lastin' grouch he'd accumulated against his boss. But I ain't
encouragin' any hammer play of that kind.

"Stow it, Morty," says I. "I'm wise to all that. Besides, you ought
to know you can't hold a job and come floatin' in at any old hour. No
wonder you got in Dutch with him! Say, is this your first stab at real
work?"

He admits that it is, and when I gets him to describe how he's been
killin' time when he wa'n't in college it develops that one of his
principal playthings has been a six-cylinder roadster,--mile-a-minute
brand, mostly engine and gastank, with just space enough left for the
driver to snuggle in among the levers on the small of his back.

"I've had her up to sixty-five an hour on some of those Rhode Island
oiled stretches," says Mortimer.

"I expect," says I. "And what was it you hit last?"

"Eh?" says he. "Oh, I see! A milk wagon. Rather stiff damages they
got out of us, with the hospital and doctor's bills and all that. But
it was more the way I was roasted by the blamed newspapers that made
Father so sore. Then my being canned from college soon after--well,
that finished it. So he sends Mother and Sis off to Europe, goes on a
business trip to California himself, closes the house, and chucks me
into this job."

"Kind of poor trainin' for it, I'll admit," says I. "But buck up,
Morty; we'll do our best."