CHAPTER

I The Beauty Contest

II A Close Shave

III Enter Mr. Batchelor

IV And When I Dine

V A Plan and a Telegram

VI What Is Heaven Like

VII Watermelon Yields

VIII Gratitude Is a Flower

IX On the Road

X The Deserted House

XI A Night's Lodging

XII The Key to the Situation

XIII Only to be Lost

XIV Billy, Billy Everywhere

XV Love in Idleness

XVI A Thief in the Night

XVII Alphonse Rides Away

XVIII Oh, For a Horse

XIX A Broker Prince

XX The Seven O'Clock Express

XXI Rich and Poor Alike

XXII The Truth At Last

XXIII Back to the Road

XXIV The Poet or the Poodle

XXV As He Said He Would

*HE COMES UP SMILING*

*CHAPTER I*

*THE BEAUTY CONTEST*

"You have a phiz on yer," said the Watermelon with rare candor, "that

would make a mangy pup unhappy."

"I suppose you think yer Venus," sneered James, a remark that he

flattered himself was rather "classy."

The Watermelon sighed as one would over the ignorance of a child. "No,"

said he, "hardly."

"Don't let that bloomin' modesty of yers keep yer from tellin' the

truth," adjured James.

The Watermelon waved the possibility aside with airy grace. "With all

due modesty, James," said he, "I can't claim to be a woman."

"Not with that hay on yer mug," agreed Mike, casting a sleepy eye upward

from where he lay in lazy content in the long, sweet grasses under the

butternut tree.

"When I was a kid, I took a prize in a beauty show," announced James,

with pardonable pride.

"Swiped it?" asked the Watermelon.

"Dog show?" inquired Mike drowsily, listening to the pleasing drone of a

bee in a near-by clump of daisies.

James sat up and ran his fingers with musing regret through the coarse

stubble on cheeks and chin. "I was three, I remember, a cute little

cuss. My hair was yellow and ma curled it--you know how--all fuzzy--and

I had a little white dress on. It was a county fair. I got the first

prize for the best lookin' kid and was mugged for the papers. If I was

shaved now and had on some glad rags, I'd be a lady killer, all right,

all right."

"'Longside of me," said the Watermelon, "you'd look like a blear-eyed

son of a toad."

"You! Why, you'd make a balky horse run, you would."

"When me hair's cut, I'm a bloomin' Adonis, not Venus;" and the

Watermelon drew languidly at an old brown pipe, warm and comfortable in

the pleasant shade, where soft breezes wandered fitfully by, laden with

the odors of the fields in June.

James was skeptical. "Did y' ever take a prize in a beauty show?" he

demanded, still musing upon those bygone honors.

"No," admitted the Watermelon. "My old man was a parson, and parsons'

kids never have any chance. Besides, I wouldn't care to. Too much like

the finest bull in a county fair, or the best laying hen."

"Huh," sneered James. "My folks was of the bon-ton."

"The bon-tons never broke any records in the beauty line," replied the

Watermelon. "And the bon-tonnier they are, the uglier."

"Beauty," said James with charming naivete, "runs in my family."

"It went so fast in the beginning then, yer family never had a chance to

catch up," returned the Watermelon. "We'll have a beauty show, just us

two."

Inspired by the thought, he sat up to explain, and Mike opened his eyes

long enough to look each over with slow scornful derision and a mocking

grunt.

James fondled the short stiff hair on his cheeks and chin and waited for

developments.

The Watermelon went on. "We will meet this afternoon, here, see?

Shaved and with decent duds on. And Mike can pick the winner."

"Mike! He can't tell a sick cat from a well one."

"That's all right. He knows enough to tell the best lookin' one between

you and me. A _blind_ mug could do that."

"But--"

"We haven't any one else, you mutt. We can't have too much publicity in

this show. I dislike publicity any way, at any time, and especially

when I have on clothes, borrowed, as you might say, for the occasion.

If the gang was here, we could take a vote, but seein' that they ain't,

we got to do with what we got."

"I ain't goin' to get in no trouble wid this here burg," declared Mike.

"I want a quiet Sunday, some place where I can throw me feet for a bite

of grub and not run no fear of the dog's taking one first. See?

