going home next week."

"Home! Hang it, Arkwright! I'd counted on you. Isn't this rather
sudden?"

"Yes, and no. I'll own I've been drifting about with you contentedly
enough for the last six months to make you think mountain-climbing and
boat-paddling were the end and aim of my existence. But they aren't, you
know, really."

"Nonsense! At heart you're as much of a vagabond as I am; and you know
it."

"Perhaps. But unfortunately I don't happen to carry your pocketbook."

"You may, if you like. I'll hand it over any time," grinned Calderwell.

"Thanks. You know well enough what I mean," shrugged the other.

There was a moment's silence; then Calderwell queried:

"Arkwright, how old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"Good! Then you're merely travelling to supplement your education, see?"

"Oh, yes, I see. But something besides my education has got to be
supplemented now, I reckon."

"What are you going to do?"

There was an almost imperceptible hesitation; then, a little shortly,
came the answer:

"Hit the trail for Grand Opera, and bring up, probably--in vaudeville."

Calderwell smiled appreciatively.

"You _can_ sing like the devil," he admitted.

"Thanks," returned his friend, with uplifted eyebrows. "Do you mind
calling it 'an angel'--just for this occasion?"

"Oh, the matinee-girls will do that fast enough. But, I say,
Arkwright, what are you going to do with those initials then?"

"Let 'em alone."

"Oh, no, you won't. And you won't be 'Mary Jane,' either. Imagine a Mary
Jane in Grand Opera! I know what you'll be. You'll be 'Senor Martini
Johnini Arkwrightino'! By the way, you didn't say what that 'M. J.'
really did stand for," hinted Calderwell, shamelessly.

"'Merely Jokes'--in your estimation, evidently," shrugged the other.
"But my going isn't a joke, Calderwell. I'm really going. And I'm going
to work."

"But--how shall you manage?"

"Time will tell."

Calderwell frowned and stirred restlessly in his chair.

"But, honestly, now, to--to follow that trail of yours will take
money. And--er--" a faint red stole to his forehead--"don't they
have--er--patrons for these young and budding geniuses? Why can't I have
a hand in this trail, too--or maybe you'd call it a foot, eh? I'd be no
end glad to, Arkwright."

"Thanks, old man." The red was duplicated this time above the brown
silky beard. "That was mighty kind of you, and I appreciate it; but it
won't be necessary. A generous, but perhaps m