facts."

"As for his tennis racquet," reminded Garry, and Kenny flushed.

It developed that of studio things the racquet and the shotgun had
seemed the least essential. And the need had been imperative.

"Nevertheless," interposed Garry, "they and a number of other things
you pawned were Brian's."

Moreover, reverting to the fishing rods and golf clubs, Kenny would
like to have them both remember that it had been winter and one can
redeem most anything by summer. He'd meant to. He honestly had.

"But you didn't," said Garry.

"Great God," thundered Kenny, "you're like a parrot." Fuming he
searched afield for cigarettes and found them at his elbow. A noise at
the open window behind him brought him to his feet with a nervous start.

"What's that? What's over there?" he demanded petulantly.

"Oh, it's only H-B," said Garry. "He's come down the fire-escape.
Mac's likely forgotten to chain him."

The honey-bear, kept secretly in a studio upstairs and christened "H-B"
to cloak his identity--for the club rules denied him hospitality--came
in with a jaunty air of confidence. At the sight of the three men he
turned tail and fled. Kenny speeded his departure with a bouillon cup
and felt better.