' the channels, same as they done in Hell Gate?"

"Something like that," says I. "Only not quite the same; for when them Hell Gate rocks was blown up that was the end of 'em. But we get a fresh crop of red light joints every season. You tell Cap'n Bill when you get back that his wickedness chart needs revisin'."

"I'll write him that, b'gum!" says Mr. Isham. "Maybe that's why I couldn't locate this reservoir he said I ought to see, the one I was huntin' for when we fouled. See, it says corner of 42d and Fifth-ave., plain as day; but all I could find was that big white buildin' with the stone lions in front."

"Naturally," says I; "for they tore the old reservoir down years ago and built the new city lib'ry on the spot. But how was it your friend put in so many warnin's against them old dives? You didn't come on to cultivate a late crop of wild oats, did you?"

"Nary an oat," says he, shakin' his head solemn. "I ain't much of a churchgoer; but I've always been a moderate, steady-goin' man. It was on account of my havin' this money to invest."

"Oh!" says I. "Much?"

"Fifty thousand dollars," says he.

I glances at him puzzled. Was it a case of loose wirin', or was this old jay tryin' to hand me the end of the twine ball? Just then, though, along comes Hermann with a couple of three-inch combination chops and a dish of baked potatoes all broke open and decorated with butter and paprika; and for the next half-hour Mr. Isham's conversation works are clogged for fair. Not that he's one of these human sausage machines; but he has a good hearty Down East appetite and a habit of attendin' strictly to business at mealtime.

But when he's finished off with a section of deep-dish apple pie and a big cup of coffee he sighs satisfied, unhooks the napkin, lights up a perfecto I've ordered for him, and resumes where he left off.

"It's a heap of money ain't it?" says he. "I didn't know at first whether or no I ought to take it. That's one thing I come on for."

"Ye-e-es?" says I, a little sarcastic maybe. "Had to be urged, did you?"

"Wall," says he, "I wa'n't sure the fam'ly could afford it exactly."

"It was a gift, then?" says I.

"Willed to me," says he. "Kind of curious too. Shucks! when I took them folks off the yacht that time I wa'n't thinkin' of anything like this. Course, the young feller did offer me some bills at the time; but he did it like he thought I was expectin' to be paid, and I—well, I couldn't take it that way. So I didn't git a cent. I thought the whole thing had been forgotten too, when that letter from the lawyers comes sayin' how this Mr. Fowler had——"

"Not Roswell K.?" I breaks in.

"Yes, that's the man," says he.

"Why, I remember now," says I. "It was the yacht his son and his new wife was takin' a honeymoon trip on. And she went on some rocks up on the coast of Maine durin' a storm. The papers was full of it at the time. And how they was all rescued by an old lobsterman who made two trips in a leaky tub of a motorboat out through a howlin' northeaster. And—why, say, you don't mean to tell me you're Uncle Jimmy Isham, the hero?"

"Sho!" says he. "Don't you begin all that nonsense again. I was pestered enough by the summer folks that next season. You ought to see them schoolma'ams takin' snapshots of me every time I turned around. And gushin'! Why, it was enough to make a dog laugh! Course I ain't no hero."

"But that must have been some risky stunt of yours, just the same," I insists.

"Wall," he admits, "it wa'n't just the weather I'd pick to take the old Curlew out in; but when I see through the glasses what the white thing was that's poundin' around on Razor Back Ledges, and seen the distress signal run up—why, I couldn't stay ashore. There was others would have gone, I guess, if I hadn't. But there I was, an old bach, and not much good to anybody anyway, you know."

"Come, come!" says I. "Why wa'n't you as good as the next?"

"I dun'no," says he, sighin' a little. "Only—only you know the kind of a chap that everybody calls Uncle Jimmy? That—that's me."

"But you went out and got 'em!" I goes on.

"Yes," says he. "It wa'n't so much, though. You know how the papers run on?"

I didn't say yes or no to that. I was sittin' there starin' across the table, tryin' to size up this leather-faced old party with the bashful ways and the simple look in his steady eyes. The grizzled mustache curlin' close around his mouth corners, the heavy eyebrows, and the thick head of gray hair somehow reminds me of Mark Twain, as we used to see him a few years back walkin' up Fifth-ave. Only Uncle Jimmy was a little softer around the chin.

"Let's see," says I, "something like three summers ago, that was, wa'n't it?"

"Four," says he, "the eighteenth of September."

"And since then?" says I.

"Just the same as before," says he. "I've been right at Pemaquid."

"At what?" says I.

"Pemaquid," he repeats, leanin' hard on the "quid." "I've been there goin' on forty years, now."

"Doin' what?" says I.

"Oh, lobsterin' mostly," says he. "But late years they've been runnin' so scurce that summers I've been usin' the Curlew as a party boat. Ain't much money in it, though."

"How much, for instance?" says I.

"Wall, this season I cleaned up about one hundred and twenty dollars from the Fourth to Labor Day," says he. "But there was lots of good days when I didn't git any parties at all. You see, I look kind of old and shabby. So does the Curlew; and the spruce young fellers with the new boats gits the cream of the trade. But it don't take much to keep me."

"I should say not," says I, "if you can winter on that!"

"Oh, I can pick up a few dollars now and then lobsterin' and fishin'," says he. "But it's rough work in the winter time."

"And then all of a sudden, you say," says I, "you get fifty thousand."

"I couldn't believe it at fust," says he. "Neither did Cap'n Bill Logan. He was the only one I showed the letter to. 'Mebbe it's just some fake,' says he, 'gittin' you on there to sign papers. Tell 'em to send twenty dollars for travelin' expenses.' Wall, I did, and what do you think? They sends back two hundred, b'gum! Yes, Sir, Cap'n Bill took the check up to Wiscasset and got the money on it from the bank. Two hundred dollars! Why, say, that would take me putty nigh round the world, I guess. I left part of it with the Cap'n, and made him promise not to tell a soul. You see, I didn't want Cynthy to git wind of it."

"Oh-ho!" says I. "Some relation, is she?"

"Cynthy? Land, no!" says he. "She's just the Widow Allen, over to the Neck—Cynthy Hamill that was. I've known her ever since she taught school at Bristol Mills. She's been a widow goin' on twenty years now, and most of that time we've been—well, I ain't missed goin' across the bay once or twice a week in all that time. You see, Cynthy not havin' any man, I kind of putter around for her, see that she has plenty of stovewood and kindlin' chopped, and so on. She's real good company, Cynthy is,—plays hymns on the organ, knits socks for me, and hanged if she can't make the best fish chowder I ever e't! Course, I know the neighbors laugh some about Cynthy and me; but they're welcome. Always askin' me when the weddin's comin' off. But sho! They know well enough I never had the money to git married on."

"Got enough now, though, ain't you, Uncle Jimmy?" says I, winkin'.

"Too blamed much," says he. "Cap'n Bill showed me that plain at our last talk. 'Why, you old fool,' says he, 'if it turns out true, then you're a mighty rich man, 'most a millionaire! You can't stay on livin' here in your old shack at Pemaquid. You got to have the luxuries and the refinements of life now,' says he, 'and you got to go to the city to git 'em. Boston might do for some; but if it was me I'd camp right down in New York at one of them swell hotels, and just enjoy myself to the end of my days.' Wall, here I be, and I'm gittin' used to the luxuries gradual."

"How hard have you splurged?" says I.

"Had two sodas yesterday," says he, "and maybe I'll tackle one of them movin' picture shows to-morrow. I been aimin' to. It'd be all right, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, I wouldn't call that any wild extravagance, with fifty thousand to draw on," says I. "How have you got it?"

He fishes out an old wallet, unstraps it careful, and shoves over a cashier's check. No bluff about it. He had the goods.

"Said you was goin' to invest it, didn't you?" I suggests cautious.

"That's what's botherin' me most about this whole business," says Uncle Jimmy. "It's an awful lot of money for an old codger like me to handle. I tried to git young Mr. Fowler to take half of it back; but he only laughs and says he couldn't do that, and guessed how he and the wife was worth that much, anyway. Besides, I expect he don't need it."

"I should say that was a safe bet," says I. "If I remember right, his share of the estate was ten or twelve millions."

"Gorry!" says Uncle Jimmy. "No wonder he couldn't tell me what to put it into, either. Maybe you could give me an idea, though."

