rian was gone.

White and startled, Kenny unearthed the chafing dish and made himself
some coffee.

Brian, of course, would return in the morning, whistling and sane. He
would call something back in his big, pleasant voice to the elevator
man who worshipped him, and bang the studio door. The lad was not
given to such definite revolt. Besides, Brian, he must remember, was
an O'Neill, an Irishman and a son of his, an indisputable trio of good
fortune; as such he could be depended upon not to make an ass of
himself.

CHAPTER II

THE UNSUCCESSFUL PARENT

Kenny slept as he lived, with a genius for dreams and adventure. He
remembered moodily as he rose at noon that he had dreamed a
kaleidoscopic chase, precisely like a moving picture with himself a
star, in which, bolting through one taxi door and out another with a
shotgun in his hand, he had valiantly pursued a youth who had,
miraculously, found the crooked stick of the psaltery and stolen it.
The youth proved to be Brian. That part was reasonable enough. Brian
was the only one who could find the thing long enough to steal it.

It was not likely to be a day for work. That he felt righteously could
not be expected. Nevertheless, with hurt concession to certain talk of
indolence the night before, he donned a painter's smock and, filled
with a consciousness of tremendous energy to be expended in God's good
time, telephoned John Whitaker.

Yes, Brian had been there. Where he was now, where he would be,
Whitaker did not feel at liberty to divulge. Frankly he was pledged to
silence. Kenny willing, he would be up to dinner at six. He had a lot
to say.

Kenny banged the receiver into the hook in a blaze of temper, hurt and
unreasonable, and striding to the rear window flung it up to cool his
face. There were bouillon cups upon the sill. Bouillon cups!
Bouillon cups! Thunder-and-turf! There were bouillon cups everywhere.
Nobody but Brian would have bought so many handles. A future of
handles loomed drearily ahead. Brian could talk of disorder all he
chose. Half of it was bouillon cups. Bitterly resenting the reproach
they seemed to embody, stacked there upon the sill, Kenny passionately
desired to sweep them out of the window once and for all. The desire
of the moment, ever his doom, proved overpowering. The cups crashed
upon a roof below with prompt results. Kenny was appalled at the
number of heads that appeared at studio windows, the head o