tainty that that
was impossible.

CHAPTER IV

OIL AND WATER

I

"You see, Miss Wynrod, I'm as sound as a nut. I can gambol like a lamb.
I am ready again to dance to the world's piping."

It was just six weeks to a day after his introduction to her that Good
made this announcement, and executed a lumbering step of his own
devising, to prove its truth.

"It's now the season of the sere and yellow leaf. There's work to be
done. I must be about it," he added more seriously.

"If you work as you gambol, I shouldn't think you'd be much in demand,"
laughed Judith.

"Quite so," admitted Good, blithely. "But if my feet are clumsy my wits
are nimble. I guess I can find someone to hire them at twelve dollars
per week."

"Twelve dollars a week! You don't mean to say...."

Good raised his eyebrows. "Why, surely. Does that surprise you? Of
course," he added half apologetically, "that doesn't represent my own
valuation, by any means. But _The World_ is a poor paper for poor
people. It couldn't pay much."

"That's all very well," she cried, "but why did you work for it?"

"It needed me," he said simply, and she was silenced. There were
stranger things in this man revealed at every conversation. She had
never known anyone before who toiled because someone "needed" him. She
was shamed by her own amazement.

"I guess I'll go on the 10.46," he said.

"No," she cried. "You won't."

He looked up at her in some surprise.

"That is, you won't," she added more mildly, "if you care to do me a
favour."

"What an absurd 'if.' Give your orders."

"Well, I have some people coming to dinner on Wednesday. I--I--want them
to know you."

"What a treat!" he said sarcastically.

"I want you to know them, too. You see, they're all rich people. And
you've hated them without knowing what very ordinary human beings they
really are. I think you owe it to your own sense of fairness to see some
of the oppressors of the poor in the flesh."

"It's quite impossible," he declared firmly.

She chose to ignore the finality of his tone.

"It isn't quite just, is it, to write articles about the feelings and
the motives of people you don't really know?"

He strove to divert the argument. "There's something in perspective, you
know."

"Before chance threw us together you thought me distinctly wicked. You
don't think that now, do you?"

"I told the paper I was in the camps of the Persians," he said
sententiously. "They fired me