Chapter II: Part 2

The Watermelon had ears only for Billy. She spoke and it was as if the others had been silent.

"Was it fun?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," drawled the Watermelon sarcastically. "It was fun all right. Everybody wanted to be waited on first and everybody wanted the white meat."

"What did they do when they didn't get waited on?" asked Billy.

"Yelled at me," said the Watermelon, "as if I was their servant. This is a free country and we are all equal. I said that to one old gent once and it raised Cain."

"What'd he say?"

"He said that might be, but we didn't remain equal."

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'I know it and I am sorry for you, sir. Don't blame yourself too much,' I said. 'Was it drink that did it?' When I left they didn't give me any pay."

"Why not?" asked Billy, eagerly amused.

"They said I had broken too many dishes. I said if I had known they were going to keep my pay, I would have broken twice as many."

"Why didn't you do it, then?" asked Billy, whose ideas of vengeance were young and drastic.

"Too much work," explained the Watermelon. "If I wasn't extra strong, I wouldn't have been able to break what I did."

"I presume you return to the city to-night?" questioned Bartlett.

The Watermelon thought of the shivering wretch who was trying to hide his nakedness in the forest depths and shook his head. "I'm leaving about three," said he, putting the parting off as long as possible because of Billy. It hurt him to think of leaving her, even then, charming, dainty Billy.

"Tell me some other things you have done," teased Billy.

"If I sat over that side," said the Watermelon with the boldness of desperation. In two short hours they would part for good, so why not make the most of the short time allowed? "If I sat over that side, I could tell you so much better the sad, sweet story of my life."

"Come on," laughed Billy. And the Watermelon rose, to the amusement of those nearest, went around the table and drew up a chair beside Billy, with the general on the other side of him.

Henrietta made vain attempts to take a hostess' part in the conversation, and both Billy and the Watermelon made equally polite and good-natured endeavors to include her, but when two are young, and one is pretty and the other handsome, a third person assumes the proportions of not a crowd so much as a mob. The general was enjoying himself sufficiently with his dinner. He and Bartlett had gone to the same school and he felt as much right to neglect Bartlett as though he had been a brother. Henrietta turned to Bartlett and they chatted on the trivial affairs of the day, while Henrietta wondered if she did seem so very old to the Watermelon and Bartlett matured a plan that had come to him like an inspiration as he watched the Watermelon's frank admiration for Billy.

In the crash on the Street which had broken the cotton ring and had brought a comparatively young and hitherto unknown man into prominence, Bartlett had lost more than he cared to think about. Though his name had not appeared, he had been heavily involved. The ring had needed but a week, a day, more to bring it to perfection, then in a night, from whence hardly a soul knew, having worked quietly, steadily, persistently, this unforeseen factor had arisen and defeat stared the ring in the face. Another week would bring complete collapse unless this William Hargrave Batchelor could be suppressed. They had tried to see him, but he would not be seen. Clearly he had no price, preferring to fight to a finish, which was an admirable quality in one so young, but hardly to be desired in an opponent who unfortunately had every chance to win. Voluntarily, he would not leave the fight, but if he could be suppressed? The following Saturday was the crucial time. If he did not return until the day after?

Bartlett had left the city late the previous afternoon to spend Sunday with Billy, away from the heat and worry of the scene of battle, and here was William Hargrave Batchelor, apparently doing the same thing. Clearly it was a dispensation of Providence. There was Billy, and after all William Hargrave Batchelor was young and human. He had probably never known girls like Billy before, or dined with them as equals. He certainly had made no attempt to hide his admiration for this particular one. Bartlett chatted gaily with Henrietta and watched the two opposite, trying to decide if it would be possible to kidnap the young man for a week, take him farther into the country, get him away from Wall Street at any cost. Were Billy's charms equal to the attempt?

William Hargrave Batchelor was said to be a cold, hard-headed youth, who had risen by sheer grit and determination to the place he now held, riding rough-shod over his own and every one else's desires and pleasures. A calm, imperturbable young man, with cruel keen eyes, the papers described him. Watching him across the table, Bartlett decided that his square jaw and thin mouth fitted the description fairly well, but that the eyes were a complete contradiction. They were neither keen nor cruel, but soft and mild and sleepy. The whole face was careless, indifferent, and if it were not for the jaw, Bartlett would have hardly believed it possible that Batchelor was sitting opposite him. His own jaw snapped and he swore to himself that he would keep him for a week, either through Billy or otherwise. So strong is the power of suggestion, it did not enter his head to question the youth's identity.

They were rising from the table now. The general, having dined to his satisfaction, was beaming with good humor and stories. Excusing himself a moment, Bartlett hurried to the telegraph station in the office. He hunted for his code, but could not find it and had to write the telegram in English. It would be safe enough. The operator was a raw country youth who wouldn't be able to understand it anyway, and it would go direct to his broker, who would be spending the day at his country place on Long Island.

"Have W.H.B.," wrote Bartlett. "Will take him for a week's tour in the country, with Billy's help. Eat them up."

"Rush it," he ordered sternly, "and bring me the answer. I will wait for it on the porch."

The news soon spread that the stranger dining with the general and his daughter was none other than the suddenly famous young stock broker, whose grim defiance of the Street was told in head-lines in the daily papers, and whose life from the cradle up was thrillingly recounted in the Sunday supplement. When he had changed his seat at the table, there had been a suppressed titter of amusement for the eccentricities of a great man, and those who made a study of human nature saw plainly an indication of that character which knew what it wanted and would get it and keep it, overriding all obstacles. A man like that, nothing could down.