"Me?" says I. "Why, you don't know me, Uncle Jimmy. You wouldn't want to take a stranger's advice about investin' your money."

"Sho!" says he. "Why not? I've asked most everybody I've had a chance to talk with ever since I got here, and most of 'em has been mighty accommodatin'. Why, there was one young man that followed me out of the lawyer's office just to tell me of some gold mine stock he knew about that inside of six months was goin' to be worth ten times what it's sellin' for now. Offered to buy me a controllin' interest too."

"You don't mean it!" says I.

"Yes, Sir. Nice, bright feller that didn't know me from Adam," says Uncle Jimmy. "Took me ridin' in one of these here taxicabs and bought me a bang-up hotel dinner. And if it hadn't been that I knew of a Methodist minister once who lost twenty dollars in gold mine stocks, hanged if I wouldn't have invested heavy! But somehow, ever since hearin' of that, I've had an idea gold mines was sort of risky."

"Which ain't such a fool hunch, either," says I.

"Then only this mornin'," goes on Uncle Jimmy enthusiastic, "I runs across a mighty friendly, spruce-dressed pair,—big Pittsburgh fi-nanciers, they said they was,—who was makin' money hand over fist bettin' on hoss races somewheres."

"Well, well!" says I. "Had an operator who'd tapped a poolroom wire and could hold up returns, didn't they?"

"That's it!" says Uncle Jimmy. "They explained just how it was done; but I'm a little slow understandin' such things. Anyway, they took me to a place where I saw one of 'em win two thousand inside of ten minutes; and b'gum, if I'd been a bettin' man, I could have made a heap! I did let one of 'em put up fifty cents for me, and he brought back five dollars in no time. They seemed real put out too when I wouldn't take the chance of a lifetime and bet a thousand on the next race. But somehow I couldn't bring myself to it. What would Cynthy think if she knew I was down here in New York, bettin' on hoss races? No, Sir, I couldn't."

"And you got away with the five, did you?" says I.

"Don't tell," says Uncle Jimmy, "but I slipped it in an envelope and sent it to that shiftless Hank Tuttle, over at the point. You see, Hank guzzles hard cider, and plays penny ante, and is always hard up. He won't know where it come from, and won't care. The fine cigars them two handed out so free I'm keepin' to smoke Sunday afternoons."

"Huh!" says I. "That's a good record so far, Uncle Jimmy. Anything more along that line?"

"Wall," says he, "there was one chance I expect I shouldn't have let slip. Got to talkin' with a feller in the hotel, sort of a hook-nosed, foreign-speakin' man, who's in the show business. He says his brother-in-law, by the name of Goldberg, has got an idea for a musical comedy that would just set Broadway wild and make a mint of money. All he needed to start it was twenty or thirty thousand, and he figured it would bring in four times that the first season. And he was willin' to let me have a half interest in his scheme. I'd gone in too, only from what he said I thought it must be one of these pieces where they have a lot of girls in tights, and—well, I thought of Cynthy again. What would she say to me bein' mixed up with a show of that kind? So I had to drop it."

"Any taxi rides or cigars in that?" says I.

"Just cigars," says Uncle Jimmy.

"But you mean to invest that fifty thousand sooner or later, don't you?" says I.

"Cap'n Bill said I ought to," says he, "and live off'm the interest. He's a mighty smart business man, Cap'n Bill is. And I guess I'll find something before long."

"You can't miss it," says I, "specially if you keep on as you've started. But see here, Uncle Jimmy, while I ain't got any wonderful deal of my own for you to put your money in, I might throw out a useful hint or two as to other folk's plans. Suppose you just take my card, and before you tie up with any accommodatin' financiers drop in at the studio, and talk it over with me."

"Why, much obliged, Mr.—er—Professor McCabe," says he, readin' the name off the card. "Mebbe I will."

"Better make it a promise," says I. "I hate to knock our fair village; but now and then you might find a crook in New York."

"So I've heard," says he; "but I kind of think I'd know one if he run afoul of me. And everybody I've met so far has been mighty nice."

Well, what else was there for me to say? There wa'n't any more suspicion in them gentle blue eyes of his than in a baby's. Forty years in Pemaquid! Must be some moss-grown, peaceful spot, where a man can grow up so innocent and simple, and yet have the stuff in him Uncle Jimmy must have had. So I tows him back to 42d-st., points him towards the new lib'ry again, and turns him loose; him in his old blue suit and faded cap, with Cap'n Bill's antique dive chart and certified check for fifty thousand in his inside pocket.

I thought he might show up at the studio in a day or so, to submit some get-rich-quick fake to me. But he didn't. A couple of weeks goes by. Still no Uncle Jimmy. I was beginnin' to look for accounts in the papers of how an old jay from the coast of Maine had been bunkoed and gone to the police with his tale of woe; but nothin' of the kind appears. They don't always squeal, you know. Maybe he was that kind.

Then here the other day in that big storm we had, as I'm standin' in the doorway hesitatin' about dodgin' out into them slantwise sheets of rain, who should come paddlin' along, his coat collar turned up and his cap pulled down, but Uncle Jimmy Isham.

"Well, well!" says I, makin' room for him in the hallway. "Still here, eh? Gettin' to be a reg'lar Broadway rounder, I expect?"

"No," says he, shakin' the water off of him like a terrier, "I—I can't seem to get used to bein' a city man. Fact is, McCabe, I guess I begun too late. I don't like it at all."

"Homesick for Pemaquid?" says I.

"That's it," says he. "I stove it off until this mornin'. I'd been doin' fust rate too, goin' to picture shows reg'lar, takin' in the sights, and tryin' to make myself believe I was enjoyin' all the luxuries and refinements of life, like Cap'n Bill said I ought to. But when I woke up at daylight and heard this nor'easter snortin' through the streets I couldn't stand it a mite longer. I dun'no's I can make it plain to you, but—well, this ain't no place to be in a storm. Never saw the surf pile up on Pemaquid Point, did you? Then you ought to once. And I bet it's rollin' in some there now. Yes, Sir! The old graybacks are jest thunderin' in on them rocks with a roar you can hear three miles back in the woods. Roarin' and smashin', they are, grand and mighty and awful. And I want to be there to see and hear. I got to, that's all. What's shows and museums and ridin' in the subway, compared to a storm on Pemaquid? No, Sir, I can't stand it any longer. I'm goin' back on the Boston boat to-night, and before it's calmed down at the point I'll be there. I'm goin' to stay there too; that is, if I don't move over to the Neck."

"With Cynthy?" says I.

"If she'll let me," says he.

"Got the fifty thousand invested yet?" says I.

"No," says he, droppin' his chin guilty, "I ain't. And I expect Cap'n Bill will call me an old fool. But I couldn't jest seem to find the right thing to put it into. So I'm goin' to stop at Wiscasset and leave it at the bank and git 'em to buy me some gover'ment bonds or something. That won't bring me in much; but it'll be more'n I'll know what to do with. Then I got to see Cynthy. If she says she'll have me, I suppose I'll have to break it to her about the money. I dun'no what she's goin' to say, either. That's what's botherin' me."

"Yes, Uncle Jimmy," says I, givin' him a farewell grip. "Like the cat in the bird store—you should worry!"

Pemaquid, eh? Say, I'm goin' to hire a guide in Portland and discover that place sometime. I'd like to see Uncle Jimmy again.



CHAPTER XVI

SCRATCH ONE ON BULGAROO

I'd strolled into the front office in my shirt sleeves, and was leanin' against the gym door listenin' to Pinckney and his friend slangin' each other—and, believe me, it's a wonderful gift to be able to throw the harpoon refined and polite that way!

"Larry," says Pinckney, lookin' him over reproachful, "you are hopeless. You merely cumber the earth."

"Having made an art of being useless," says Larry, "you should be an excellent judge."

"You think you flatter me," says Pinckney; "but you don't. I live my life as it comes. You are botching yours."

"Hear, hear!" says Larry. "The butterfly sermonizes!"

"Insect yourself!" says Pinckney.

"My word!" says Larry. "Chucking entomology at me too! Well, have it that I'm a grasshopper. My legs are long enough."

"It's your ears that are long, Larry," says Pinckney.

"There you go, mixing the metaphor!" says Larry. "So I'm an ass, eh?"

"The word strikes me as beautifully descriptive," says Pinckney.

"Excuse me," says I, breakin' in, "but is this to a finish? If it is, I'll send out for some throat troches."

