se? The short-haired paleness comes
from wearing horizontal stripes in a cement room."

For a moment young Gilman pondered this ambiguous reply in silence,
then out of his secret distress he blurted:

"But, Wix, I've _got_ to do something that will bring me in some
money! I've run behind on my wheat trades. I've--I've _got_ to do
something!"

Wix, in the darkness, made a little startled movement, the involuntary
placing of his finger-tips behind his ear; then he answered quietly:

"I told you to keep away from that game. I tried it myself and know
all about it."

"I know, but I did it just the same," answered Gilman.

Wix chuckled.

"Of course you did. You're the woolly breed that keeps bucket-shops
going. I'd like no better lazy life than just to run a bucket-shop and
fill all my buckets with the fleeces of about a dozen of your
bleating kind. It would be easy money."

The front door of the Gilman house opened a little way, and the voice
of a worried woman came out into the night:

"Is that you, Cliffy?"

"Yes, mother," answered Clifford. "Good night, old man. I want to be
sure to see you before I go to the bank in the morning. I want to talk
this thing over with you," and young Gilman hurried into the house.

Wix looked after him as he went in, and stood staring at the glowing
second-story window. Then he suddenly went back up to his own porch
and got his hat. Fifteen minutes later he was at the desk of the Grand
Hotel.

"Mr. Daw," he said to the clerk.

"I think Mr. Daw's probably gone to bed by this time, Wix," the clerk
protested.

"We'll wake him up, then. What's the number of his room? I'll do it
myself."

The clerk grinned.

"If he kicks, you know, Wix, I can't blame you for it. I'll have to
stand it myself."

"He won't kick. What's his room?"

"Number one," and again the clerk grinned. Nobody ever point-blank
refused young Wix a favor. There was that in his bigness, and in the
very jollity with which he defied life and its pretended gravity,
which opened all doors to him. His breadth of chest had much to do
with it.

"The bridal chamber, eh?" he chuckled. "In that case, send up a bottle
of champagne and charge it to Mr. Daw's account. Yes, I know the bar's
closed, but you have a key. Go dig it out yourself, Joe, and do it in
style."

Unattended, Mr. Wix made his way to room one and pounded on the door.
Mr. Daw, encased in blue pajamas and just on the point of retiring,
opened cauti