As they stood on the porch after dinner, waiting for Bartlett to rejoin them, the four were soon surrounded by an ever-growing circle of friends and near friends, and to his pained surprise, the Watermelon was the admired center of the group. All looked on him much as the general did, not so much as a man but as a character out of the Sunday supplement. Bored to exhaustion, he shook hands limply with a score or more whom he did not know and did not want to know.

It was getting late and he would have to return the clothes and become once more merely the Watermelon. He had forgotten the beauty show and had no heart for it now. When he left Billy nothing more counted, nothing mattered. Old clothes or good, hobo or millionaire, without Billy, one was as desirable as the other. He would return the clothes and beat it up the line that evening. James and Mike could go to grass. Meanwhile, instead of getting the most out of the short space of time allotted to him and having Billy alone somewhere, here he was shaking hands with a frowsy bunch of highbrows.

"Mr. Batchelor, would you invest in copper, if you were I?" queried an elderly maiden whose hand he had weakly grasped and but just dropped.

The Watermelon looked around, desperately, miserably. Billy was gazing at him from the edge of the crowd, awe fighting with admiration and amusement on her small face. Henrietta had presented him gaily, to this one and that, and the general, thoroughly in his element, stood by and showed him off as though he were a new horse or the latest model motor-car.

"No," said the Watermelon. "I would not invest in copper."

"Have you any copper?" questioned another with a wink that the great man was caught.

"No," repeated the Watermelon with the animation of a hitching-post. "I have no copper. I have never had any, not even pennies," he added, thinking how fast the time was going and he would become a tramp again, with ragged clothes and empty pockets, while Billy would still be--Billy.

Every one laughed and the general essayed a joke on his own account. "Greenbacks are a better investment," said he, "and you have invested in them pretty well."

"How could you tear yourself away from the Street?" asked one impressionable young thing.

"I don't know," said the Watermelon. "Wall Street is practically my home." And he gazed languidly over their heads into the trees across the road.

"Oh, Mr. Batchelor, do you think the tariff will affect the cost of living?" inquired another of his new friends. "So many people claim that it will."

Henrietta laughed. "Poor Mr. Batchelor," said she. "You can now realize some of the drawbacks to greatness."

"The tariff," said the Watermelon monotonously, "is all right. Take it from me."

He glanced again at Billy. The clock in the garage struck two and he hesitated no longer. "My car," he muttered vaguely, and made for the steps. He ran down them and started around the hotel toward the stables. As he passed near the place where Billy stood, he looked up straight into her eyes.

"Aren't you coming to see my car--Billy?" he asked, the odd little name below his breath, so that even she did not hear.

"Oh, yes, indeed," said Billy.

He caught her hands and swung her down to the lawn beside him.

At the garage they did not stop. The Watermelon heard the general panting behind in the distance, but he did not pause. Ungratefully he led the way down a narrow path around the stable, into the deep, cool shade of the woods. It was two. He would give himself until the clock struck three, before he slunk away into the unknown again.

*CHAPTER VI*

*WHAT IS HEAVEN LIKE*

They found a little mossy knoll beside the brook and Billy made herself comfortable against a tree trunk, while the Watermelon sprawled at her feet.

"Say," said he, "what do those guys take me for? The editor of the 'Answer to correspondents' page?"

"I bet you know as much," said Billy with artless simplicity.

"Sure, I know as much," grinned the Watermelon. "But I'm not paid to tell what I know. It would be starvation rates for mine," he added.

Billy laughed. "Didn't you ever go to school?" she asked.

"Yes, I went to school, when father didn't forget."

"Didn't forget?"

"He had eight kids, you see, and he used to say a man couldn't be responsible for more than six. Two kids, he used to say, were a blessing, four a care, six a burden, and eight an affliction, and no man is responsible for his afflictions."

"I wish I had some relatives," said Billy wistfully. "There are only daddy and I. Don't you like relatives, some one who belongs to you?"

"Father used to say that relatives were an affliction, and he supposed a man had to have afflictions to make a man of him, but if he had had any influence with Providence, he would have preferred not to be a man."

"Who was your father?" asked Billy.

"A minister," answered the Watermelon, clasping his hands behind his head and staring up at the interlaced boughs overhead. "A country minister. He used to say that there was just one thing in this world more pitiful than a country minister, and that was his wife."

"Why," cried Billy, "the papers said he used to be a policeman."

"I thought you didn't read the papers?"

"I don't, just the Sunday supplements," said Billy frankly, as one to whom his intellectual development is of minor importance.

The Watermelon wheeled over with a laugh and caught her hand. "Hang dad!" he exclaimed. "Where'd you get your name?"

He drew himself up on the log beside her, as near as he dared. He wanted to put his arm around the slim waist, but decided that he had better not.

She jerked her hand away and laughed, her small nose wrinkled, the dimple coming and going. "Don't you like it?"

"Sure. It's classy, all right. But what is the long of it?"

"Wilhelmina. Dad's is William, just like yours. We're all Billies."

"Mine ain't William," sneered the Watermelon, edging a bit nearer.

Her eyes opened and she stared in frank surprise. "But the papers say--"

"The papers lie faster than I can," said the Watermelon, "and that's fairly speedy." He had only an hour and he did not care what she thought between him and the papers. "Billy is a darned cute little name, and a cute little girl," he added.

