a secret, sneaking fondness for gamblers. On the strength of
it he mentioned Charles James Fox--there was a true gentleman and
sportsman for you! No mollycoddle--but a roaring, six bottle
fellow--with a big brain and a scrupulous sense of honor. Yes, sir!
Charley Fox was the right sort! He managed to intimate successfully that
Charley and he were very much the same breed of pup. At this point Mr.
Tutt, having carefully committed his guest to an ethical standard as far
removed as possible from one based upon self-interest, opened the window
a few more inches, sauntered over to the mantel, lit a fresh stogy and
spread his long legs in front of the sea-coal fire like an elongated
Colossus of Rhodes. He commenced his dastardly countermining of his
partner's advice by complimenting Payson on being a man whose words,
manner and appearance proclaimed him to the world a true sport and a
regular fellow. From which flattering prologue he slid naturally into
said regular fellow's prospects and aims in life. He trusted that Payson
Clifford, Senior, had left a sufficient estate to enable Payson, Junior,
to complete his education at Harvard?--He forgot, he confessed just what
the residue amounted to. Then he turned to the fire, kicked it, knocked
the ash off the end of his stogy and waited--in order to give his guest
a chance to come to himself,--for Mr. Payson Clifford had suddenly
turned a curious color, due to the fact that he was unexpectedly
confronted with the necessity of definitely deciding then and there
whether he was going to line up with the regular fellows or the second
raters, the gentlemen or the cads, the C.J. Foxes or the Benedict
Arnolds of mankind. He wasn't wholly the real thing, a conceited young
ass, if you choose, but on the other hand he wasn't by any means a bad
sort. In short, he was very much like all the rest of us. And he wasn't
ready to sign the pledge just yet. He realized that he had put himself
at a disadvantage, but he wasn't going to commit himself until he had
had a good chance to think it all over carefully. In thirty seconds he
was sober as a judge--and a sober judge at that.

"Mr. Tutt," he said in quite a different tone of voice. "I've been
talking pretty big, I guess,--bigger than I really am. The fact is I've
got a problem of my own that's bothering me a lot."

Mr. Tutt nodded understandingly.

"You mean Sadie Burch."

"Yes."

"Well, what's the problem? Your father wanted you to give her