Larry grins and settles himself back easy in my desk chair. Great lad, this Mr. T. Lawrence Bolan! All he needs is a cape coat and a sugar-loaf hat with a silver buckle to be a stage Irishman. One of these tall, loose-hinged, awkward-gaited chaps, with wavy red hair the color of a new copper pan, also a chin dimple and a crooked mouth. By rights he should have been homely. Maybe he was too; but somehow, with that twisty smile of his workin', and them gray-blue eyes twinklin' at you, the word couldn't be said.

"Look at him, Shorty!" says Pinckney. "Six feet of futile clay; a waster of time, money, and opportunity."

"The three gifts that a fool tries to save and a wise man spends with a free hand," says Larry. "Give me a cigarette."

"How much, now, did you lose to that crowd of bridge sharks last night?" demands Pinckney, passin' over a gold case.

"Not my self-respect, anyway," says Larry. "Was I to pass cowardly with a hundred aces in hand? And I had the fun of making that Boomer-Day person quit bidding on eight hearts. How she did glare as she doubled me!"

"Set you six hundred, I hear," says Pinckney. "At a quarter the point that's no cheap fun."

"Who asks for cheap fun?" says Larry. "I paid the shot, didn't I?"

"And now?" asks Pinckney.

Larry shrugs his shoulders. "The usual thing," says he; "only it happens a little earlier in the month. I'm flat broke, of course."

"Then why in the name of all folly will you not borrow a couple of hundred from me?" demands Pinckney.

"Would I pay it back?" says Larry. "No, I would not. So it would be begging, or stealing? You see how awkward that makes it, old chap?"

"But, deuce take it! what are you to do for the next three weeks, you know?" insists Pinckney.

"Disappear," says Larry, wavin' his cigarette jaunty, "and then—

"The haunts that knew him once No more shall know. The halls where once he trod With stately tread—er— Tum-ti-iddity— As the dead—

or words, my dear Pinckney, much to that effect. My next remittance should be here by the third."

"When you'll reappear and do it all over again," says Pinckney.

"In which you're quite wrong," says Larry. "Not that I am bitten by remorse; but I weary of your game. It's a bit stupid, you know,—your mad rushing about here and there, plays, dinners, dances, week-ends. You're mostly a good sort; but you've no poise, no repose. Kittens chasing your tails! It leaves no chance to dream dreams."

"Listen," says Pinckney, "to that superior being, the lordly Briton, utter his usual piffle! I suppose you'd like to marry, settle down on a hundred-acre estate nine miles from nowhere, and do the country gentleman?"

"It would be the making of me," says Larry, "and I could be reasonably happy at it."

"Then why not do it?" demands Pinckney.

"On a thousand pounds a year?" says Larry. "Go to!"

"The fact remains," says Pinckney, "that you have for an uncle the Earl of Kerrymull."

"And that I'm his best hated nephew, paid to keep out of his sight," comes back Larry.

"But you are where an Earl-uncle counts for most," suggests Pinckney. "By judicious choice of a father-in-law——"

"Rot!" breaks in Larry. "Am I a cheap adventurer in a third-rate melodrama? Waster I may be; but no dowry hunter."

"As though you could not like, for herself alone, any one of the half-dozen pretty girls who are foolish enough to be crazy over you," says Pinckney.

"As though I'd be blighter enough to let myself fall in love with any of the sweet dears!" says Larry. "I'm in my thirties, Man."

"There's widows aplenty," hints Pinckney.

"Bless 'em all!" says Larry. "I'd not load one of them with a wild, impecunious Irishman like myself."

"Then what?" says Pinckney. "Also where, and whither?"

"Bulgaroo," says Larry, wavin' vague into space.

"Is that a form of self-destruction?" asks Pinckney.

"Almost," says Larry. "It's the nearest town to Sir Horace Vaughn's No. 6 sheep ranch. Quaint little spot, Bulgaroo; chiefly corrugated iron villas and kangaroo scrub, two hundred-odd miles back from Sidney. I'm due there at the end of next month."

"My regards to the Bulgaroovians," says I.

"Is this just a whim of yours, or a crazy plan?" says Pinckney.

"Both," says Larry. "No. 6 is where I went to do penance when the Earl and I had our grand smashup. Eighteen months I put in before he settled an allowance on me. They'll give me another foreman's job. I'll stay three years this time, saving pay and remittance drafts, and at the end I'll have hoarded enough to buy an interest, or a ranch of my own. That's the theory. Actually, I shall probably take an amazing thirst into Bulgaroo about once a month, buy vile champagne at the Queen's Arms, and otherwise disport myself like a true sheepherder. The finis will not sound pretty."

Pinckney stares at him puzzled for a minute, and then turns to me. "Shorty," says he, "you're a Celt. What do you make of him?"

"My guess is that there's a skirt in the background," says I.

"Oh-ho!" says Pinckney.

"Touched!" says Larry.

Pinckney aims the cigarette case at him, remarkin' savage, "The story or your life. Come, now!"

Larry springs that wistful, twisty smile of his and goes on. "It happened here, eight years ago, as I was on my way to No. 6. I'd picked up a beastly fever somewhere, and I knew not a soul in your blessed city. So I wabbled into a hospital and let them tuck me away in a cot. Now grin, blast you! Yes, she was one of the day nurses, Katie McDevitt. No raving beauty, you know. Ah, but the starry bright eyes of her, the tender touch of her soft hand, and the quick wits under her white cap! It wasn't just the mushy sentiment of a convalescent, either. Three grand weeks afterwards I waited around, going walks with her in the park, taking her on foolish steamer rides, sending her flowers, notes, candy. We were rare spoons, and she was as good as she was witty. There was an idyl for you! Then, when I woke up one day—why, I ran away without a word! What else could I do? I was bound for an Australian sheep ranch. And there I went. Since then not a whisper of her. By now it's quite likely she's the wife of some lucky dog of a doctor, and never gives me a thought. So why shouldn't I go back?"

"Because, you crack-brained Irishman," says Pinckney, "when you're not maundering over some such idiocy as this, you're the most entertaining good-for-nothing that ever graced a dinner table or spread the joy of life through a dull drawing room. Come home with me for the week-end, anyway."

"I'll not," says Larry. "I'm a pauper."

"Will you go with Shorty, then?" says Pinckney. "At times he's as absurd as yourself."

"He's not asked me," says Larry.

"My tongue's drippin' with it," says I. "I had an own cousin come over from Kerrymull. You'll be welcome."

"Done!" says Larry. "And for board and lodging I'll sing you Ballyshone after dinner."

So he did too, and if you've ever heard it well sung, you'll know the lump I had in my throat as I listened. Also I had him tell Sadie about Katie McDevitt; and when he'd made friends with little Sully and the dog we could have kept him for a year and a day.

But that Sunday afternoon, while we was swingin' out of the front gates for a walk, we stops to let a limousine whizz by, and we gets a glimpse of a woman's face through the windows.

"Lord love you, McCabe!" says Larry, grippin' me by the arm, "but who was that?"

"In the car?" says I. "No one but Mrs. Sam Steele."

"Mrs., did you say?" says he.

"The rich widow," says I, "that lives in the big house over on the Shore Drive." I pointed it out.

"A widow!" says he. "Thanks be! Shorty, she's the one!"

"Not your Miss McDevitt?" says I.

"No other," says he. "I'd swear it!"

"Then you're nutty in the head, Mr. Larry Bolan," says I; "for I've known her these two years, and never heard of her being an ex-nurse."

"She might not care to boast of it," says he. "Rich, did you say?"

"Near a million, they say," says I; "which don't fit in with the nurse idea, does it?"

"I couldn't mistake Katie McDevitt," says he, waggin' his head mulish. "But who was this Steele beggar?"

"She moved here after plantin' him West somewhere," says I. "One of the big lumber crowd, I've heard. Sadie can tell you more."

"Thanks," says he; "but I'll have it from Katie herself. Take me there."

"Eh?" says I. "On a chance shot? I'd look well, wouldn't I?"

"But you must," says he. "Now!"

"Come off!" says I. "You with only a glance at her! Besides, she's one of these stiff, distant parties that keeps to herself."

"McCabe," says he, "I mean to talk with her within the hour if I have to smash in her front door and wring a butler's neck."