"I guess you can lie faster than the papers," said she.

"I can when I want to," admitted the Watermelon. "Father used to say that a man that couldn't lie was a fool and one who wouldn't, a bigger."

"I should think if your father was a minister that he wouldn't lie," said Billy severely.

"I know. But he used to say he had to in a business way. To tell a man that there was a bigger hell than this earth was a lie on the face of it."

"Why?"

"Because there couldn't be, he used to say."

"Don't you believe in Heaven?" demanded Billy.

"Sure," said the Watermelon.

"What do you think it's like?" asked Billy.

"A watermelon patch," said the Watermelon promptly. "Just when all the fruit is ripe. Don't you think so?"

"I think it's an ice-cream counter," said Billy.

"Naw. At an ice-cream counter you would have to have money."

"Not in Heaven, you wouldn't," said Billy. "It would all be free and you could have as much as you wanted."

"Who would wait on you? Any one could pick a watermelon, but everybody can't mix an ice-cream soda."

"The bad people would. That would be hell, you see, always serving it to others and never allowed to taste any."

"That wouldn't work, either," objected the Watermelon. "Because there would be so many more to do the serving than there would be people to serve. No, we are both wrong. Heaven is a grove of trees back of a white garage. There's a fallen log and a couple sitting on it."

"I should think that would be monotonous," said Billy. "Do they talk?"

"Sure, they talk. Heaven ain't a deaf and dumb asylum."

"I should think they would get talked out during eternity."

"Ah," said the Watermelon, leaning a bit nearer, "eternity is but a minute."

"What do they talk about?"

"Heaven."

"Are they angels?"

"One is."

Billy laughed. "Who are you?" she asked, leaning toward him, one hand resting on the log between them, her steady eyes on his face.

The Watermelon again drew forth the card case, extracted a card and presented it to her with a flourish.

Holding it, she shook her head dubiously. "I mean are you a stock-broker? Are you on 'Change? Father has been nearly all his life, and he looks it. His eyes and--everything. Your eyes are different, quite different. I don't mean in color and size, for of course they would be, but in expression."

"How do you know?" asked the Watermelon. "You have only seen their expression when I have been looking at you, and a man doesn't look at a girl as if she were the tape from the ticker."

"I know," acknowledged Billy. "But I have known brokers all my life, and some have been young, and they--they aren't like you. I never sat on a log with one and talked about Heaven."

"Well, you see, I am a minister's son, and I had Heaven with every meal, as it were."

"Maybe that's it," agreed Billy.

A stick snapped behind them as though some one were approaching their retreat with stealthy tread under cover of the friendly bushes.

"Are you afraid of cows?" asked Billy, glancing over her shoulder fearfully.

"Not of female cows," said the Watermelon.

"A broker wouldn't have said that," objected Billy, pursing up her mouth. "A broker would say, 'No, indeed, Miss Bartlett. Don't be afraid. A cow is really harmless,' and smile as if I were young and half-witted, anyway."

A stick snapped again, nearer, and a woodpecker fled from a group of trees, scolding angrily.

Billy rose nervously. "If that's a male cow--"

"Sit down," ordered the Watermelon. "It's no cow, unfortunately. It's the general."

"Don't you like the general?" asked Billy, sitting down again, but ready to rise quickly, instantly.

"Yes, I like him, but I don't think I would if I were a motor-car."

"I have known him and Henrietta all my life," said Billy. "Henrietta has been like a mother to me," she added, a statement Henrietta would have denied, shortly but firmly. "Really, we ought to go back."

"Politeness is not politeness unless it comes from the heart," said the Watermelon, in the tones that had made Henrietta think of a minister, she knew not why.

"Did your father used to say that?"

"No, he never had any cause to. We never were polite."

Billy glanced around. "I thought I heard some one cough."

"So did I. It can't be the general. He wouldn't cough."

A hollow cough sounded distinctly from the bushes behind and the Watermelon rose to investigate. It was nearly three and at three he would have to go, or the man down yonder in the swimming hole might come after him to reclaim his clothes and motor-car. The Watermelon begrudged every precious moment.

"Wait, and I will see what the mutt wants," said he. "You will wait, won't you?" he pleaded, looking down at her where she sat on the log.

"We really ought to go," said Billy.

"All right, but don't run off until I've--I've cured that cough, will you?"

Billy nodded and the Watermelon strode to the bushes from whence had sounded the harsh, constrained cough. He pushed the branches aside and gazed into the small, pinched face of a thin youth of about eighteen, dressed in the uniform of the hotel.

"Hist," cautioned the boy, before the Watermelon could speak. "I want to tell you something important."

"All right, spit it out and be quick about it," ordered the Watermelon.

If the real William Hargrave Batchelor had managed to get word to the hotel about the impostor, the sooner he knew it the better. The boy had probably come to offer to help him escape in exchange for something, money most likely. Like all tramps, the Watermelon was quick to read faces, and in the crafty young face before him, he saw only the dollar mark.

"It--I don't want no one to hear me," said the boy, with a motion toward the log and Billy's slim young back.

The Watermelon hesitated, but in the shifty eyes he saw fear and deference. If he knew the Watermelon for a tramp, there would be no deference.

"Gwan, spit it out," ordered the Watermelon. "I ain't keen for the pleasure of hearing any of your heart to heart secrets."

