if
that's the game. Do you get me?"

Hacky does. "I'm very sorry, Gentlemen," says he, "to ask you to modify
your generous terms; but I feel that my wife's wishes in the matter
ought to be taken into account."

"Why--er--to be sure," says J. Bayard. "I merely suggested your living
in the country because it seemed to me the wisest plan; but after
all----"

"Do we look like a pair of jays, I'd like to know?" demands Mrs. Wells
indignant. "And another thing: I don't stand for this so much a month
dope, either. What's the good of a little now and then? If we've got
anything coming to us, why not hand it over annual? There'd be some
sense to that. Stick out for once a year, Hacky."

Which he done. She had him well trained, Mabel did. He shrugs his
shoulders, tries to smile feeble, and spreads out his hands. "You see,
Gentlemen," says he.

I must say too that Mr. Steele puts up a mighty convincin' line of talk,
tryin' to show 'em how much better it would be to have a couple of
hundred or so comin' in fresh on the first of every month, than to be
handed a lump sum and maybe lose some of it, or run shy before next
payday. He explains how he was tryin' to plan so the money might do 'em
the most good, and unless it did how he couldn't feel that he'd done his
part right.

"All of which," he goes on, "I am quite sure, Mrs. Wells, you will
appreciate."

"Go on, you whiskered old stuff!" comes back Mabel spiteful. "How do you
know so much what's good for us? You and your nutty dreams about cows
and flower gardens and hens! I'd rather go back to Second avenue and
frisk another quick-lunch job. Hand us a wad: that's all we want."

Course it was a batty piece of work, tryin' to persuade people to let
you push money on 'em; but that's just where we stood. And in the end J.
Bayard wipes his brow weary and turns to me.

"Well, McCabe, what do you say?" he asks. "Shall we?"

"I leave it with you," says I. "You're the one that's developed this
what-do-you-call-it instinct, temperin' kindly zeal with practical
wisdom, ain't you? Then go to it!"

So five minutes later Hackett Wells shuffles out with an order good for
the whole twenty-five hundred in his pocket, and Mabel clingin' tight to
his arm.

[Illustration: "What's the idea," says Mabel, "Wishin' this Rube stuff
on us?"]

"So long, Profess," says she over her shoulder, as I holds the door open
for 'em. "We're headed for happy days."

And J. Bayard Steele, gazin' afte