Besides, it's a decent, law-abidin' burg, God-fearin' and pious; too

small to be made unhappy. You want to take somethin' yer own size."

"Aw, who's goin' to hurt the jerkwater town?" demanded the Watermelon

with indignation.

"The cost of livin' is goin' up so these days, it's gettin' hard even to

batter a handout," groaned Mike, whose idea of true beauty consisted of

a full stomach and a shady place to sleep on a long quiet Sunday

afternoon. "I ain't goin' to get every place soured on me. If the

public gets any more stingy, I'll have to give up de turf for a livin',

that's all. To throw a gag will be harder den hod-carryin'."

"We ain't goin' to hurt the burg none," said James.

He rose languidly and stretched. "You be here this afternoon, Mike,

about three, see, or I'll knock yer block off. It's a nice quiet

hangout and far enough from the village to be safe. I'm goin' to get a

shave and borrow some duds from the bloomin' hostelry up yonder to do

honor to de occasion." He knocked the ashes from his pipe and slipped

it into his pocket. "If you don't get the clothes and de shave,

Watermillion, you'll be counted down and out, see?"

"Sure," agreed the Watermelon.

He lay at length on the ground beneath the butternut tree and James

paused a moment to run his eye critically over him, from his lean face

with its two-weeks' growth of beard to his ragged clumsy shoes. James

smiled grimly and drew himself up to his full height with just pride.

He was six feet two in shoes that might as well have been stockings for

all they added to his height. His shoulders were broad and muscular,

with the gentle play of great muscles in perfect condition. His neck,

though short, was well shaped and sinewy, not the short thick neck of a

prize-fighter or a bull. His hips were narrow and his limbs long and

straight. Beneath his open shirt, one saw his bronze throat and huge

chest. A splendid specimen of the genus _homo_, for all the rags and

tatters that served as clothes.

The Watermelon was a bit shorter, with narrower shoulders, but

long-legged, slim, graceful, and under his satiny skin, his muscles slid

and rippled with marvelous symmetry. Where James was strong, slow,

heavy, he was quick, lithe, supple. Dissipation had not left its mark,

and the hard life of the "road" had so far merely made him fit, an

athlete in perfect condition. His features were clean-cut and

symmetrical, with a narrow, humorous, good-natured mouth and eyes soft

and gray and gentle, the eyes of a dreamer and an idler.

James looked at the slight graceful youth, sprawled in the shade of the

butternut tree, and grinned, doubling his huge arms with slow, luxurious

pleasure in the mere physical action and watching the rhythmic rise and

fall of the great muscles.

"You might get honorable mention in one of these county fairs for the

best yoke of oxen," admitted the Watermelon from where he lay at ease.

"There ain't going to be no show," said Mike firmly. "Not if yer have

to swipe the duds. I ain't going--"

James showed that he was a true member of the bon-ton. He waved the

other to silence with the airy grace of a master dismissing an impudent

servant. "There is goin' to be a contest for the just reward of beauty

and yer goin' to be here, Mike, and be the judge or y' will have that

red-headed block of yours knocked into kindlin' wood."

Mike was fat and red-headed and dirty. His soul loathed trouble and

longed for quiet with the ardor of an elderly spinster. "No, I ain't,"

said he, in a vain struggle for peace. "I ain't goin' to hang around

here until you blokes swipe the rags and come back wid de cops after

yer."

"There ain't no cops around this place, you mutt," contradicted the

Watermelon with the delicate courtesy of the road.

"There's a sheriff--"

"Sheriffs," interrupted James coldly, "ain't never around until the

job's done."

"Sunday," added the Watermelon, from knowledge gained by past

experience, "is the best time to swipe anything. No one is lookin' for

trouble that day and so they don't find it, see?"

"Sure," agreed James. "Every one's feelin' warm and good and stuffed,

and when yer feel good yerself, yer won't believe any one is bad. You

know how it is, Mike. When yer feelin' comfortable, yer can't

understand why the devil we ain't comfortable."

"Well, why the devil ain't yer?" demanded Mike. "I ain't takin' all the

shade er all the earth, am I? Lie down and be quiet. What do yer want

a beauty show for?"

"Aw, stow it!" snapped the Watermelon.

"Yes, I'll stow it all right when we're all sent to the jug. I tell yer

I ain't fit to work. The last time I got pinched, I pretty near

croaked. I wasn't made to work."