"It's very important," said the boy, "and no one must hear."

"I suppose you think every one is busting to hear your words of wisdom," said the Watermelon. "Probably get a dime a word, eh?"

"It's about you," said the boy, harsh with impatience and nervousness. "It's--" He drew a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out. "He gave me that to send."

"Who are you?"

"The telegraph clerk," whispered the boy, with a frightened glance toward Billy on the log.

The Watermelon read the paper and smiled a slow, sweet smile of anticipated pleasure as the full import of Bartlett's telegram became clear. He glanced at Billy and his smile deepened. Then he turned and drew the boy farther away.

"Bartlett sent this, eh?"

"Yes," cried the boy, eager with excitement over the service he was rendering the great man. "And the minute I read it and knew that you were here, I knew you ought to have it."

"Didn't you send it?"

"Yes, I had to. You see he stood right there. But just as soon as he went, I lit out to find you."

"Where is he now?"

"I seen him on the front porch with Miss Grossman. Say, you'll want to be going now, won't you, huh? You ken get to New York to-night if you hurry."

The Watermelon rattled the coins in his pockets and looked down at the thin, crafty face of the youngster. "Kid," said lie, "if you keep on as you've begun, you'll be doing time, sure. You're a thieving little snipe and ought to be the head of a corporation some day, or a United States senator, 'cause you haven't as much honor as a grasshopper, see? I don't know why you shouldn't land in Sing Sing, if you miss the corporation job or the senate."

"Huh," said the boy, reddening with the praise of the great man.

"If you let on that you have shown this to me, you will lose your job here, you know. So, until I can see my friend, J. Pierpont, about that other job for you, you'd better keep your mouth shut. Understand?"

"Sure," cried the boy. "Course I understand."

The Watermelon handed him a quarter. "When I reach New York," said he airily, "I'll send you me check for a thousand."

*CHAPTER VII*

*WATERMELON YIELDS*

Eager to accomplish the plan he had suddenly conceived, the Watermelon turned and strolled back to Billy, while the boy gazed after such majesty in awed admiration.

"Who was it?" asked Billy, looking up as the Watermelon approached.

"The telegraph clerk," said the Watermelon calmly. "A telegram--and he brought it to me."

He made no motion to sit down and Billy rose.

"I suppose you have to go back," said she. She had to throw back her head to see into his face, for the top of her beflowered hat only reached to his shoulder.

"No," said the Watermelon, preparing the way for the future. "I could take a few days off, if I wanted to. Come on. I might as well try and save the remains of my car after the general has done his best to ruin it. I heard him go into the garage as we got out of sight. The general is more expensive than a motorcar."

"I like the general," said Billy, as they started slowly back.

"I suppose he has been like a grandfather to you," said the Watermelon, glancing down at the top of the big hat. "Don't you want me for a relative of some kind?"

"You said relatives were afflictions," objected Billy.

"I know; but it is only through our afflictions that we can rise to higher things."

"What higher things?"

"Why, Heaven, as I described it last."

They found the general with Henrietta and Bartlett in the garage. The general was kindly superintending the filling of the absent Batchelor's car with gasolene, Bartlett was expounding the merits of his make of car as superior to any other make, while Henrietta sat on the step of the general's car and pretended to be listening.

"I took the liberty," apologized the general, as the other two appeared in the doorway, feeling, on the contrary, that he was doing the young man an inestimable favor.

"Go ahead," said the Watermelon.

"Draw the line somewhere," advised Henrietta. "Father is too fond of trying to see what makes the wheels go round to give him carte blanche with any car."

"I understand a car thoroughly, Henrietta," said the general. "I have always been fond of mechanics."

"I know it, dear," said Henrietta with contrition. "I have always said that if you hadn't been a general, you would have been a master mechanic."

"Thank God, he's a general," whispered the Watermelon into the small ear of Billy.

"To thoroughly appreciate a car, you should take a trip of a week or two," said Bartlett, not glancing at the Watermelon, apparently talking to the general alone. "There is nothing like it. It has revolutionized travel. Have you ever done it, General, spent a month, a week, at least, in your car, going where you wanted, stopping as long as you wanted and as often?"

Assured that Alphonse was attending to the gasolene, the general withdrew his invaluable supervision and turned to the others.

"We spent a week in the car last summer, and we intended to do it again this year, but have somehow put it off."

"It's perfectly delightful," said Henrietta. "You wonder how you ever tolerated a train."

"It is tramping idealized," declared Bartlett.

"It's dandy," cried Billy. "Daddy, do you remember that time we went from Maine straight down the coast to Maryland?"

The general turned to the Watermelon. "I suppose you have grown tired of it," said he, "A young unmarried man can go when and where he wants."

"Oh, I've been around some," admitted the Watermelon modestly. "But never in a car."

"You should try it, my dear sir," said Bartlett. "Upon my word, you have no idea how fascinating it is."

"I never owned a car."

"You do now," laughed Henrietta. "Now's your chance."

"I've no one to go with," replied the Watermelon innocently, smiling down at Henrietta on the car step and not looking at Bartlett.

Henrietta laughed and threw out one of her delicate, graceful hands with a little gesture that embraced the whole group. "You have all of us, now," said she. "We have made you one of us."

Bartlett agreed with a chuckle. Things were coming his way with hardly any effort on his part, as they, had had a way of doing until William Hargrave Batchelor had made himself too annoying. He took it as a good sign and smiled cheerfully.