There's a thrill in his voice as he says it, and from all I know of Larry Bolan there's no stoppin' him. We started off.

The nearer we got to the big house, though, the battier the enterprise seemed to me. First off, I'd been nursin' a dislike for Mrs. Steele ever since I'd overheard a little seance between her and one of the outside men. She'd caught him smugglin' home a few measly vegetables from her big garden, and after tongue lashin' him lively she fires him on the spot—him a poor Dago with a big fam'ly. Then there'd been tales told by the butcher, the plumber, and half a dozen others, all goin' to show she was a lady tightwad, or worse.

So I'd sized her up as a cold, hard proposition. And when I work up feelin's like that I'm apt to show 'em. I couldn't help thinkin' but maybe I had. Here I was, though, cartin' a strange gent up to her front door, on his guess that he's her long lost Romeo.

"Ah, be good, Larry!" says I. "Let's call it off."

He shakes his head stubborn.

"All right," says I; "but take it from me we're about to pull down trouble. What's the plan?"

He thinks, as long as I know the lady, I'd better send in my name and then break it to her easy. So, while I'm waitin' in the reception hall, he kicks his heels impatient against the veranda rail outside.

Rather a classy lookin' party, Mrs. Steele is as she shows up in a stunnin' house gown,—good lines, fine complexion, and all that. Takes mighty good care of herself, so Sadie says, with two French maids to help. She don't stint herself that way. And the little streak of early gray through her front hair gives her sort of a distinguished look. There's nothin' friendly, though, about the straight, tight-lipped mouth, or the surprised look in her eyes as she discovers me standin' there.

"Mr. McCabe?" says she.

"You see," says I, grinnin' foolish, "there's a chap outside who—who has a batty idea he used to know you."

"Really?" says she, narrowin' her eyes a bit.

"Bolan's the name, Ma'am," I goes on, "Larry Bolan."

It wa'n't much,—just a quiver, a little lift of the shoulders, a bunchin' of the fingers. Then she bites her lip and gets a grip on herself. "Well?" says she. "What of it?"

"Why," says I, "he—he wants to have a talk with you. Course, though, if you don't know him, or don't remember, all you got to do——"

"Yes, yes!" she breaks in. "I understand. Wait!"

A couple of minutes she stands there, never makin' a crack or givin' any sign, except that the toe of one slipper taps the rug restless. Then she gives her decision. "You may bring him in," says she.

"How about sendin' him?" I suggests.

"No, not alone," says she. "I want you to stay."

So I steps to the door. "Larry," says I, "you're called on the carpet; but for the love of soup don't pull any of that old sweetheart stuff reckless! The signs ain't right."

And a fat lot of notice he takes of my advice. Trust Larry! He pushes in eager ahead of me, marches straight to where she is, gives her one mushy, admirin' look, and the next thing I know he has reached for one of her hands and is kissin' it as graceful and romantic as James K. Hackett doin' a Zenda stunt.

Gave Mrs. Steele some jolt, that play did; for it's plain she was fixin' to frost him at the start. But it's all over before she has time to draw a breath, and he has let her fingers slip through his caressin'.

"Katie!" says he.

She flushes and stiffens up. "Silly as ever, I see," says she.

"More so," says he. "But it's only seeing you again that brings on the attack. Katie, you're glorious!"

"Please!" says she, protestin'. "I've rather outgrown my liking for sentimental speeches. Tell me, why do you hunt me up like this, after so long?"

"Can you ask?" says he. "Look! No—in my eyes, Katie."

And, say, with things gettin' that gummy, I was beginnin' to feel like a cold boiled potato served accidental with the pie.

"Excuse me," says I, "but maybe I'd better wait in the next room."

"Not at all," says Mrs. Steele, real crisp and businesslike. "It will be only for a moment, while Mr. Bolan states very briefly his exact purpose in coming here."

Larry bows. "To see once more the girl he could not forget," says he.

"Humph!" says she, curlin' her upper lip. "Very pretty, I suppose. But let me assure you that foolish young person ceased to exist several years ago."

"She lives for me—here," says Larry, placin' one hand on his left vest pocket.

Mrs. Steele indulges in a thin little cold-storage laugh that sounds almost as pleasant as tappin' a gas pipe. "What a sudden revival of an old, worn-out affection!" says she. "When did you first hear I was a widow?"

"Less than an hour ago," says Larry.

"Did they say I was rich, or poor?" she goes on sarcastic.

"Katie!" says he gaspy. "Surely you—you can't think——"

"It's what I ask them all," says she, "domestic and imported. Naturally I am a little suspicious when they declare passionate love at the first or second meeting; for, in spite of what my maids tell me, my mirror insists that I'm not ravishingly beautiful. So I've begun to suspect that perhaps my money may be the attraction. And I'm not in the market for a husband, you know."

"Bing-g-g!" says I under my breath.

As for Larry Bolan, it leaves him with his chin down. For, after all, he ain't one of your walrus-hided gents. As a matter of fact, he's as sensitive as they come, and she couldn't have handed it out rougher.

"My dear lady," says he, "you are pleased to be cruel. Perhaps, though, it's only my due. I admit that I'm only a poor pensioner posing as a gentleman. But within a month I shall be on my way to bury myself on the other side of the world. Meanwhile, I see you pass. Could I help wanting a few kind words of yours to take with me?"

"If that is really all, Mr. Bolan," says she, "I would advise you to outlive your nonsense, as I've outlived mine. Try paying your tailor with kind words."

"Katie," says he, with a sob in his voice, "you—you've broken the heart of me. Come, McCabe, we will go."

She stands watchin' us, smilin' cynical, until we're almost through the door; and then—well, it's a sigh that comes out explosive. She starts as if she meant to dash after us, and then stops with her arms out.

"Larry!" says she, almost in a whisper.

It pulls him up, and he stares at her a minute over his shoulder. "It's no use, Katie," says he. "What's turned you hard and cold I don't know; but you can't unsay what's been said. And it hurt—bitter."

"Oh, I know, I know!" says she. "But you must hear what it was that changed me from the girl you knew. Money, Larry, the money for which I married. As for the man—oh, I suppose he was no worse than the rest; only he taught me to love a dollar more than anything else in earth or heaven. He'd wrung all of his from a grudging world with his bare hands,—starved and slaved and plotted for it, in mean ways, against mean men; then fought to hold it. And he knew to a penny's worth what every dollar he spent should buy for him. Among other things, he bought me. Sixty-odd he was; I barely twenty. Why call it differently? I was fool enough, too, to think I was a lucky girl. Ah, what a fool! Seven years of fear and hate! It's an awful thing, Larry, to live so long with hate in you for one at your side. But he—he never knew."

She leaves off, squeezin' one hand in the other until the ends of the fingers went white, her chest heavin', her eyes stary. Larry watches her without a word.

"Tell me," says she after a bit, "why you ran away that time and left me to—to make such a mess of things. Why?"

"For the same reason that I'm going away again now," says he. "I've a thousand pounds a year, and not sense enough to keep myself on it, let alone a wife. So it's good-by, Katie."

Then the weeps came, open eyed; but she didn't try to hide 'em. "Oh, oh!" she moans. "But I was so lonely then, and—and I'm so lonely now!"

Them few drops of brine turned the trick. "Ah, Katie McDevitt!" says he. "If I could bring back the old Katie! By the soul of me, but I will? You never heard of my old uncle, did you? Come with me to him, and see me make it up; for I can't leave you this way, Katie, I just can't!"

"Larry!" says she, and with that they goes to a fond clinch.

"Help!" says I, and slides through the door.

When I gets home Sadie wants to know what I've done with Mr. Bolan.

"Towed him up to Hymen's gate," says I, "and left him bein' yanked through by Mrs. Sam Steele."

"Wha-a-at?" says she. "Of all persons! And when did that start, I'd like to know?"

"Eight years back," says I. "She was Katie the nurse, and this is their second act. Anyway, he ducks Bulgaroo by it."



CHAPTER XVII

BAYARD DUCKS HIS PAST

First place, Swifty Joe should have let the subject drop. Anyway, he needn't have come paradin' into the front office in his gym suit to show me his nutty theory of how Young Disko landed that knockout on the Australian in the breakaway.

"Turn over!" says I. "You're on your back! He couldn't have done anything of the kind."

