"You're bluffing!" charged Mr. Chase scornfully. 

 "I have two very earnest bidders for the property," insisted Johnny with dignity—and completed his bluff, if Chase cared to regard it that way, by hanging up his receiver. 

 Before he left the office he entered in his books: 

 "May 4. Sold; but I don't know who to or at what price. Close to schedule, though." 

 He entered the next day in advance: 

 "May 5. The Babies' Fund Fair—Holiday. Nothing doing." 

 

 

 CHAPTER XII 

 IN WHICH JOHNNY EVEN DOES BUSINESS AT THE BABIES' FUND FAIR 

 "I wish I could write poetry," regretted Johnny, looking across at Constance Joy in the violet booth. 

 "Why don't you try it?" asked Polly Parsons, following his gaze and comprehending his desire perfectly, for she, too, was a rabid Constancite. 

 "I did," he confessed with a disappointed laugh. "I hadn't the nerve to be mushy enough, though—and nothing else seems to be real poetry. I got one line that listened like the goods, but I couldn't match it up: 'As I lie awake and look at the stars—' Pretty good start, eh? How do you find a rhyme for it?" 

 "You go down through the alphabet," Polly advised him, rather proud to be able to answer him so promptly. "Bars, cars, fars, jars—that way, you know. How I found out is that Sister Winnie writes so much poetry." 

 "She's a great kid," laughed Johnny. "Where is she?" 

 "Round here some place, giving orders to Sammy Chirp. Why are you loafing this afternoon? You're supposed to be making five thousand dollars an hour, but I don't see any chance for it here." 

 "It's a holiday," he retorted. "You're loafing yourself. I see it's on the program that 

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