"You can take us all," laughed Billy.

"A week," said Bartlett tentatively, "in the country, away from telegrams and letters and papers, it would do me a vast amount of good. I have been overworking lately." He nodded gravely, in confirmation of his own remark. "I would like to drop everything, now, this minute, crank up the car and start, no matter where, any place, any road. You don't need clothes. The lighter you travel, the better. You can put up anywhere you happen to be for the night, and, if you get lost it does not matter, merely adds to the fun and affords an adventure."

"It sounds alluring," said Henrietta. "Suppose we all go, just as we are!"

"We could," cried Billy. "Why, Dad, we could do it easily. I have that linen dress I wore yesterday, and my brush and comb and things, and you have yours."

"But the general and Henrietta," objected Bartlett. "They only ran up here for the day, my dear. They may not have anything."

"Yes, we have," cried Henrietta, "We planned to stay a week or two and sent a trunk along. We could easily pack a suit-case."

"Oh!" exclaimed Billy. "Do let's do it."

"I noticed a suit-case in your car, Batchelor," Bartlett turned to the Watermelon, genially. "I judge you are planning to take a few days' jaunt somewhere."

"I was thinking of it," acknowledged the Watermelon, with truth, lounging gracefully in the doorway.

Bartlett laughed. "We are crazy, all of us," said he and waved the suggestion aside as a whimsical fancy best forgotten.

"Oh, Daddy, please," teased Billy.

"But, Billy, child, the others don't want to do it, the general or Batchelor."

"I want to," said Henrietta, "and so does the general. Father, wouldn't you like to take a trip in the car somewhere for a week or two?"

The general's attention had wandered back to the car. He turned abstractedly. "Do what, Henrietta?"

"Take a trip in the car for a week or two."

"Yes, we must plan one later, as we did last summer."

"But we mean now, father, start right now."

"Now? Henrietta, you're foolish, my dear."

"No, indeed, father. Why not now? 'Do it now' is your favorite motto, you know."

"It is impossible," and the general, also, dismissed the subject.

Bartlett thrust his hands in his pockets and appeared absorbed in his car. He knew Billy.

"Why impossible?" asked Billy, laying a small hand on the general's arm. "You were going to spend a week here. Why not spend it in your car? You have no engagement, have you?"

"No," said the general, smiling into her pretty face. "But what about clothes?"

"Clothes," laughed Billy, "why, clothes--"

"Be hanged," said the Watermelon.

Bartlett laughed. "Quite so. Wash out on the line, general. Better come."

"Pretend the Indians have risen," said Henrietta, "and you are given an hour to get into marching order."

"Ah, yes," cried the eager Billy, patting the arm she clung to. "You used to do it, General, why, in half an hour, out on the plains."

"What do you know about it, puss?" asked the general.

"Didn't you?" pleaded Billy.

"Yes," said the general, who always gave in to a pretty woman. "I used to. In those days we were always ready for a fight."

"So you will go? I knew you would."

"But Mr. Batchelor may have to return to the city," suggested Henrietta, glancing at the Watermelon.

Bartlett shot a glance at the young man and began to whistle softly through his teeth as he indifferently raised the bonnet of his car and examined the clean, well-ordered machinery within. Would Billy's charms be enough to hold the young man against his better judgment? Could he forget what the next week meant to him, forget the lure of the Street, the rise and fall of stocks, in the light of a woman's eyes, in the sound of a woman's laugh? If Billy could not keep him, what could? He must be kept. A week with him out of the way, the ring could be renewed, strengthened, that which was lost, regained. Bartlett bent low over his car, but he heard Billy, sweetly speaking to the Watermelon.

"You don't have to return to the city, do you? You would much rather go with us, wouldn't you?"

The Watermelon glanced at Bartlett. If he accepted too readily, Bartlett might wonder, yet if he hesitated, if he thought apparently of how important his presence in the city would be in the coming week, even if there were to be a few days of armed neutrality, it might seem even more impossible that he would consent to go.

"Can't you join us, Batchelor?" asked the general. "You've made enough for one while. When you run out of that three million, you can go back. Time enough then."

"Swollen fortunes are a crime nowadays," said Henrietta, smiling her odd, half gay, half tender smile.

"Come ahead, Batchelor," urged Bartlett with friendly good nature, neither too eager, nor too insistent, but his eyes were half shut and the palms of his hands wet as he rubbed them on his handkerchief.

"We will start to-night," said Billy. "It will be beautiful. In the night, driving is perfectly lovely, you know, Mr. Batchelor."

"Better come," advised the general. "We can keep in touch with the telegraph. It's not as if we were going into the wilds of Africa."

"No, indeed," said Bartlett. "I have interests in New York, myself, that I want to keep an eye on."

Billy laid her hand on his arm. "Won't you come?" she teased.

The Watermelon looked down, under the brim of her hat, into the gray-green eyes and smiled.

"Yes," he said simply. "I would like to."

*CHAPTER VIII*

*GRATITUDE IS A FLOWER*

James lay in the shade of the butternut tree and smoked gloomily. He was well-shaved and his hair newly cut and carefully brushed, but his clothes were still the rags that had graced his muscular form since the dim, nearly forgotten long ago, when he had stolen them one lucky night from some back yard passed in the course of his travels.

