wly by himself.

Together they went down to the offices of the Little Texas, where after
having been warmly congratulated by an oily man with a diamond stud, and
after signing seven feet of documents and testimonials, Charles-Norton
was given a long yellow check, which was forthwith photographed, as was
also Charles-Norton. Then the fat, oily man, the clerk who had prepared
the documents, Pinny, and Charles-Norton went downstairs and, standing up
against a polished walnut counter, drank to the long life of the Little
Texas and to the success of Charles-Norton. After which the courteous
oily man introduced Charles-Norton to the cashier of a bank, where
Charles-Norton deposited his check, receiving in return a little yellow
deposit-book, and a long green check-book.

With Pinny, Charles-Norton rode back toward the office. They stopped at
the square, and stood a while watching the fountain, each a bit
uncertain. Finally Pinny put out his hand. "Well, so long, old man," he
said; "so long."

"So long," said Charles-Norton, indecisively.

But Pinny still stood there, abashed and uncertain. "You was going
to--but you've changed yer mind, I suppose; I suppose you've changed yer
mind--You was going to----" His eyes were on the ground; he shuffled one
foot gently. "You was going to----"

"Oh, of course!" cried Charles-Norton. "I was going to give you a share
of the swag--of course, of course, of course!"

They sat on a bench. Charles-Norton took out of his pocket the long
check-book and opened it out, with a little crackling sound, on its first
clean page. He took out his fountain pen. "No. 1," he wrote down with
great decision. He paused, looking about him for a moment, in enjoyment
of this new occupation. "June 19," he wrote on, slowly, languorously.
"Pay to the order of," the page said next. "Of _Frank Theodore Pinny_,"
wrote Charles-Norton. "Dollars," the check said next, at the end of a
blank line. Charles-Norton paused, pen poised above paper.

"Twenty-five," he thought. That is what he had promised. "_T-w-e-n-t-y_,"
he wrote. The pen stopped again, hovering hesitatingly above the paper.
"Twenty-five is a whole lot," he thought. "Just for selling a ticket.
Just for selling a piece of cardboard!" And eight hundred dollars was not
so much, either. An hour before, eight hundred dollars had seemed an
immense sum. Now it seemed a modest amount, a very modest amount. And
twenty-five, twenty-five to give away--that seemed q