ou wouldn't like to get down, my jolly old typewriter?"

"No, thank you," said Miss Marguerite Whitland with decision.

"Oh!" said Bones. "Then, under the circumstances, dear old person,
we'd all better sit here until----"

At that moment the light came on. It flooded the white road, and the
white road was an excellent wind-screen against which the bending head
of Bones was thrown into sharp relief.

The car moved on. At regular intervals the light that never went out
forsook its home-loving habits and took a constitutional. The
occupants of the ear came to regard its eccentricities with philosophy,
even though it began to rain, and there was no hood.

On the outskirts of Guildford, Bones was pulled up by a policeman, who
took his name because the lights were too bright. On the other side of
Guildford he was pulled up by another policeman because he had no light
at all. Passing through Kingston, the lamp began to flicker, sending
forth brilliant dots and dashes, which continued until they were on
Putney Common, where the lamp's message was answered from a camp of Boy
Scouts, one signalman of the troop being dragged from his bed for the
purpose, the innocent child standing in his shirt at the call of duty.

"A delightful day," said Hamilton at parting that night. (It was
nearly twelve o'clock.) "I'm sorry you've had so much trouble with
that lamp, Bones. What did you call it?"

"I say, old fellow," said Bones, ignoring the question, "I hope, when
you saw me picking a spider off dear old Miss Marguerite's shoulder,
you didn't--er--think anything?"

"The only thing I thought was," said Hamilton, "that I didn't see the
spider."

"Don't stickle, dear old partner," said Bones testily. "It may have
been an earwig. Now, as a man of the world, dear old _blase_ one, do
you think I'd compromise an innocent typewriter? Do you think I ought
to----" He paused, but his voice was eager.

"That," said Hamilton, "is purely a question for the lady. Now, what
are you going to do with this lamp. Are you going to float it?"

Bones scowled at the glaring headlight.

"That depends whether the naughty old things float, Ham," he said
venomously. "If you think they will, my old eye-witness, how about
tyin' a couple of bricks round 'em before I chuck 'em in. What?"

CHAPTER X

THE BRANCH LINE

Not all the investments of Bones paid dividends. Some cost him money.
Some cost him time. Some--and they were few