at every man is his brother.

"Gee!" says I. "You've adopted a big fam'ly."

But say, he's so dead in earnest about it, and he talks so sensible about
other things, besides appearin' so white clear through, that I can't help
likin' the cuss.

"Look here!" says I. "This is way out of my line, and it strikes me as a
batty proposition anyway; but if you're still anxious to have a chin with
Bobby, maybe I can fix it."

"Thank you, thank you!" says he, givin' me the grateful grip.

It's a good deal easier than I'd thought. All I does is get one of
Bobby's retinue on the house 'phone, tell who I am, and say I was
thinkin' of droppin' up with a couple of friends for a short call, if
Bobby's agreeable. Seems he was, for inside of two minutes we're on our
way up in the elevator.

Got any idea of the simple way a half baked young plute can live in a
place like the Perzazzer? He has one floor of a whole wing cut off for
his special use,--about twenty rooms, I should judge,--and there was
hired hands standin' around in every corner. We're piloted in over the
Persian rugs, with the preacher blinkin' his eyes to keep from seein'
some of the statuary and oil paintin's.

At last we comes to a big room with an eastern exposure, furnished like a
show window. Sittin' at a big mahogany table in the middle is a narrow
browed, pop eyed, bat eared young chap in a padded silk dressin' gown,
and I remembers him for the Bobby Brut I used to see floatin' around with
the Trixy-Madges at the lobster palaces. He has a couple of decks of
cards laid out in front of him, and I guesses he's havin' a go at
Canfield solitaire. Behind his chair stands a sour faced lackey who holds
up his hand for us to wait.

Bobby don't look up at all. He's shiftin' the cards around, tryin' to
make 'em come out right, doin' it quick and nervous. All of a sudden the
lackey claps his hand down on a pile and says, "Beg pardon, sir, but you
can't do that."

"Blast you!" snarls Bobby. "And I was just getting it! Why didn't you
look the other way? Bah!" and he sends the whole lot flyin' on the floor.
Do you catch on? He has the lackey there to see that he don't cheat
himself.

But while the help was pickin' up the cards Bobby gets a glimpse of our
trio, ranged up against the door draperies.

"Hello, Shorty McCabe!" he sings out. "It's bully of you to drop in.
Nobody comes to see me any more--hardly a soul. Say, do you think there's
anything the matter with my head