most more satisfactory than that, the
older men in the Citizens Club were treating him with increasing
friendliness, whereas in the past, they had treated him rather as an
amusing young comedian, to be laughed at, but not with. And finally,
he was flattered by the growing intimacy with Mr. Archer.

"A year ago," Mr. Archer once said to him, "I used to think you were a
spoiled brat, Henry. Now I think you're--rather a credit to your
uncle."

Henry grinned. "And I used to think some very disrespectful things
about you, and now I'd rather have you on my side than anybody I know.
I _must_ have been a raw egg."

"You'll win out yet, my boy--Ted Mix to the contrary notwithstanding."

"Oh, sure!" said Henry, optimistically. "I don't gloom much--only
fifteen minutes a day in my own room. I got the habit when I was
taking my correspondence course on efficiency." Even in these
occasional sessions of gloom, however, (and his estimate of time was
fairly accurate) he never felt any acute antagonism either towards his
aunt or towards Mr. Mix, he never felt as though he were in
competition with them. He was racing against time, and it was the
result of his own individual effort which would go down on the record.
As to his aunt, she had been perfectly consistent; as to Mr. Mix,
Henry didn't even take the trouble to despise him. He carried over to
business one of his principles in sport--if the other fellow wanted so
badly to win that he was willing to cheat, he wanted victory more than
Henry did, and he was welcome to it. After the match was over, Henry
might volunteer to black his eye for him, but that was a side issue.

Mr. Mix had said to him, sorrowfully, at the Citizens Club: "One of
the prime regrets of my life, Henry, was that you--the nephew of my
old friend--should have suffered--should have been in a _position_ to
suffer--from the promotion of civic integrity."

Henry laughed unaffectedly. "Yes," he said, "it must have raised
perfect Cain with you."

"I don't like your tone, Henry. Do you doubt my word?"

"Doubt it? After I've just sympathized with the awful torture you must
have gone through?... Tell me something; what's all this gossip I hear
about you and Aunt Mirabelle? Somebody saw you buggy-riding last
Sunday. Gay young dog!"

Mr. Mix grew red. "Buggy-riding! Miss Starkweather was kind enough to
take me out to the lake in her car."

"That's buggy-riding," said Henry, affably. "Buggy-riding's a generic
term.