ed it in an envelope and
sent it to that shiftless Hank Tuttle, over at the point. You see, Hank
guzzles hard cider, and plays penny ante, and is always hard up. He
won't know where it come from, and won't care. The fine cigars them two
handed out so free I'm keepin' to smoke Sunday afternoons."

"Huh!" says I. "That's a good record so far, Uncle Jimmy. Anything more
along that line?"

"Wall," says he, "there was one chance I expect I shouldn't have let
slip. Got to talkin' with a feller in the hotel, sort of a hook-nosed,
foreign-speakin' man, who's in the show business. He says his
brother-in-law, by the name of Goldberg, has got an idea for a musical
comedy that would just set Broadway wild and make a mint of money. All
he needed to start it was twenty or thirty thousand, and he figured it
would bring in four times that the first season. And he was willin' to
let me have a half interest in his scheme. I'd gone in too, only from
what he said I thought it must be one of these pieces where they have a
lot of girls in tights, and--well, I thought of Cynthy again. What would
she say to me bein' mixed up with a show of that kind? So I had to drop
it."

"Any taxi rides or cigars in that?" says I.

"Just cigars," says Uncle Jimmy.

"But you mean to invest that fifty thousand sooner or later, don't you?"
says I.

"Cap'n Bill said I ought to," says he, "and live off'm the interest.
He's a mighty smart business man, Cap'n Bill is. And I guess I'll find
something before long."

"You can't miss it," says I, "specially if you keep on as you've
started. But see here, Uncle Jimmy, while I ain't got any wonderful deal
of my own for you to put your money in, I might throw out a useful hint
or two as to other folk's plans. Suppose you just take my card, and
before you tie up with any accommodatin' financiers drop in at the
studio, and talk it over with me."

"Why, much obliged, Mr.--er--Professor McCabe," says he, readin' the
name off the card. "Mebbe I will."

"Better make it a promise," says I. "I hate to knock our fair village;
but now and then you might find a crook in New York."

"So I've heard," says he; "but I kind of think I'd know one if he run
afoul of me. And everybody I've met so far has been mighty nice."

Well, what else was there for me to say? There wa'n't any more suspicion
in them gentle blue eyes of his than in a baby's. Forty years in
Pemaquid! Must be some moss-grown, peaceful spot, where a man can gr