He squinted at the sun through the tree tops and judged it to be about four. The Watermelon had evidently done no better or he would have turned up before. Mike, sprawled in the grass beside him, slept with the stentorian slumber of the corpulent. James kicked him.

"Aw, wake up," he growled. "I want your rare intelligence to unbosom me sorrowful and heavy heart to."

Mike yawned, stretched and sat up, pushing his shapeless hat to the back of his round hot head. He drew his sleeve across his streaming forehead and yawned and stretched again.

"You ought to relax, James," said he, cutting a square from the plug of tobacco that he carried carefully wrapped in a soiled piece of tinfoil. "Youse will have noivous prostration one of these days with the strenuous life youse leads. The modern hurry and worry is all wrong. Now, take me--"

"No one would take you, not even a kodak," sneered James, scowling before him moodily.

"The matter with you, James," said Mike, sticking the tobacco into his mouth with the blade of his knife, "the matter with you is youse are harboring and cultivating that green-eyed monster called jealousy. Youse are, in short, jealous of me young friend, the Watermillion."

"Aw, jealous of a kid! Who? Me? Not on your tin-type."

"You say so, James. We all deny the werminous cancers that gnaw our vitals. But look into your own heart, question yourself--"

"Aw, pound yer ear," snapped James.

Some one was heard approaching and Mike paused from cleaning the blade of his knife in the ground before him to listen.

"The youth comes," said he, and rose clumsily to his little fat legs. He stepped aside to see up the path, but James did not move.

"A radiant vision of manly beauty," announced Mike, one hand on his heart, the other shading his small eyes as though dazzled by a great and brilliant light.

James glanced up sullenly. A youth was coming through the trees, tall and graceful and broad-shouldered. His suit of soft brown, his gently tipped panama, his light shoes and silk socks brought with them a breath of motor-cars and steam yachts, of the smoker in a railway train, with a white-clad, attentive porter, instead of the brake beam underneath and an irate station-master and furious conductor. From the lapel of his coat gleamed a heavy gold chain and in his stylish tie a pin of odd but costly workmanship caught the eye of the enraptured beholder.

Mike laid his hand on his heart again, removed his hat, and standing aside for the youth to pass, bowed low.

"Me lud," said he in humble salutation.

James glanced up from his seat under the butternut tree. He regarded the vision of affluence before him a moment in growing admiration and awe. Then he removed his pipe and spoke.

"You'll get three years for this," said he cheerfully, and put his pipe back into his mouth.

"Three nothing," sneered the Watermelon.

"Jealousy," said Mike, putting his hat on the back of his frowsy head. "Jealousy maketh the tongue cruel and the heart bitter. Me," he spread forth his fat dirty hands, "me beauty is such it gives me no concern. I realize youse can not gild the lily."

The Watermelon drew himself up to his full height, threw back his shoulders and fastidiously adjusted his cuffs, with their heavy gold links.

"With every passing moment, more beautiful," murmured Mike.

James snorted.

"Well," asked the Watermelon, "who gets the prize?"

"Me humble faculties," said Mike, with one wary eye on James, "me humble faculties are incapable of rendering true and accurate judgment in the present case where two such rare specimens of manly beauty compete in my honored and deeply grateful presence."

The Watermelon laughed and ran his hand over his smooth chin and hairless cheeks with a gesture of gentle pride. "James said if I could not get a suit, I would be counted down and out. I," and he drew himself up, "I do not have to take advantage of a mere technicality. I scorn to win by default."

"True nobility," said Mike, "is in them words."

"Aw, cut the gas!" growled James. "Where'd you get the blooming outfit?"

"I win, do I?" persisted the Watermelon.

"Mike's the judge," returned James, losing interest in what was too obviously a one-sided contest.

"In this competition, there are three points to decide," declared Mike, not quite sure whom he feared the more, James or the Watermelon. "Beauty of face, beauty of clothes and beauty of soul. The one who gets two points out of the three wins."

The Watermelon nodded, James grunted.

Mike glanced thoughtfully from one to the other and decided that danger lay in either choice. "Neither of you," said he slowly and wisely, "win. For unexcelled art in raiment, me young friend here might be said to be the only competitor. For rare physical beauty and winning charm in looks, unaided by mere externals, me friend and fellow-citizen, James, gets the just reward, and for pure, manly beauty of the soul, truth, which I always follow, compels me to give the prize to me humble self."

"Aw," growled James, "this ain't no show. We will have another."

The Watermelon hitched up his trousers and chose a clean seat on a fallen log. When coat and trousers legs were adjusted so as best to keep their faultless creases, he spoke with the bored accents of the weary scion of great wealth.

"I'm starting for a motor tour with some of me friends," said he.

"I," said Mike, "have always felt for you as for a dear and only son."

"Gwan," said James imperiously. "Where did you get the glad rags?"

The Watermelon told them briefly how from a nameless hobo a few short hours before, he had become a famous young financier, hobnobbing with generals and millionaires. He chuckled as he told it with the half-cynical amusement of the philosopher for the follies of the poor, seething, hurrying, struggling crowd of humanity, too busy in their rush for gold and social position to see their own laughable pitiful shams and affectations. Poverty clears the eyesight as nothing else can, and the Watermelon had been poor so long and was so indifferent to his position that he had lost none of his clearness of vision in the strenuous endeavor of the others, and he saw, unconsciously, but nevertheless keenly, the dead level of human nature, with its artificial hills of gold and social position.

