th all expenses paid. They sent Talcott
with me, Sir."

"Fine!" says Alvin. "Of course I like them all; but I'm glad it happened
to be you and Talcott this trip."

"Hope you're ready to go back, Sir," says Scully.

"Oh, quite," says Alvin. "I've had a bully good time; but I'm getting a
little tired. And, by the way, please remember to have the doctor send
fifteen dollars to my friend McCabe here. You explain, will you,
Scully?"

Scully does. "From Dr. Slade's Restorium," says he, noddin' at Alvin and
tappin' his forehead. "Quite a harmless gentleman, Sir."

"Eh?" says I, turnin' to Alvin. "You from a nut factory? Good night!"

"It's a whim of Uncle's," says Alvin, chucklin'. "He's gone a little
cracked over making and saving money. Poor old chap! Ego developed most
abnormally. But the Judge he took me before was that kind too; so I am
compelled to live with Dr. Slade. Jolly crowd up there, though. Come
along, Scully; we mustn't be late for dinner."

And off he goes, smilin' contented and friendly at anyone who happens to
look his way. Wouldn't that crimp you?

Course, my first move after gettin' back to the studio was to dig that
check of his out of the safe and query the bank. "No account here," the
clerk 'phones back prompt, and I could see the Universal Liquid
Container Company takin' a final plunge down the coal chute.

For days, though, I put off callin' the bunch together and announcin'
the sad fact. More'n a week went by, and I was still dreadin' to do it.
Then here this mornin' in romps young Blair Woodbury, his eyes sparklin'
and a broad grin on his face. He's flourishin' a bundle about the size
of a two weeks' fam'ly wash, and as he sees me he lets out a joy yelp.

"Well, why the riot?" says I. "What you got there?"

"Containers!" says he. "Old Nevins has got the compressor working. Sixty
seconds to make these, my boy--two hundred in one minute! Count 'em!"

"I'll take your word for it," says I. "That's fine, too. But I'm
carryin' all the comp'ny stock I can stand. Go out and convince some
other come-ons."

"I don't have to," says he. "Why, during the last four days the issue
has been oversubscribed. It was getting that Mr. Barton, of Pratt &
Barton, on our list that turned the trick."

"Alvin!" I gasps. "Why--why, he's only a batty nephew, that they keep
under guard. Bughouse, you know. His check's no good."

"Doesn't matter in the least," says Blair. "He made good bait. We're
established, I