"Wall Street!" I exclaimed. "The voice is Jess Hardy's, but--"

"Well, you can't buy a Manton car without a little trouble."

"Or twenty-five hundred dollars in a certified check."

"It's nearer three thousand, with acetylene lamps, top, baskets,
extra tires, French tooter, freight, insurance, extra tools and a
leather coat."

"You've got the thing down fine," I said. "You speak like a
folder."

"Well, I didn't have any three thousand dollars," she continued,
undisturbed; "all I had was an allowance of a hundred a month, a
grand piano, a horse (you remember my, blood mare, Gee-whizz?) a
lot of posters, and a father."

"He seems to me the biggest asset of the lot," I observed.

"I thought so, too, till I tried him," she said. "He had the
automobile fever, too--only the negative kind--wanted to shoot
them with a gun."

"Surely it's dangerous enough already, without adding that."

"For a time I didn't know what to do," she went on. "I thought
I'd have to try the stage, or write one of those Marie
Bashkirtseff books that shock people into buying them by
thousands--and whenever I saw a Manton on the road my eyes would