"Couldn't, eh?" growls Swifty. "Ahr-r-r-r chee! Couldn't give him the shoulder on the jaw! Ain't I seen it done? Say, lemme show you——"

"Show nothing!" says I. "I'm tellin' you it was a right hook the kid put him out with, from chancery. Now see!"

With that I sheds my coat, gets Swifty's neck in the crook of my left elbow, swings him round for a side hip-lock, and bends his head forward.

"Now, you South Brooklyn kike," I goes on, maybe more realistic than I meant, "I got you right, ain't I? And all I got to do is push in a half-arm jolt like this, and——"

Well, then I looks up. Neither of us has noticed her come in, hadn't even heard the knob turn; but standin' there in the middle of the room and starin' straight at us is a perfectly good female lady.

That don't half tell it, either. She's all lady, from the tips of her double-A pumps to the little gray wing peekin' over the top of her dingy gray bonnet. One of these slim, dainty, graceful built parties, with white, lacy stuff at her wrists and throat, and the rest of her costume all gray: not the puckered-waist, half-masted skirt effects all the women are wearin' now. I can't say what year's model it was, or how far back; but it's a style that seems just fitted to her: maybe one that she's invented herself. Around thirty-five, I should judge she was, from the little streak of gray runnin' through her front hair.

What got me, though, was the calm, remote, superior look that she's givin' us. She don't seem nervous or panicky at all, like most women would, breakin' in on a roughhouse scene like that. She don't even stare reprovin', but stands there watchin' us as serene as if we wa'n't anything more'n pictures on a movie sheet. And there we was, holdin' the pose; me with my right all bunched for action, and Swifty with his face to the mat. Seemed minutes we was clinched there, and everything so still you could hear Swifty's heavy breathin' all over the room.

Course I was waitin' for some remarks from her. You'd most think they was due, wouldn't you? It's my private office, remember, and she's sort of crashed in unannounced. If any explainin' was done, it was up to her to start it. And waitin' for what don't come is apt to get on your nerves.

"Eh?" I throws over my shoulder at her.

Her straight eyebrows kind of humps in the middle—that's all.

"Did you say anything?" I goes on.

"No," says she. If she'd smiled sort of faint, or even glared stern at us, it wouldn't have been so bad. But she just presses her lips together—thin, narrow-gage lips, they was—and goes on givin' us that distant, unconcerned look.

Meanwhile Swifty, with his face bent towards the floor, ain't gettin' any view at all, and is only guessin' what's happenin'. He squirms impatient.

"Say, Shorty," he grumbles, "I got a few bones in me neck, remember. Break, can't you?"

And as I loosens my hold he straightens up, only to get the full benefit of that placid, ladylike lookover.

"Ahr-r-r chee!" says he, glancin' disgusted at me. Then he starts gettin' rosy in the ears, like he always does when there's fluffs around, and after one more hasty look he bolts back into the gym.

The strange lady watches this move like she has everything else, only she shrugs her shoulders a bit. What she meant by that I couldn't make out. I was gettin' to the point where I didn't care so much, either.

"Well, Ma'am?" says I.

"Poor fellow!" says she. "I am glad he escaped that brutal blow."

"Are you?" says I. "Well, don't waste too much sympathy on him; for I was only demonstratin' how——"

"You might offer me a chair," she breaks in sort of casual.

"Why—er—sure!" says I, and before I knew it I was jumpin' to drag one up.

She settles into it without even a nod of thanks.

"You see," I goes on, "he's my assistant, and I was tryin' to show him how——"

"It's rather stuffy here," observes the lady. "Couldn't you open a window?"

It's more an order than anything else; but I hops over and shoves the sash wide open.

"That's too much," says she. "It causes a draft."

So I shuts it halfway. Then I gets her a glass of water. "Anything else you'd like?" says I, tryin' to be sarcastic. "The mornin' paper, or——"

"Where is Mr. Steele?" she demands.

"Oh!" says I, gettin' a little light on the mystery. "J. Bayard, you mean?"

"Of course," says she. "He was not at his hotel, and as this was the other address I was given I expected to find him here."

"Huh!" says I. "Gave you this number, did he? Well, you see, this is my Physical Culture Studio, and while he's apt to be here off and on, it ain't his——"

"Just such a place as I might have anticipated finding Bayard in," says she, glancin' around the front office at the portraits in ring costume and so on. "Quite!"

"Let's see," says I, "you are—er——"

"I am Mrs. Lee Hollister," says she, "of Richmond, Virginyah."

"I might have suspicioned that last," says I, "by the way you——"

But she don't give me a show to register any little slam I might have thought of puttin' over. She's the kind that conducts a conversation accordin' to her own rules, and she never hesitates to cut in.

"I want to know what there is about this will of Mr. Gordon's," she demands. "Some absurd legacy, I presume; at least, my solicitor, Colonel Henderson, seemed to think so. I suppose you've heard of Colonel Britt Henderson?"

"Not a whisper," says I, as defiant as I know how.

She expresses her opinion of such ignorance with a little lift of her pointed chin. "Colonel Henderson," she goes on, "is perhaps the ablest and most brilliant attorney in Virginyah. He is connected with the best families in the State."

"Never heard of anybody from down there that wa'n't," says I. "And while I ain't disputin' him, mind you, his guess about this bein' a legacy is——"

"Will Mr. Steele be in soon?" she asks crisp.

"Might," says I, "and then again he mightn't."

"It's rather rude of him to keep me waiting," says she.

"Maybe if you'd sent word ahead," I suggests, "he'd been on hand. But now you've come all this way——"

"You don't suppose," breaks in Mrs. Hollister, "that I came north just for that? Not at all. It was to select a design for the memorial window I am having placed in our church, in memory of poor, dear Professor Hollister. My late husband, you know; and a most noble, talented, courtly gentleman he was too."

"Ye-e-es'm," says I.

"What are those objects on the wall?" says she, shiftin' sudden.

"Boxin' gloves, Ma'am," says I. "That's the pair of mitts that won me the championship, back in——"

"Has Mr. Steele become a pugilist, too?" she asks.

"Not so you'd notice it," says I.

"Hm-m-m-m!" says she, tappin' the toe of one of her pumps and gazin' around critical.

Not that she takes any notice of me. Honest, if I'd been a yellow pup tied in the corner, she couldn't have been more offhand. I was gettin' warm in the neck by the minute too, and in three more shakes I'd been cuttin' loose with the acid remarks, when the door opens and in blows J. Bayard Steele. I sighs relieved when I sees him too.

"Oh!" says he, gettin' a back view of her. "I beg pardon. I—er——" Then she turns and faces him. "Alice!" he gasps.

"My dear Bayard!" she protests. "Please let's not have any scene. It was all so long ago, and I'm sure you must have gotten over that."

"But how—why—er——" he goes on.

"You wrote to Mrs. Lee Hollister, didn't you?" she demands. "I am Mrs. Hollister."

Another gasp from Steele. "You?" says he. "Then you—you——"

"To be sure I married," says she. "And Professor Hollister was one of the truest, noblest Southern gentlemen who ever lived. I have mourned his loss for nearly ten years, and—— But don't stand there twiddling your hat in that absurd fashion! You may sit, if you like. Get Mr. Steele a chair, will you?"

I'd jumped and done it too, before I had time to think.

"Now what is this about Mr. Gordon's will?" says she.

Well, between us, whenever she'd let us get in a word, we managed to sketch out the idea.

"You see," says Steele, "Pyramid Gordon wished to make what reparation he could for any injustice he might have done during the course of his business career. He left a list of names, among them being this, 'the widow of Professor Lee Hollister.' Now possibly Gordon, in some way——"

"He did," breaks in Mrs. Hollister. "My husband had issued an elaborate and exhaustive geological report on a certain district. It had attracted wide attention. He was to have been appointed State Geologist, when suddenly this Mr. Gordon appeared and began his unwarranted campaign of abuse and opposition. Something about some coal and iron deposits, I believe it was, on land which he was trying to sell to an English syndicate. Professor Hollister's report failed to mention any such deposits. As a matter of fact they did not exist. But Mr. Gordon summoned experts of his own, who attacked my husband's statements. The professor declined to enter into a public controversy. His dignity would not permit him. Underhanded influence was brought to bear on the Governor, and the appointment was given to another. But time has shown. Discredited and beaten though he seemed to be, my husband was right. The Gordon lands proved valueless. Those in which Professor Hollister invested his savings were rich in minerals."

