Webster—Man's Man
       “Great grief, Johnny!” he declared. “I must be trotting along. Haven't been out this late in years.”     

       “It's the shank of the evening, Neddy,” Webster pleaded,       “and I'm hungry again. We'll have a nice broiled lobster, with drawn butter—eh, Ned? And another quart of that       '98?”     

       “My liver would never stand it. I'd be in bed for a week,”       Jerome protested. “See you at the club to-morrow afternoon before you leave, I presume.”     

       “If I get through with my shopping in time,” Webster answered, and reluctantly abandoning the lobster and accessories, he accompanied Jerome to the door and saw him safely into a taxicab.     

       “Sure you won't think it over, Jack, and give up this crazy proposition?” he pleaded at parting.     

       Webster shook his head. “I sniff excitement and adventure and profit in Sobrante, Neddy, and I've just got to go look-see. I'm like an old burro staked out knee-deep in alfalfa just now. I won't take kindly to the pack—-”     

       “And like an old burro, you won't be happy until you've sneaked through a hole in the fence to get out into a stubble-field and starve.” Jerome swore halfheartedly and promulgated the trite proverb that life is just one blank thing after the other—an inchoate mass of liver and disappointment!     

       “Do you find it so?” Webster queried sympathetically.     

       Suspecting that he was being twitted, Jerome looked up sharply, prepared to wither Webster with that glance. But no, the man was absolutely serious; whereupon Jerome realized the futility of further argument and gave John Stuart Webster up for a total loss. Still, he could not help smiling as he reflected how Webster had planned a year of quiet enjoyment and Fate had granted him one brief evening. He marvelled that Webster could be so light-hearted and contented under the circumstances.     

       Webster read his thoughts. “Good-bye, old man,” he said, and extended his hand. “Don't worry about me. Allah is always kind to fools, my friend; sorrow is never their portion. I've led rather a humdrum life. I've worked hard and never had any fun or excitement to speak of, and in answering Billy's call I have a feeling 
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