. He was
tall and straight and smooth-shaven. People called him "clean-looking."
Older women were interested in him because his father and mother had
made a romantic runaway match, which was the talk of the town in the
seventies, and had never been forgiven. Worldly women were interested
in him because he was the only grandson of Edwin Peter Brewster, who
was many times a millionaire, and Monty was fairly certain to be his
heir--barring an absent-minded gift to charity. Younger women were
interested for a much more obvious and simple reason: they liked him.
Men also took to Monty because he was a good sportsman, a man among
men, because he had a decent respect for himself and no great aversion
to work.

His father and mother had both died while he was still a child, and, as
if to make up for his long relentlessness, the grandfather had taken
the boy to his own house and had cared for him with what he called
affection. After college and some months on the continent, however,
Monty had preferred to be independent. Old Mr. Brewster had found him a
place in the bank, but beyond this and occasional dinners, Monty asked
for and received no favors. It was a question of work, and hard work,
and small pay. He lived on his salary because he had to, but he did not
resent his grandfather's attitude. He was better satisfied to spend his
"weakly salary," as he called it, in his own way than to earn more by
dining seven nights a week with an old man who had forgotten he was
ever young. It was less wearing, he said.

Among the "Little Sons of the Rich," birthdays were always occasions
for feasting. The table was covered with dishes sent up from the French
restaurant in the basement. The chairs were pushed back, cigarettes
were lighted, men had their knees crossed. Then Pettingill got up.

"Gentlemen," he began, "we are here to celebrate the twenty-fifth
birthday of Mr. Montgomery Brewster. I ask you all to join me in
drinking to his long life and happiness."

"No heel taps!" some one shouted. "Brewster! Brewster!" all called at
once.

"For he's a jolly good fellow,
For he's a jolly good fellow!"

The sudden ringing of an electric bell cut off this flow of sentiment,
and so unusual was the interruption that the ten members straightened
up as if jerked into position by a string.

"The police!" some one suggested. All faces were turned toward the
door. A waiter stood there, uncertain whether to turn the knob or push
the