k."

"With Cynthy?" says I.

"If she'll let me," says he.

"Got the fifty thousand invested yet?" says I.

"No," says he, droppin' his chin guilty, "I ain't. And I expect Cap'n
Bill will call me an old fool. But I couldn't jest seem to find the
right thing to put it into. So I'm goin' to stop at Wiscasset and leave
it at the bank and git 'em to buy me some gover'ment bonds or something.
That won't bring me in much; but it'll be more'n I'll know what to do
with. Then I got to see Cynthy. If she says she'll have me, I suppose
I'll have to break it to her about the money. I dun'no what she's goin'
to say, either. That's what's botherin' me."

"Yes, Uncle Jimmy," says I, givin' him a farewell grip. "Like the cat in
the bird store--you should worry!"

Pemaquid, eh? Say, I'm goin' to hire a guide in Portland and discover
that place sometime. I'd like to see Uncle Jimmy again.

CHAPTER XVI

SCRATCH ONE ON BULGAROO

I'd strolled into the front office in my shirt sleeves, and was leanin'
against the gym door listenin' to Pinckney and his friend slangin' each
other--and, believe me, it's a wonderful gift to be able to throw the
harpoon refined and polite that way!

"Larry," says Pinckney, lookin' him over reproachful, "you are hopeless.
You merely cumber the earth."

"Having made an art of being useless," says Larry, "you should be an
excellent judge."

"You think you flatter me," says Pinckney; "but you don't. I live my
life as it comes. You are botching yours."

"Hear, hear!" says Larry. "The butterfly sermonizes!"

"Insect yourself!" says Pinckney.

"My word!" says Larry. "Chucking entomology at me too! Well, have it
that I'm a grasshopper. My legs are long enough."

"It's your ears that are long, Larry," says Pinckney.

"There you go, mixing the metaphor!" says Larry. "So I'm an ass, eh?"

"The word strikes me as beautifully descriptive," says Pinckney.

"Excuse me," says I, breakin' in, "but is this to a finish? If it is,
I'll send out for some throat troches."

Larry grins and settles himself back easy in my desk chair. Great lad,
this Mr. T. Lawrence Bolan! All he needs is a cape coat and a sugar-loaf
hat with a silver buckle to be a stage Irishman. One of these tall,
loose-hinged, awkward-gaited chaps, with wavy red hair the color of a
new copper pan, also a chin dimple and a crooked mouth. By rights he
should have been homely. Maybe he was too; but somehow, with that twisty
smile of his