winkling
down upon him, he received Johnson, dry and sour looking as if he
expected ill news, and Applerod, bright and radiant as if Fortune's
purse were just about to open to him.

"Well, boys," said Bobby cheerily, "we're going to stick right
together. We're going to start into a new business as soon as we can
find one that suits us, and your employment begins from this minute.
We're beginning with a capital of two hundred and fifty thousand
dollars," and rather pompously he spread the check upon the desk. His
pompousness faded in something under fifteen seconds, for it was in
about that length of time that he caught sight of a plain gray
envelope then in the process of emerging from Johnson's pocket. He
accepted it with something of reluctance, but opened it nevertheless;
and this was the message of the late John Burnit:

_To my Son Upon the Occasion of his Being Intrusted
With Real Money_

"In most cases the difference between spending money and
investing it is wholly a matter of speed. Not one man in ten
knows when and where and how to put a dollar properly to work;
so the only financial education I expect you to get out of an
attempt to go into business is a painful lesson in
subtraction."

"This letter, Johnson, is only a delicate intimation from the governor
that I'll make another blooming ass of myself with this," commented
Bobby, tapping his finger on the check, and placing the letter face
downward beside it, where he eyed it askance.

"A quarter of a million!" observed Applerod, rolling out the amount
with relish. "A great deal can be done with two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars, you know."

"That's just the point," observed Bobby with a frown of perplexity,
directed alternately to the faithful gentlemen who for upward of
thirty years had been his father's right and left bowers. "What am I
to do with it? Johnson, what would you do with two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars?"

"Lose it," confessed stooped and bloodless Johnson. "I never made a
dollar out of a dollar in my life."

"What would you do with it, Applerod?"

Mr. Applerod, scarcely able to contain himself, had been eagerly
awaiting that question.

"Purchase, improve and market the Westmarsh Addition," he said
promptly, expanding fully two inches across his already rotund chest.

"What?" snorted Johnson, and cast upon his workmate a look of
withering scorn. "Are you still dreaming about the possib