Joseph R. Skelly. Write it down when you get home.
Anything that comes through him, I stand behind. We won't do anything in
a rush, but we'll lay a few lines. To-morrow I want you to sell for
me--" He paused and deliberated, suddenly changing his mind. "No, do it
this way. Call me up from your office at twelve--no, eleven sharp. I've
got that wedding at three. Ask for me personally. Understand? All
right?"

At half past three Fred DeLancy, Marsh and Bojo went out with the last
stragglers. Fred was in high spirits, keeping them in roars of laughter,
on the brisk walk home. He had been with Gladys Stone constantly all the
evening and the two friends had watched a whispered parting on the
stairs.

"I believe it's a go," said Marsh, while DeLancy was passing the time of
day with the policeman at the corner. (Fred was assiduous in his
cultivation of the force; he called it "accident insurance.")

"Something was settled," said Bojo nodding. "They've got an
understanding, I'll bet. I passed them once tucked in back of a palm and
they stopped talking like a shot. Wish we had the infant safely put
away, Fred."

"So do I."

The streets were unearthly stilled and inhuman as they came back to Ali
Baba Court, with all the windows black, and only the iron lanterns at
the entrances shining their foggy welcome.

"Don't feel a bit like sleep," said Bojo.

"Neither do I," said Marsh. He stood looking up at the incessantly
vigilant windows of the great newspaper office now in the charge of the
night watch. "Wonder what's filtering in there? I always feel guilty
when I cut a night. I suppose it's like the fascination of the tape. It
always gets me--the click of the telegraph."

"How are things working out on the paper?" said Bojo.

"Thanks, I'm getting into all sorts of trouble," said Marsh, rather
gloomily, he thought. "I'm finding out a lot of things I don't
know--sort of measles and mumps period. I had no right to be out
to-night. I say, if you get into any other good thing, let me know. I
may need it."

Alone in his room, Bojo did not go to bed at once. He was nervously
awake, revolving in his mind too many new impressions, new ambitions and
strange philosophies. The evening at the Drakes had swept from him his
last prejudices against the adventurous life on which he had embarked.
There was something overpowering in the spectacle of society as he had
seen it, something so insolently triumphant and aloof from all plodding