"Ah!" says Steele. "Quite like Pyramid. And it has been left to us, Mrs. Hollister, to recompense, if we may, the bitterness of that——"

"Please!" says the lady. "Professor Hollister was not an embittered man. Such methods were beneath his contempt. He merely withdrew from public life. As for recompense—surely you would not think of asking me to accept it from such a source! Never! Besides, I have more than enough. Several years ago I disposed of our mineral holdings, bought back the old Hollister mansion, and I am now living there in as much comfort as poor Lee could have wished me to enjoy. What could Gordon's money add to that?"

If I'd been J. Bayard, hanged if I wouldn't called it quits right there! But he's gettin' so chesty over this job of sunshine distributer that there's no holdin' him in.

"Surely, Alice," he insists, "there must be some way in which I, as—er—an old friend, might——"

Mrs. Hollister cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "You don't understand," says she. "I am no longer the vain, frivolous young girl whom you knew that winter in Chicago. My first season, that was. I was being lavishly entertained. I suppose I became dazzled by it all,—the attention, the new scenes, the many men I met. I've no doubt I behaved very silly. But now—well, I have realized all my social ambitions. Now I am devoting my life to the memory of my sainted husband, to charity, to our dear church."

I gawps curious over at J. Bayard to see what comeback he has to this dose of mush, and finds him starin' foolish at her.

"There is only one thing——" she begins.

"Yes?" says Steele, kind of faint. "Something in which we might——"

"I am interested in a group of girls," says she, "factory girls; one of our Guild Mission classes, you know. They have been anxious to have some dances. Now I am strongly opposed to the modern dances, all of them. True, I've seen very little, almost nothing. So I decided that, in order to convince myself that I am right, I might as well, while I am in New York—well—er——"

"I get you," I puts in. "You want to watch the real thing pulled—the fox trot, and the new polkas, and so on. Eh?"

"Not for my own personal amusement," corrects Mrs. Hollister. "I am sure I shall be bored, perhaps shocked; but then I shall be better able to warn my girls."

"The old gag!" says I. "I know what would fit your case,—a late dinner at the Maison Maxixe. Eh, Steele?" and I tips him the knowin' wink.

"Why—er—yes," says J. Bayard. "I presume Mr. McCabe is correct. And I am sure we should be delighted to have Mrs. Hollister as our guest."

"We!" I gasps under my breath. Say, the nerve of him! But before I can think up any previous date the lady has accepted.

"I have heard of the place," says she. "I am quite willing to endure an evening there. I am wondering, though, if I should not be rather conspicuous. You see, I brought with me none but simple gowns such as this, and perhaps the contrast——"

"You'd be about as prominent at the Maxixe in that outfit," says I, "as a one-legged albino at a coon cakewalk. Besides, they don't let you in there unless you're in full evenin'. Course, there's other joints where——"

"No," says she. "Let it be the Maison Maxixe, if that is the worst. And for once too I may as well submit myself to the horrors of the new fashions. I will order a costume to-day, and I can be ready for my plunge into Gotham vanities by—let me see—we will say Saturday night. I am at the Lady Louise. You may call for me there about eight. Good-by. Don't be late, Gentlemen." And with that she does the abrupt flit, leavin' us gawpin' at each other stupid.

"Much obliged, Steele," says I, "for ringin' me in on this nutty reunion of yours. Say, J. B., you got a head like a tack, you have! Have a heart, can't you?"

"My dear Shorty," says he, "permit me to point out that it was you who suggested taking her to——"

"Because you was sittin' there like a gump," says I. "Only helpin' you out, that's all. And I'm goin' to look nice, ain't I, trailin' into a place like that with you and this—say, just where does the lady fit into your past, anyway? Never heard you mention her, did I?"

"Naturally not," says he. "One doesn't boast of having been thrown over."

"Eh?" says I. "You was engaged—to her?"

He nods and gazes sentimental at the ceilin'. "My one genuine romance," says he. "I suppose she wasn't really the radiant beauty I imagined; but she was charming, vivacious, fascinating. It was a bad case of love at first sight. At eleven o'clock that evening, I remember, I took her in to supper. At twelve I was leading her into a palm-sheltered nook, and the next thing I knew I had taken her in my arms and—well, the usual thing. No one could have made a more complete ass of himself. She should have boxed my ears. She didn't. The engagement lasted all of one week."

"Then you recovered from the attack?" says I.

"No," says he. "She had discovered another, several others. She told me quite casually that she really hadn't meant it; and wasn't I, after all, rather a wild young man? I assured her that if I wasn't wild I should be after that. She only shrugged her shoulders. So I gave her up. The others did too. And she went back to Richmond, it seems, and married a sainted geologist; while I—well, I never did get over it, quite. Silly, of course; but when I met other girls later I—I remembered, that's all."

"Which accounts for you bein' a bach so long, does it?" says I. "Well, it's never too late. Here's your chance once more. At the Maison Maxixe you can pull any kind of romance, stale or recent, and nobody'll care a hoot. I'll duck the dinner, and you can——"

"No, no!" protests J. Bayard. "I—er—I wouldn't take her to dinner alone for worlds. Really!" he waves his hands almost tragic.

"Why not?" says I. "Thought you hadn't got over it."

"Oh, but I have," insists Steele, "thoroughly."

"Must have been lately then," says I.

"To-day—just now," says he. "I never dreamed she would develop into—er—a woman like that,—the way she looks at you, you know."

"You don't need to describe it," says I. "That wa'n't a marker to the way she looked at Swifty and me. But wait! We'll hand her a jolt Saturday night."

Steele groans. "I wish I could—— By George!" he explodes. "I'd forgotten Major Ben Cutter."

"What about him?" says I.

"An old friend," says J. Bayard. "He's landing Saturday, from Santa Marta. I haven't seen him for years,—been down there running a banana plantation, you know. He cabled up, and I'd promised to take him around that evening, dinner at the club, and——"

"Ah, ditch it, J. B.!" says I. "No old-friend alibi goes in this case."

"But, Shorty," he protests, "how can I——"

"You can lug him along, can't you?" says I. "Make it a four-cornered affair. The more the merrier."

"He's such a diffident, shy chap, though," goes on Steele, "and after five years in the bush——"

"Oh, a dose of Mrs. Hollister will do him good," says I. "She won't mind. She'll be bein' bored. Just 'phone her and explain. And remind her when she's gettin' her costume that this ain't any church sociable we're attendin'."

Honest, I was more leery on that point than about anything else; for you know how giddy they doll up at them joints, and while her taste in stained glass windows might be strictly up to date, when it comes to flossin' up for the Maison Maxixe—well, no gray-and-white, back-number regalia would do there. If we wa'n't shut out, we'd be guyed to death.

So about seven-thirty Saturday night I was some chilly in the ankles. I'd called for J. Bayard at his hotel, and he'd shown up with the Major. No figment of the imagination, either, the Major. He's a big, husky, rich-colored party that's some imposin' and decorative in open-faced togs; quiet and shy actin', though, just as Steele had said. I sort of took to him, and we swaps friendly greetin's.

"All aboard now," says I, "and we'll collect our widow."

Which seems to startle the Major more or less. "I say, Bayard," he puts in, "you didn't tell me she was a widow, you know. Perhaps, after all, I'd best not——"

"Ah, she ain't the net-wieldin' kind," says I soothin'. "She'll tell you all about her dear departed and the memorial window. About as gay as Trinity Church on Ash Wednesday, she is. Come along."

Can you blame him, then, for glancin' reproachful at me when he sees what answers our call at the Lady Louise a few minutes later? I lets go of a few gasps myself; while J. Bayard—well, he just stares at her with his mouth open.

For, take it from me, Mrs. Hollister had connected! Uh-huh! Not with any last fall outfit, nor yesterday's. About day after to-morrow's, I should call it. And if there wa'n't zipp and scream to it, then I'm shortsighted in the eyes. My guess is that it's a mixture of the last word in Byzantine effects, with a Cleopatra girdle and a Martha Washington polonaise. Anyway, if there ain't much above the waist line but gauze and strips of fur, there's plenty of flare below, as far as the ankles. Lucky she'd invested in a generous fur-lined wrap to go with it, or I wouldn't have stirred a step until we'd draped her in a rug or something. I ain't sayin' much about the feather affair clamped around her head in place of a hat; only it reminds me of an Indian war bonnet that's been through a hard blow.

