mind," says I.

"But I don't care to know them," says Mortimer. "I haven't spoken to a soul, and don't intend to. They're not my kind, you see."

"Are you boastin', or complainin'?" says I. "Anyway, you're in for a lonesome time. What do you do evenin's?"

"Walk around until I'm tired, that's all," says he.

"That's excitin'--I don't think," says I.

Next he branches off on Miller, and starts tellin' me what a deep and lastin' grouch he'd accumulated against his boss. But I ain't encouragin' any hammer play of that kind.

"Stow it, Morty," says I. "I'm wise to all that. Besides, you ought to know you can't hold a job and come floatin' in at any old hour. No wonder you got in Dutch with him! Say, is this your first stab at real work?"

He admits that it is, and when I gets him to describe how he's been killin' time when he wa'n't in college it develops that one of his principal playthings has been a six-cylinder roadster,--mile-a-minute brand, mostly engine and gastank, with just space enough left for the driver to snuggle in among the levers on the small of his back.

"I've had her up to sixty-five an hour on some of those Rhode Island oiled stretches," says Mortimer.

"I expect," says I. "And what was it you hit last?"

"Eh?" says he. "Oh, I see! A milk wagon. Rather stiff damages they got out of us, with the hospital and doctor's bills and all that. But it was more the way I was roasted by the blamed newspapers that made Father so sore. Then my being canned from college soon after--well, that finished it. So he sends Mother and Sis off to Europe, goes on a business trip to California himself, closes the house, and chucks me into this job."

"Kind of poor trainin' for it, I'll admit," says I. "But buck up, Morty; we'll do our best."

"We?" says he, liftin' his eyebrows.

"Uh-huh," says I. "Me and you."

"What's it got to do with you? I'd like to know!" he demands.

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