you know, runs into a pot of money. But now everything is fixed up after a fashion with no evidence in sight of further squalls.” He laughed the laugh of an overgrown boy laboring under the delusion that because he has finished a collegiate course he is a “man.”
“Of course,” he continued with a swagger, “we chaps who put in four long years at college should not be expected to settle down without having some sort of a valedictory fling.”
“There has not been much of a fling in my case,” protested Warfield. “I tackled life seriously in New York from the start.”
“But got a tumble all the same,” grinned Adams. “However, there’s no use in pulling a long face—at least not until your Uncle Allen has been interviewed and judiciously put through his paces. Come now, let us get your things aboard.”
The conversation was halted while the young owner of the big 60 H. P. car helped his chauffeur to stow away the luggage. “To the club,” he called out as he seated himself in the tonneau with his boyhood friend—college chum and classmate.
“Not this morning!” exclaimed Roderick, shaking his head as he looked frankly and a bit nervously into the eyes of Whitley Adams. “No club for me until I have squared things up on the hill.”
“Oh, well, just as you say; if it’s as bad as that, why of course—” He broke off and did not finish the sentence, but directed the chauffeur to the residence of Allen Miller, the banker.
They rode a little way in silence and then Whitley Adams observed: “You’ve made a muddle of things, no doubt,” and he turned with a knowing look and a smile toward Roderick, who in turn flushed, as though hit.
“No doubt,” he concurred curtly.
“Then when shall I see you?” asked Whitley as the auto slowed down at the approach to the stately Miller home.
“I’ll ‘phone you,” replied Roderick. “Think I can arrange to be at the club this evening.”
“Very well,” said his friend, and a minute later he had whirled away leaving a cloud of dust in the trail of the machine.
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