"Well, Bayard," says she, floatin' up to us wabbly on her high heels, "you see I'm ready."

"Ye-e-es," says Steele draggy. And while I pushes the Major to the front almost by main strength, J. Bayard presents him.

After that, though—say, I don't know when I've seen two parties indulge in such a long and earnest look at each other as Major Ben and Mrs. Hollister did then. While the Major flushes rosy and hardly has a word to say for himself, he just naturally glues his lamps to her and don't let 'em roam. Believe me too, she was some giddy picture! Wa'n't such a bad looker, you know, in her other rig; but in this zippy regalia—well, I got to admit that she's some ripe pippin. Her big brown eyes is sparklin', she's smilin' coy as she looks the Major up and down, and the next thing we know blamed if she ain't cuddled right up to him and remarked kittenish:

"You dear man! I'm going to let you take me out to the cab."

Well, that was the programme from then on. It was the Major and Mrs. Hollister first, with me and J. Bayard trailin' on behind. We'd had some debate beforehand as to whether this should be a dry dinner or not, endin' by Steele announcin' he was goin' to take a chance on Martinis anyhow. Does she shy at the appetizer? Say, she was clinkin' glasses with the Major before J. Bayard has a chance to reach for his. Same way with the fizz that J. B. has put in a hurry order for.

"Bored to death, ain't she?" I remarks behind my hand.

And before the fillet of sole was served the Major had unlimbered his conversation works, and that pair was havin' about the chattiest time of any couple in the place, with me and J. Bayard stranded on the side lines.

"Do you know, my dear Major," we hears her announce about nine-fifteen, as she toys with a three-dollar portion of roast pheasant, "I had no idea New York could be like this. Then there are the theaters, the opera. I believe I shall stay up for the rest of the season."

"Good!" says the Major. "I shall stay too."

Half an hour later, while he was showin' her how to burn brandy on her demitasse, I nudges Steele.

"Say," I whispers, "me for a spot where I ain't formin' a crowd!"

Steele takes a hasty glance at 'em. "I—I'm with you," says he.

"What!" says I. "Goin' to hand him over to her?"

He nods. "Well," says I, "I guess that'll pass for a kind deed."

"Also somewhat of a generous one," says he, exhibitin' the footin' of the dinner bill he's just settled for.

I don't think they noticed, either of 'em, when we did our sneak. Once outside, J. Bayard takes a long breath, like he was relieved at havin' shifted something. Then he sort of sighs.

"Poor old Ben!" says he.

"Gwan!" says I. "You never can tell. Maybe he'll like playin' the devoted slave act for the rest of his life. Besides, she's on a new tack. The Major's quite a husk too. I'll bet he don't qualify for any memorial window. Not him!"



CHAPTER XVIII

TRAILING DUDLEY THROUGH A TRANCE

The Adamses hadn't been in the neighborhood two weeks before Sadie's discovered Veronica and was ravin' over her. "Isn't she perfectly stunning, Shorty?" she demands.

"Now that you mention it, I expect she is," says I, playin' safe and foxy. It's a useful phrase to pull in such cases; but here was once when I must have worked it overtime. Sadie sniffs.

"Pooh!" says she. "Just as though you couldn't see for yourself! Don't be absurd, Shorty."

"Gee! but you're hard to suit!" says I. "If I remember right, the last time I got enthusiastic over the looks of a young queen you wrinkled your nose and made remarks about my taste."

"It was that snippy little Marjorie Lowry with the baby face, wasn't it?" says she. "Oh, very well, if you prefer that kind. Just like a man!"

"Do I have to pick either one?" says I. "I hope not; for, between you and me, Sadie, I'm satisfied as it stands."

"Goose!" says she, snugglin' up forgivin'. "And—would you guess it?—they say she's twenty-six! I wonder why she isn't married?"

"There you go!" says I. "I could see it comin'."

"But she is such an attractive girl," goes on Sadie, "so well poised, graceful, dignified, all that! And she has such exquisite coloring, and such charming manners!"

Yep, I guess it was all so. One of these wavin' palm models, Veronica was,—tall and willowy, with all the classy points of a heroine in a thirty-five-cent magazine serial,—dark eyes, dark, wavy hair, good color scheme in her cheeks,—the whole bag of tricks,—and specially long on dignity. Say, she had me muffled from the first tap of the bell, and you know how apt I am to try to break that sort of spell with a few frivolous cracks. Not when Veronica swings on me with that calm gaze of hers, though!

For Sadie don't do a thing but call on the Adamses, give a tea for Veronica, and proceed to round up all the Johnnies in sight to meet her. It's her reg'lar campaign, you know.

"Ah, why not let the poor girl alone?" says I. "Maybe she's got one in trainin' somewhere herself. There's no tellin', too, but what she's stayin' single from choice."

"Humph!" says Sadie. "Only the homely ones are entitled to give that excuse, because they have no other; and only a stupid man would believe it in either case. I suppose Miss Adams hasn't married because the right man hasn't asked her. Sometimes they don't, you know. But it's a perfect shame, and if I can help the right one to find her I'm going to do it."

"Sure you are," says I. "That's the skirt instinct. But, say, while the men still have the vote all to themselves they ought to revise the game laws by declarin' a close season on bachelors, say from the fifteenth of August to the fifteenth of December."

"Too bad about the young men, isn't it?" says Sadie. "Anyone would think we set traps for them."

"Show me a trap easier to fall into and harder to get out of," says I, "and I'll make my fortune by puttin' it on the market as a new puzzle. But blaze ahead. I ain't worryin'. I'm on the inside lookin' out, anyway. Wish a hubby on her if you can."

And I must say it ain't any amateur effort Sadie puts over. From far and near she rounds 'em up on one excuse or another, and manages to have 'em meet Veronica. She don't take 'em miscellaneous or casual, like she would for most girls. I notices that she sifts 'em out skillful, and them that don't come somewhere near the six-foot mark gets the gate early in the game. You catch the idea? Course, nobody would expect Veronica to fall for any stunted Romeo that would give her a crick in the back when it come to nestlin' her head on his shoulder.

So with size added to the other elimination tests it must have made hard scratchin' at times. But somehow or other Sadie produces a dozen or more husky young chaps with good fam'ly connections and the proper financial ratin's. Among 'em was a polo player, two ex-varsity fullbacks, and a blond German military aide that she borrowed from a friend in Washington for the occasion. She tries 'em out single and in groups, using Mrs. Purdy-Pell's horseshow box and town house as liberal as railroad waitin' rooms. And, say, when it comes to arrangin' chance tete-a-tetes, and cozy little dinner parties where the guests are placed just right, she develops more ingenuity than a lady book agent runnin' down her victims. Talk about shifty work! She makes this fly-and-spider fable sound clumsy.

Course, she had a cinch in one way. All she has to do is exhibit Veronica in some public place, and she has every man in sight twistin' his neck. They dropped for her at the first glimpse. It didn't need any elaborate scenic effects to cause a stampede, either; for the simpler she gets herself up the more dangerous she is, and in a plain black velvet dress, with an old lace collar cut a little low in front, all she lacks is a gold frame and a number to look like a prize portrait at the National Academy. Say, I ain't got much of an eye that way myself, but the first time I saw her in that rig I held my breath for two minutes on a stretch, and just gawped.

Another thing that helped was the fact that Veronica could sing,—no common parlor warblin', mind you, of such pieces as "The Rosary" or "Land of the Sky Blue Water," but genuine operatic stuff, such as you hear Louise Homer and Schumann-Heink shootin' on the three-dollar records. Why not? Hadn't Veronica studied abroad for two years under Parcheesi, who'd begged her almost on his knees to do the title role in a new opera he was goin' to try out before the King of Bavaria? Uh-huh! We had that straight from Mrs. Adams, who wa'n't much for boostin' the fam'ly. But no stagework for her!

In private, though, Veronica was good-natured and obligin'; so it was an easy after-dinner cue for a young gent to lead her to the piano and persuade her to tear off a few little operatic gems, while he leaned on one elbow and gazed soulful at her. And I expect they didn't have to know such a lot about grand opera to play the leanin' part, either.

