In vain Young Dick whistled up through the unscreened, open windows.
Tim Hagan Junior was not at home. But Young Dick wasted little wind in
the whistling. He was debating on possible adjacent places where Tim
Hagan might be, when Tim himself appeared around the corner, bearing a
lidless lard-can that foamed with steam beer. He grunted greeting, and
Young Dick grunted with equal roughness, just as if, a brief space
before, he had not, in most lordly fashion, terminated an audience
with three of the richest merchant-kings of an imperial city. Nor did
his possession of twenty increasing millions hint the slightest
betrayal in his voice or mitigate in the slightest the gruffness of
his grunt.

"Ain't seen yeh since yer old man died," Tim Hagan commented.

"Well, you're seein' me now, ain't you?" was Young Dick's retort.
"Say, Tim, I come to see you on business."

"Wait till I rush the beer to the old man," said Tim, inspecting the
state of the foam in the lard-can with an experienced eye. "He'll roar
his head off if it comes in flat."

"Oh, you can shake it up," Young Dick assured him. "Only want to see
you a minute. I'm hitting the road to-night. Want to come along?"

Tim's small, blue Irish eyes flashed with interest.

"Where to?" he queried.

"Don't know. Want to come? If you do, we can talk it over after we