his glass with a sigh of relief; he hated "pop."

"What's it all about, anyway?" quizzed Polycarp, hungering for the details
which had thus far been denied him. "De Garmo sees red whenever anybody
mentions your name, Kenneth--but I never did hear no particulars."

"No?" Kent was turning toward the door. "Well, you see, Fred claims he
can holler louder than I can, and I say he can't." He opened the door and
calmly departed, leaving Polycarp looking exceedingly foolish and a bit
angry.

Straight to the hotel, without any pretense at disguising his destination,
marched Kent. He went into the office--which was really a saloon--invited
Hawley to drink with him, and then wondered audibly if he could beg some
pie from Mrs. Hawley.

"Supper'll be ready in a few minutes," Hawley informed him, glancing up at
the round, dust-covered clock screwed to the wall.

"I don't want supper--I want pie," Kent retorted, and opened a door which
led into the hallway. He went down the narrow passage to another door,
opened it without ceremony, and was assailed by the odor of many
things--the odor which spoke plainly of supper, or some other assortment of
food. No one was in sight, so he entered the dining room boldly, stepped to
another door, tapped very lightly upon it, and went in. By this somewhat
roundabout method he invaded the parlor.

Manley Fleetwood was lying upon an extremely uncomfortable couch, of the
kind which is called a sofa. He had a lace-edged handkerchief folded upon
his brow, and upon his face was an expression of conscious unworthiness