verhill you can't hold that guy under water long."

Apparently Lise had no regrets. But her premonitions concerning Mr. Frear
proved to be justified. He did not "make good." One morning the little
office on Faber Street where the sprinklers were displayed was closed,
Hampton knew him no more, and the police alone were sincerely regretful.
It seemed that of late he had been keeping all the money for the
sprinklers, and spending a good deal of it on Lise. At the time she
accepted the affair with stoical pessimism, as one who has learned what
to expect of the world, though her moral sense was not profoundly
disturbed by the reflection that she had indulged in the delights of
Slattery's and Gruber's and a Sunday at "the Beach" at the expense of the
Cascade Sprinkler Company of Boston. Mr. Frear inconsiderately neglected
to prepare her for his departure, the news of which was conveyed to her
in a singular manner, and by none other than Mr. Johnny Tiernan of the
tin shop,--their conversation throwing some light, not only on Lise's
sophistication, but on the admirable and intricate operation of Hampton's
city government. About five o'clock Lise was coming home along Fillmore
Street after an uneventful, tedious and manless holiday spent in the
company of Miss Schuler and other friends when she perceived Mr. Tiernan
seated on his steps, grinning and waving a tattered palm-leaf fan.

"The mercury is sure on the jump," he observed. "You'd think it was
July."

And Lise agreed.

"I suppose you'll be going to Tim Slattery's place tonight," he went on.
"It's the coolest spot this side of the Atlantic Ocean."

There was, apparently, nothing cryptic in this remark, yet it is worth
noting that Lise instantly became suspicious.

"Why would I be going out there?" she inquired innocently, darting at him
a dark, coquettish glance.

Mr. Tiernan regarded her guilelessly, but there was admiration in his
soul; not because of her unquestioned feminine attractions,--he being
somewhat amazingly proof against such things,--but because it was
conveyed to him in some unaccountable way that her suspicions were
aroused. The brain beneath that corkscrew hair was worthy of a Richelieu.
Mr. Tiernan's estimate of Miss Lise Bumpus, if he could have been induced
to reveal it, would have been worth listening to.

"And why wouldn't you?" he replied heartily. "Don't I see all the pretty
young ladies out there, including yourself, and you dancing with the