"Me father, I believe, is a policeman," said he. "Me mother a wash-woman. If I had a grandfather, no one knows. I'm fortunate to have a father and no questions asked, yet just because I can write me check, as they think, for a million and have it honored, I'm 'my boy' to the elite of the land, the 'best people.' Gosh, it's enough to make an ass bray."

"It is that," said Mike. "For me, only the intrinsic worth of the soul. Maybe there was a bit of change in the pockets?" he added as an afterthought.

"Yes, there was quite a bit. He's fresh at the game and carries a roll to show off with," returned the Watermelon, pulling a roll of bills from his pocket. Mike edged a bit nearer. "See here, I want you fellers to do something for me."

"For you," said Mike, "I would give me immortal soul."

"I want something more than that, Mike," said the Watermelon.

"Me plug of baccy?" asked Mike with feeling.

The Watermelon shook his head as he slowly pulled a greenback from the bunch he held. "I want you two to go to that lake, get my clothes out of the log and give 'em to the poor devil."

"Don't be a fool," advised James. "He's all right. Nothing will happen to him."

"I know, but I keep thinking of him. He can afford to lose what he is going to lose, but all the same, he's cold and tired."

"Aw, don't go and do that," pleaded Mike. "He'll have youse arrested--"

"I ain't going to be around here; besides, no one would think of looking for me with the swell bunch I'm going with."

"Maybe not," admitted James gravely, "but there's always the danger that some cop will have brains. And he's bound to get away to-night, all right, and have the bulls on you the minute he does. You had better take all the time you can to get away and don't try to shorten it none."

The Watermelon slowly unwound another bill and nodded. "I know, but I'm sorry for him. A few hours won't make much difference. He hasn't the slightest idea who swiped his clothes. He'll think some tramp did and that the feller is getting out of the country by cross-cuts and as fast as he can. Don't you see? No one will look for me with the general and Bartlett. I'm going to have a week of fun--"

"Maybe," said James gloomily. "Hardly, if you give that bloke his clothes before you need to."

The Watermelon waved the statement aside. "We are going to leave about five," said he. "They are waiting for me, now. It will take you a bit of a walk to find the place. I put the clothes in an empty log near a pile of rocks at the foot of three tall pines, standing together about ten yards from the lake. You can't help but find it. Give him the clothes and this check-book and fountain pen. I can't use them and you two won't get gay with them 'cause Mike's a coward, and James has too much sense."

"You're a damn fool," said James shortly.

"He's all right," argued Mike, meaning the man in the forest shades. "What can hurt him?"

"I know, but he's mighty uncomfortable. Can't sit down, maybe, and there may be flies and mosquitoes--"

"Naw," protested Mike. "He's just comfortable. If it was the style, I would like to have gone naked to-day."

"He'll have the police after youse," warned James, "as soon as he can reach the village."

"Sure he will. Gratitude is a flower," said Mike grandiloquently, "that I have never picked."

"And never will," added James with grim pessimism.

"That's all right," returned the Watermelon. "I ain't gathering any flowers this trip. Here's a ten-spot for each of you, and mind you do what I say."

"For you," said Mike, "I'd give me heart's blood."

"Where do we find this pond?" asked James.

"Come with me and I'll take you to the road that leads by it. You give me time to get to the hotel, though, before you give him his clothes."

"Trust me," said Mike, lovingly concealing the greenback in the dark dirty recesses of his rags.

They parted in the road where the Watermelon had come upon the big red touring car. Mike and James watched him until he disappeared over the top of the hill, then climbed the wall and made their way through the woods to the little mountain lake.

"We won't get the clothes," said James, "until we have had a talk with the guy and tried to get him into a reasonable frame of mind. It's just likely that he may be somewhat put out."

There was no one in sight as they made their way cautiously to the edge of the lake. The trees grew nearly down to the narrow, pebbly beach and were reflected in the quiet depths of the water. The little brook, tumbling over its miniature waterfall, with a ripple and splash, was the only sound that broke the all-pervading silence. Nothing stirred in the underbrush, neither man nor beast, and James and Mike were about to slip away as quietly as they came when a stick snapped behind them sharply and Mike wheeled.

A man was peering at them eagerly over the tops of a few bushes. His face was white and his teeth chattering. His arms, dimly discerned through the branches, were wrapped around his shivering form with fervor and he was standing gingerly on first one foot and then the other.

"Hello," said Mike facetiously. "Going in?" and he nodded casually backward to the lake.

"Been in," chattered the miserable wretch, trying to control his teeth so that he could say more.

"Oughtn't to stay in too long," advised James solicitously. "Your lips look blue."

"Bad for the heart," said Mike.

"We ain't ladies," added James with delicacy. "You might come out from them bushes."

"Some--some one stole my--my--my clothes," stammered the young man, stepping carefully forth. "Been here--here since this--this morning." He looked sharply at the shabby pair before him, with quick distrust in his bloodshot eyes and added coldly, "Some--some tramp."

"Did you see him?" asked James.

"No--no--no. But who else could have stolen them?"

"I," said Mike, drawing himself up to his five feet five and throwing back his pudgy shoulders, "I am a tramp. I trust, sir, you meant no insult to me profession?"

The stranger waved the question aside. "Get me some clothes and I'll give you some money."

"What money?" asked James.