"We ain't going to get pinched," said James. "You make more talk over

two suits of clothes--"

"It ain't the clothes. It's the damn fool notion of swipin' 'em and

then comin' right back here, and not makin' no get-away--"

"This hang-out is more than four miles from the burg, you galoot,"

sneered the Watermelon. "No one would think of coppin' us here. They'll

go to the next town, or else watch the railroads--"

"But they might--"

"Might what? Might be bloomin' fools like you."

"Where are you goin' to be shaved?"

"In a barber shop," said James mildly. "You probably favor a lawn-mower,

but personally I prefer a barber."

"Yes," wailed Mike, "go to a barber shop and let every guy in town get

his lamps on yer--"

"You're gettin' old, Mike, me boy, and losin' yer nerve," said James.

He stretched and yawned. "Well, I'm off before church time or the

barbers will be closed. Remember, Mike, this afternoon, between four

and five."

He pulled his clothes into place, adjusted his hat at the most becoming

angle and started up the narrow woodland path, whistling gaily through

his teeth. As he disappeared among the trees, the far-off sound of

church bells stole to them on the quiet of the Sabbath morning.

*CHAPTER II*

*A CLOSE SHAVE*

The Watermelon climbed the stone wall and paused a moment to view his

surroundings. The road wound up the hill from the village nestling at

its foot and dipped again out of sight farther on. On all sides were

the hills, falling rocky pasture lands, rising to orchards or woods, and

now and then a farmhouse. It was summer, glad, mad, riotous summer.

The sky was a deep, deep blue, with here and there a drifting,

snow-white cloud. The fields were gay with buttercups and daisies, and

wild roses nodded shyly at him from the briers along the roadside. In

the leafy recesses of the trees, the birds twitted and sang. A little

gray squirrel peered at him from the limb close by and then scampered

off with a whisk of its bushy tail. A brook laughed and tumbled under a

slender bridge across the road.

The Watermelon was a vagabond in every fiber of his long graceful self.

The open places, the sweep of the wind, the call of the birds, the rise

and fall of the hills, hiding the fascinating "beyond," found

unconscious harmony with his nature. As a captive animal, given a

chance for freedom, makes for the nearest timber; as a cat, in a strange

neighborhood, makes for the old, familiar attic, so the Watermelon

sought the country, the peace and freedom and space where a man can be a

man and not a manikin.

He paused a moment now, in perfect contentment with the world and

himself, while up the valley, over the hills, through the sun-warmed

air, borne on the breath of the new-mown fields came the sound of

distant church bells, softly, musically, soothingly. Slipping from the

wall, he set out for the village below in the valley, where the road

wound steeply down.

The village boasted but one barber shop, a quiet, little, dusty-white,

one-room affair, leaning in timid humility against the protecting wall

of the only other public building in town, drygoods, grocery and butcher

shop in one. The church bells had stopped for some time when the

Watermelon turned into the wide empty street, and strolled carelessly up

to the faded red, white and blue pole of Wilton's Tonsorial Parlor. In

its Sunday calm the whole village seemed deserted. A few of the bolder

spirits who had outgrown apron strings and not yet been snared in any

one's bonnet strings, had remained away from church and foregathered in

the seclusion of the barber shop. The Watermelon regarded them a moment

through the window as he felt carelessly in his pockets for the coins

that were never there. It was a quiet crowd, well brushed hair, nicely

polished boots and freshly shaved faces. They were reading the sporting

news of Saturday's papers and ogling any girl, fairly young and not

notoriously homely, who chanced to pass. The barber was cleaning up

after his last customer and talking apparently as much to himself as to

any one. Convinced of what he knew was so, that he had no money, the

Watermelon pushed open the door and entered.

"Hello," said he.

"Hello," said the barber.

All the papers were lowered and all conversation stopped as each man

turned and scanned the new-comer with an interest the Watermelon

modestly felt was caused by some event other than his own entry. He

surmised that James had probably been there before him, and the next

words of the barber confirmed his surmise.

That dapper little man scanned him coldly, from the rakish tip of his

shabby hat to the nondescript covering on his feet which from force of

habit he called shoes, and spoke with darkly veiled sarcasm:

"I suppose you are a guest from the hotel up to the lake?"

