il I see your plan. And
when I see it I fall for it like a ton of bricks. Old Berg'll
never know. He's so darned high-principled--"

Jock McChesney stood up. The little drawn pinched look which had
made his face so queerly old was gone. His eyes were bright. His
face was flushed.

"There! You've said it. I didn't realize how raw this deal was
until you put it into words for me. I want to thank you. You're
right. Bartholomew Berg is so darned high-principled that two
muckers like you and me, groveling around in the dirt, can't even
see the tips of the heights to which his ideals have soared. Don't
stop me. I know I'm talking like a book. But I feel like something
that has just been kicked out into the sunshine after having been
in jail."

"You're tired," said Ben Griebler. "It's been a strain. Something
always snaps after a long tension."

Jock's flat palm came down among the papers with a crack.

"You bet something snaps! It has just snapped inside me." He
began quietly to gather up the papers in an orderly little way.

"What's that for?" inquired Griebler, coming forward. "You don't
mean--"

"I mean that I'm going to go home and square this thing with a
lady you've never met. You and she wouldn't get on if you did. You
don't talk the same language. Then I'm going to have a cold bath,
and a hot breakfast. And then, Griebler, I'm going to take this
stuff to Bartholomew Berg and tell him the whole nasty business.
He'll see the humor of it. But I don't know whether he'll fire me,
or make me vice-president of the company. Now, if you want to come
over and talk to him, fair and square, why come."

"Ten to one he fires you," remarked Griebler, as Jock reached the
door.

"There's only one person I know who's game enough to take you up
on that. And it's going to take more nerve to face her at
six-thirty than it will to tackle a whole battalion of Bartholomew
Bergs at nine."

"Well, I guess I can get in a three-hour sleep before--er--"

"Before what?" said Jock McChesney from the door.

Ben Griebler laughed a little shamefaced laugh. "Before I see you
at ten, sonny."

V

THE SELF-STARTER

There is nothing in the sound of the shrill little bell to warn us
of the import of its message. More's the pity. It may be that bore
whose telephone conversation begins: "Well, what do you know
to-day?" It may be your lawyer to say you've inherited a million.
Hence the arrogance of the instrument. It knows its vo