Brewster had found him a place in the bank, but beyond this and
occasional dinners, Monty asked for and received no favors. It was
a question of work, and hard work, and small pay. He lived on his
salary because he had to, but he did not resent his grandfather's
attitude. He was better satisfied to spend his "weakly salary," as
he called it, in his own way than to earn more by dining seven
nights a week with an old man who had forgotten he was ever young.
It was less wearing, he said.

Among the "Little Sons of the Rich," birthdays were always
occasions for feasting. The table was covered with dishes sent up
from the French restaurant in the basement. The chairs were pushed
back, cigarettes were lighted, men had their knees crossed. Then
Pettingill got up.

"Gentlemen," he began, "we are here to celebrate the twenty-fifth
birthday of Mr. Montgomery Brewster. I ask you all to join me in
drinking to his long life and happiness."

"No heel taps!" some one shouted. "Brewster! Brewster!" all called
at once.

"For he's a jolly good fellow,
For he's a jolly good fellow!"

The sudden ringing of an electric bell cut off this flow of
sentiment, and so unusual was the interruption that the ten
members straightened up as if jerked into position by a string.

"The police!" some one suggested. All faces were turned toward the