The Watermelon grinned. He recognized James' favorite role. "No," said

he cheerfully, "I'm John D., and me car is waiting without."

"A guest up to the hotel," repeated the barber, upon whom James had

evidently made a powerful impression. "Just back from a two weeks'

camping and fishing trip--"

"No," said the Watermelon. "I don't like fishing, baiting the hook is

such darned hard work."

"Just back," went on the barber, still quoting, his soul yet rankling

with the deceit of man. "Look like a tramp, probably--"

"Am one," grinned the Watermelon.

"And you thought you would get a shave as you passed through the

village, wouldn't dare let your wife see you--"

"Say," interrupted the Watermelon wearily, "what are you giving us? Did

any one bunko you out of a shave with that lingo?"

"Yes," snapped the barber. "About an hour ago a feller blew in here and

said all that. He talked well and I shaved him. He said he had sent

his camping truck on to the hotel by his team; he had stopped off to get

a shave. I shaved him and then he found he hadn't any money in his old

clothes--but he would send it right down--oh, yes--the moment he got to

the hotel. It ain't come and Harry, there, says there ain't no one up

to the hotel like that. Harry's the porter."

"Sure," said Harry importantly. "I passed the feller as I was coming

down and there ain't any one like him to the hotel."

The Watermelon laughed heartily. "A hobo, eh? Bunkoed you for fair.

You fellers oughtn't to be so dog-goned easy. Get wise, get wise!"

"We are wise now," said the barber ruefully, and added sternly, "If you

want a shave, you've got to show your money first."

"Sure, I want a shave," said the Watermelon, and carelessly rattled a

few old keys he carried in his pocket. They jingled with the clink of

loose coins and were pleasing to the ear if not so much to the touch.

"I came here for a shave, but I pay for what I want, see? Say, I'll bet

that feller busted your cash register," and he nodded pleasantly toward

the new shiny receiver of customs on the shelf near the looking-glass.

The remark brought an agreeable thrill of excited expectation to all

save the barber. He shook his head with boundless faith in his new

possession. "I bought that just last week and the drummer said it was

practically thief proof."

"Do you want to bet?" asked the Watermelon. "All there is in the

register, huh? Even money," and he jingled the keys in his pocket.

"Naw," said the barber. "I know he couldn't have robbed it. It's

impossible, even if the thing could be robbed, which it can't be. I was

right here all the time."

"It's near the lookin'-glass," said the Watermelon. "He went close to

the counter to see himself, didn't he?"

The Watermelon knew vanity as James' one weakness and realized with what

pleasure he himself would stand before the mirror and gaze fondly at his

own charms, uncontaminated by a shaggy, two-weeks' growth of beard.

"Yes," admitted the barber slowly. "He did look at himself for a long

time."

"And some of the time your back was turned," added the Watermelon. "You

were probably cleaning up or looking for a whisk."

"Yes," admitted the barber again, still more reluctantly. "But nobody

can bust into one of them cash registers, not without a noise that would

be heard across the room."

"I'll bet he did," said the Watermelon. "Do you take me?"

"But they can't be busted," reiterated the barber.

"Then why the devil don't you bet?" demanded the Watermelon. "You are

bettin' on a sure thing."

"Yes, go on. Don't be scared," encouraged Wilton's gay youth in joyful

chorus.

The barber started for his precious register, but the Watermelon reached

it first and laid his hand on it.

"Do you take me?" he asked. "You have to say that before you can count

the change or the bet's--Say, is that the galoot?" he nodded suddenly

toward the window and all turned quickly, instinctively, to look up the

village street. The Watermelon hastily thrust a thin comb between the

bell and the gong so it would not ring as he gently pressed the

twenty-five cent key, registering another quarter, then he joined the

others, pushing and struggling to see the man who did not pass, and

gazed languidly over their heads.

"There ain't no one there," exclaimed the barber.

"He's passed out of sight," said the Watermelon, making a feeble attempt

to see up the street. "He was almost by as I saw him."

"Do you take me?" he asked, as they returned to the counter and the

subject of the cash register. His hands were in his pockets and

occasionally he jingled the keys.

"Aw, go on," urged Harry, who was a sport. "What are you afraid of?"

