e another.

"This," she explained, "is Harbor Castle from the bay. That is their
yacht in the foreground."

The post-card showed a very beautiful yacht of not less than two
thousand tons. Beneath it was printed "HARBOR LIGHTS; steam yacht owned
by Fletcher Farrell." I always had dreamed of owning a steam yacht, and
seeing it stated in cold type that one was owned by "Fletcher Farrell,"
even though I was not that Fletcher Farrell, gave me a thrill of guilty
pleasure. I gazed upon the post-card with envy.

"HARBOR LIGHTS is a strange name for a yacht," I ventured. Miss Briggs
smiled.

"Not for that yacht," she said. "She never leaves it."

I wished to learn more of my would-be parents, and I wished to keep
on talking with the lovely Miss Briggs, so, as an excuse for both, I
pretended I was interested in the Farrells because I had something I
wanted to sell them.

"This Fletcher Farrell must be very rich," I said. "I wonder," I asked,
"if I could sell him an automobile?" The moment I spoke I noticed that
the manner of Miss Briggs toward Me perceptibly softened. Perhaps, from
my buying offhand a fifty-dollar book she had thought me one of the
rich, and had begun to suspect I was keeping her waiting on me only
because I found her extremely easy to look at. Many times before, in a
similar manner, other youths must have imposed upon her, and perhaps,
also, in concealing my admiration, I had not entirely succeeded.

But, when she believed that, like herself, I was working for my living,
she became more human.

"What car are you selling?" she asked. "I am TRYING to sell," I
corrected her, "the Blue Bird, six cylinder."

"I never heard of it," said Miss Briggs.

"Nor has any one else," I answered, with truth. "That is one reason why
I can't sell it. I arrived here this morning, and," I added with pathos,
"I haven't sold a car yet!"

Miss Briggs raised her beautiful eyebrows skeptically. "Have you tried?"
she said.

A brilliant idea came to me. In a side street I had passed a garage
where Photaix cars were advertised for hire. I owned a Phoenix, and
I thought I saw a way by which, for a happy hour, I might secure the
society of Miss Briggs.

"I am an agent and demonstrator for the Phoenix also," I said glibly;
"maybe I could show you one?"

"Show me one?" exclaimed Miss Briggs. "One sees them everywhere! They
are always under your feet!"

"I mean," I explained, "might I take you for a drive in one?"

It was a