Just how much tumult was caused under dress shirt fronts durin' them few weeks I couldn't say for certain, but at least four or five of the young gents had bad attacks. The odd thing about it, though, was the sudden way they dropped out. One day they'd be sendin' her flowers, and followin' her around to teas and lunches and dances, gazin' longin' at her every chance they got, and displayin' the usual mush symptoms, and the next they wouldn't show up at all. They'd disappeared.

That's what puzzled Sadie so much at first. She couldn't make out what had happened,—whether they'd got rash and gone on the rug too soon, or had been run over by a truck while crossin' the street. Fin'ly she comes across one of the quitters one afternoon as I'm towin' her down Fifth-ave. on her way home from somewhere, and she puts me up to give him the quiz.

"There, Shorty!" says she, stoppin' sudden. "There's Monty Willetts, who was so crazy about Veronica. No one has seen him for a week. Couldn't you ask if anything serious has happened to him?"

I expect her idea was for me to put him through the third degree so subtle he wouldn't suspect. Well, leavin' Sadie gazin' into a jew'lry window, I overhauls him and does my best.

"Say, Monty," says I, jabbin' him playful in the ribs, "how about you and that Miss Adams? Did you follow her to the frost line, or what?"

"That's an excellent way to put it, McCabe," says he. "And I'm chilly yet from the experience."

"Sporty lad!" says I. "Did you try to hold her hand, or something like that?"

"What!" he gasps. "Try to hold hands with the stately Miss Adams? Heaven forbid! I'm not absolutely reckless, you know. It was in our first confidential chat that I went on the rocks. We'd discussed polo for half an hour, until I found she knew more about the English team than I did. Why, she'd visited at Hurlingham House during the practice matches. So I floundered about, trying to shift the subject, until we hit on antique vases—deuced if I know why. But my Governor dabbled in such junk a bit, you know, and I suppose I thought, from having heard him talk, that I was up on antiques. But, say, hanged if she couldn't name more kinds than I ever knew existed! Rippled on about Pompeian art, and Satsuma ware, and Egyptian tear jugs as readily as Ted Keefe, my stable manager, would about ponies. I tried again and asked if she'd seen many of the new plays, and the next thing I knew I was bluffing through a dialogue about Galsworthy and Masefield and Sudermann on an experience strictly limited to musical comedies and Belasco's latest. Whe-e-e-ew! I made my escape after that. Say, isn't it a shame a girl with eyes like hers should know so blamed much?"

I couldn't help grinnin' at Monty, and when I picks up Sadie again I gives her the diagnosis.

"Case of springin' the highbrow chatter on a sportin' chappy that wears a fifteen and a half collar and a six and three-quarters hat," says I. "He's as thankful as if he'd come through a train wreck with his cigarette still lighted. You ought to tip Veronica to chop her lines and work the spell with her eyes."

"Pooh!" says Sadie. "Monty never had a chance, anyway. You can't expect a brilliant girl like Veronica to be satisfied with a husband who's at his best only when he's knocking a goal or leading a hunt, even if he is big and handsome."

But with this as a clew I figured out how two or three of the other candidates came to side-step so abrupt. The average Johnny is all right so long as the debate is confined to gossipy bits about the latest Reno recruits, or who's to be asked to Mrs. Stuyve Fish's next dinner dance; but cut loose on anything serious and you have him grabbin' for the lifeline.

There was two, though, that came through to the finals, as you might say. One was this German guy, Baron Duesseldorf; and the other was young Beverley Duer, whose fad is takin' movin' pictures of wild animals in their native jungles and givin' private movie shows in the Plaza ballroom. Some strong on the wise conversation himself, Beverley is. He paints a bit, plays the 'cello pretty fair, has a collection of ivory carvin's, and has traveled all over the lot. You can't faze him with the snappy repartee, either; for that's his specialty.

As for the Baron, his long suit was listenin'. He was a bear for it. He'd sit there, big and ornamental, with his light blue eyes glued on Veronica, takin' it all in as fast as she could feed it to him, and lookin' almost intelligent. Course, when he did try a comeback in English he chopped his words up comic; but he could speak four other languages, and Veronica seemed pleased enough to find someone she could practice her French and German on.

For awhile there I'd have picked either of the two as a winner; only I couldn't just make up my mind which would get the decision. But somehow the affair don't seem to progress the way it should. Each one appeared to get about so far, and then stick. They both seemed anxious enough too; but just as one would take an extra spurt Veronica would somehow cool him down. She didn't seem to be playin' one against the other, either. Looked like careless work to me. Sadie gets almost peeved with her.

Then one night at our house a lot of the mystery was cleared up by some friendly joshin' across the dinner table. We had all the Adamses there that evenin',—Pa Adams, a tall, dignified, white-whiskered old sport, who looked like he might have been quite a gay boy in his day; Mother, a cheery, twinklin'-eyed, rather chubby old girl; and Veronica, all in white satin and dazzlin' to look at. Also Sadie had asked in Miss Prescott, an old maid neighbor of ours, who's so rich it hurts, but who's as plain and simple as they come. She's a fruit preservin' specialist, and every fall her and Sadie gets real chummy over swappin' cannin' receipts.

About five P.M., though, Miss Prescott 'phones over her regrets, sayin' how her nephew had arrived unexpected; so of course she gets the word to bring Dudley Byron along with her. Emerson, his last name is, and while I hadn't seen much of him lately we'd been more or less friendly when he was takin' special post-graduate work at some agricultural college and was around home durin' vacations. An odd, quiet chap, Dudley Byron, who never figured much anywhere,—one of the kind you can fill in with reckless and depend on not to make a break or get in the way. He's a slim, sharp-faced young gent, with pale hair plastered down tight, and deep-set gray eyes that sort of wander around aimless.

It might have been kind of dull if it hadn't been for the Adamses; but Veronica and her Pa are lively enough to wake up any crowd. They're gen'rally jollyin' each other about something. This time what started it was someone remarkin' about a weddin' that was to be pulled off soon, and how the bride was to be the last of five daughters.

"Fortunate parent!" says Pa Adams. "Five! And here I've been unable to get rid of one."

"You didn't begin early enough," comes back Veronica. "Do you know, Mrs. McCabe, when I was nineteen Daddy used to be so afraid I would be stolen away from him that he would almost lie in wait for young men with a shotgun. After I passed twenty-four he began meeting them at the gate with a box of cigars in one hand and a shaker full of cocktails in the other."

Pa Adams joins in the laugh. "It's quite true," says he. "For the last two or three years Mother and I have been doing our best to marry her off. We gave up the United States as hopeless, and carted her all over Europe. No use. Even younger sons wouldn't have her. Now we're back again, trying the dodge of staying longer in one place. But I fail to see any encouraging signs."

"I'm sure I've tried to do my part too," says Veronica, smilin' gay. "I really shouldn't mind being married. My tastes are wholly domestic. But, dear me, one must find somewhere near the right sort of man, you know! And so far——" She ends with a shrug of her white shoulders and a puckerin' of her rosy lips.

"Poor Baron!" sighs Sadie, teasin'.

"I know," says Veronica. "And what a big, handsome creature he is too! But I fear I'm not equal to carrying on a lifelong monologue."

"Surely that wouldn't be the case with Beverley Duer," suggests Sadie.

"Isn't he entertaining!" says Veronica enthusiastic. "But wouldn't it be a bit selfish, appropriating all that brilliance just for oneself? And could it be done? I'm afraid not. About once a month, I imagine, Beverley would need a new audience. Besides—well, I'm sure I don't know; only I don't seem thrilled in the way I ought to be."

With chat like that bein' batted back and forth, I expect I wa'n't takin' much notice of Dudley Byron, who's sittin' quiet between me and Aunty; but all of a sudden he leans over and whispers eager:

"Isn't she perfectly splendid, though?"

"Eh?" says I, tearin' myself away from what's still goin' on at the other end of the table. "Oh! Miss Adams? Sure, she's a star."

"I—I would like to know her better," says Dudley, sort of plaintive.

"Crash in, then," says I. "No opposition here."

I thought I was bein' humorous; for Dudley's about as much of a lady's man as he is a heavy shot putter. I never knew of his lookin' twice at a girl before; but to-night he seems to be makin' up for lost time. All durin' the rest of the meal he does the steady, admirin' gaze at Veronica. He don't try to hide it, either, but fixes them gray eyes of his her way and neglects to eat five perfectly good courses. When we adjourns to the livin' room for coffee he keeps it up too. Couldn't have been much suddener if he'd been struck by lightnin'.