"I will send you some. I am rich. My car is in the road. Maybe you saw it. I was coming through the woods to the hotel to get a tow up, for I was out of gasolene, when I saw the lake. It was early and I thought I would take a swim. Maybe you saw my car by the side of the road?"

"I didn't see no car," said Mike.

"Did you come by the road?"

"Yes, a narrow wood road."

"Yes, yes; that's where I left it. The damned thief has probably gone off with my car, too."

"Then he couldn't be a tramp," said James judiciously. "Tramps don't know nothing about motor-cars."

"Maybe he took it up to the hotel," said Mike, cheerfully helpful.

The stranger shook his head. "No, he wouldn't do that. He would get out of the country as fast as he could."

"If there wasn't no gasolene," suggested James tentatively.

"He could easily get some from the hotel. It was early when he stole my clothes." And James realized with relief that the youth before him was, in his own eyes, always right, and advice wholly superfluous.

"I saw a big red car," said Mike, "down the road a bit, over the other side of the village, going south. But maybe your car wasn't red."

"Yes, yes, it was," cried the stranger. "What was the make? Could you tell?"

"A Thomas car--"

"Ah, my car. Get me something to put on and I'll make it worth your while. I'm William Hargrave Batchelor. Maybe you have read about me in yesterday's papers?" And the poor, shivering, naked wretch drew himself up proudly and smiled with much complacency.

"I," said Mike, tapping himself on his breast, "am George V., of England."

"No, no," protested the stranger. "I'm not fooling. Get me, some clothes and come with me to the nearest telegraph office and I'll show you."

"How much," asked Mike, "will you give me?"

"Us," corrected James.

"How much do you want?"

"How much will you give?"

"Ten dollars."

"For a suit of clothes?" Mike's fat red face depicted his horror.

"Twenty," cried the stranger.

"Apiece?" asked James.

"Apiece," declared the unhappy youth.

"Apiece, James," said Mike, turning inquiringly to his companion.

"Make it thirty," said James, "and we may be able to help you."

"All right, thirty apiece. Get me the clothes."

"You might write us each a check," suggested James, and drew forth the pen and check-book.

"For innocence," groaned Mike, "commend me to me loving comrade, James."

The stranger's eyes glittered as he recognized his book and pen. He glanced from one ragged specimen before him to the other, from James' crafty face to Mike's sly visage, but he said nothing, merely took the pen and book.

"Your names?" he asked, opening the book and resting it against a tree for support.

"Better put 'to bearer,'" said James. "Simplicity is always the best."

The stranger wrote the checks, signed them and turned to the two watching him. "Bring me the suit," he said quietly, "and these are yours."

Mike shuffled off into the trees and James and the stranger waited in silence for his return. He came back presently and threw the suit at the stranger's feet.

"You'll notice," said he, "that this nobby spring suit in our latest style is cheap at the price. Fancy, a thing like that for only sixty dollars!"

"I see," said the stranger.

"Payable in advance," said James.

The stranger handed them each a check and thoughtfully drew on the shabby clothes of the Watermelon. It had not been long since he had worn rags of a necessity, and he hitched them up with the skill bred of familiarity. He thrust the pen and book into a pocket he had first made sure was holeless. Then he turned to the two and his eyes gleamed.

"How much for the car?" he asked.

Mike raised his hands to Heaven. "The car? James, does he think we stole his car?"

"A stock-broker," said James, "would suspect his own mother."

"If you want youse car," said Mike, "go to the hotel."

"Bah," snapped the stranger. "Do you think I was weaned yesterday? Be quick and tell me your price."

"I have no price," said Mike proudly, not sure where the car was.

They started through the woods to the village, the stranger leading and Mike and James following. At the edge of the village, they paused instinctively and without a word.

"Tell me where the car is and who your accomplice is," said the stranger in the short sharp tones of one born to command, "and you two can go free. If you don't tell, I'll do my best to have you arrested and sent up for grand larceny. Understand?"

"Oh, yes," said Mike, "I understand. When I was young I learned English, foolishly, as I haven't used it since."

"We don't know where your damn car is," declared James. "And we didn't steal your blooming outfit. What do you take us for, anyway?"

"Very well, then," snapped the stranger. "I see that you won't tell. Remember, I gave you your chance."

He turned and hurried down the village street. The two watched him as he stopped a pedestrian and apparently asked to be directed to the justice of the peace, then they slipped away in the woods and quietly, simultaneously, turned north, falling into a gentle lope that took them far with the minimum of effort.

"I hope the kid ain't pinched," said James, after a while.

Mike sighed and shook his head. "Grand larceny," he murmured. "That's gratitude for you."

*CHAPTER IX*

*ON THE ROAD*

The general never went anywhere without a well-stocked library, guide-books, instruction books, maps. All were consulted long and often, and with a childlike faith that Henrietta's sarcasm and the sign-posts had not been able to shake.

If the guide-book read, "White rock on left," the general stopped the car if the rock were not immediately seen where it should be according to the book and refused to go farther until it had been discovered. If the rock could not be located, the general ran back a little way or ahead a little way and if the white rock still refused to be seen on the left, the general did not see what right any one had to remove valuable landmarks. Henrietta's tentative endeavor to point out the possibility that the book was mistaken, doubtless unintentionally, but still mistaken, was simply waved aside as one more indication of woman's inferiority to man. If the book said that there was a hill at such and such a place and there was in fact no hill there, the book was still correct. There was something the matter with the landscape.