mashing
beats." He contrasted art and journalism and found Brian indifferent
to his scorn.

"It isn't just Whitaker and the sunsets and the desire to exchange the
sham of my 'art' for the truth of something real," said Brian. "It's
everything. It's the studio here and things like--like the shotgun. I
hate the brilliant, disorderly hand-to-mouth sort of Bohemia, Kenny, in
which you seem to thrive. Either we have a lot of money or a lot of
debts--"

Garry nodded.

"I suppose," went on Brian wearily, "that my nature must demand an
orderly security in essentials. Plebeian, of course, but comfortable.
I mean, money in sufficient regularity, chairs you can sit down on
without looking first--" he shrugged.

Further detail and he would be drifting into deep water. Life with
Kenny, who borrowed as freely as he gave, entailed petty harassments
that could not be named.

"Things," finished Brian. "that are mine without a lock and key."

He had meant not to say it. Kenny struck his hand fiercely against the
table.

"You hear that, Garry?" he demanded with an indignant bid for support.
"You hear that? By the Lord Harry, Brian, it's damnable and indecent
to harp so upon the shotgun after smashing the statuette."

The circle was complete. They were back to Kenny's grievance. Brian
sighed.

"I wasn't thinking of the shotgun," he said. "There have been times,
Kenny, when I hadn't a collar left--"

"He's right," put in Garry with quick sympathy. "It's not just the
shotgun--"

"Garry, you shut up!" snapped Kenny, sweeping the fragments of Ann's
statuette into the table drawer and closing it with a bang.

"Please remember," reminded Garry, coldly, "that an established
privilege of mine, since I undertook this Hague stuff, is absolute
frankness."

"Br-r-r-r--"

"Who rapped for me?"

"Kenny did," said Brian.

"Any man," retorted Kenny bitterly, "may have a--a moment of lunacy. I
thought you were impartial."

"You mean," said Garry keenly, "that when you rapped you'd been
hypnotized by the justice of your own case and felt a little reckless."

Kenny drew himself up splendidly and glared at Garry through a cloud of
smoke.

"Piffle!" said Garry. "No stately stuff for me, Kenny, please. It's
late and I'm tired. I'll referee this thing in my own way. I
repeat--it's not just the shotgun. It's everything he owns."

"What for instance?" inquired Kenny, dangerously polite.

"His money, his clothes and