"He couldn't have picked it," insisted the barber, whose faith in his

register was really sublime.

"Sure he could. They are easy to a guy who knows the ropes," declared

the Watermelon. "The drummer was handing you a lot of hot air when he

said they can't be picked. You don't want to be so easy."

The slur on his mental capacity was too much for the barber. His vanity

rose in defense of his register where his faith had failed. "I have some

brains," he snorted. "I know the thing is perfectly safe. Yes, I take

you."

He started to open the register, but the Watermelon objected. "Here,"

he cried, "let Harry do it. I'm not wanting to be bunkoed out of me

hard-earned lucre." And he lovingly rattled the keys in his pockets.

Harry and the others stepped forward.

"How much has been registered?" asked the Watermelon.

Harry drew forth the strip of paper and after a few moments of mental

agony, confused by the different results each obtained as all peered

eagerly over his shoulder, he finally arrived at the correct answer,

three dollars and sixty cents. It was Sunday and shaving day for the

male quarter of the population.

"Three, sixty," announced Harry in some trepidation, lest he be flatly

and promptly corrected.

The barber reached for the slip and added it on his own account.

"Three, sixty," he agreed, and sighed.

"Count the cash," ordered the Watermelon, and Harry counted, slowly,

carefully, laboriously, and the rest counted with him, more or less

audibly.

When the last coin had been counted, there was a moment of puzzled

silence. The Watermelon broke it.

"Three, thirty-five," said he. "What did I tell you?"

"Here," snapped the barber, "let me count it."

He pushed Harry aside and again all counted as the barber passed the

coins. Quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies, the last one was

lingeringly laid on the pile and the sum was lacking a quarter to make

it complete according to the registered slip.

"Three dollars and thirty-five cents," said the Watermelon again, like

the voice of doom.

"Well, I vum!" exclaimed Harry.

"How'd he do it?" asked the grocer's son, with an eye out for possibly

similar emergencies nearer home.

The Watermelon shrugged. "I don't know," said he. "Can't do it myself,

but the fellers in the cities have gotten so they can open 'em the

minute the clerk turns his back. They can do it without any noise, too,

and so quick you can't catch 'em. I'll be hanged if I know how they do

it."

Again the barber counted the change, again he totaled the numbers on the

registered slip. They would not agree. That painful lack of a quarter

could not be bridged.

"He said it was automatic bookkeeping," moaned the barber, glaring at

the slip that would register nothing less than three dollars and sixty

cents.

"The bookkeeping's all right," said the Watermelon, "it's the money that

ain't."

He gathered up the coins, slowly, lovingly, and the barber turned away

from the painful sight.

"Do you want a shave?" he asked crossly.

The Watermelon sank gracefully into the chair. "It's hard luck," said

he sympathetically, "but you oughtn't to be so easy. Get wise, get

wise."

*CHAPTER III*

*ENTER MR. BATCHELOR*

With hair nicely cut, face once more as smooth as a boy's, and three

dollars and ten cents in his pocket, the Watermelon gazed fondly at

himself in the glass and felt sorry for James. He gently patted his

hair, wet, shiny and smelling of bay rum, arranged his hat with great

nicety at just the graceful angle he preferred as doing the most justice

to his charms, and sallied forth to look for a suit of clothes. He had

scanned critically those he had encountered in the barber shop with an

eye to future possession, but none of them, at least what he had been

able to see of them, the coat having generally been conspicuous by its

absence, had pleased him. They had the uncompromising cut of the

country and the Watermelon felt that the attractions that gazed back at

him from the mirror were worthy of something better. He had a vague

fancy for light gray with a pearl-colored waistcoat and purple socks--a

suit possessing the gentle folds and undulations of the city, not the

scant, though sturdy, outlines of the country. The hotel seemed the

best place to look for what he wanted, so he turned in that direction.

The hotel was several miles from the village. Its gables and chimneys

could be seen rising in majestic aloofness from the woods on a distant

hillside. The Watermelon paused where the road dipped down again into

the valley and ran his eye over the intervening landscape. By the road,

it would be at least five miles; through the woods, the distance

dwindled to about three. The Watermelon took to the woods. They became

thicker at every step, the quiet and shade deeper and deeper. A bird's

call echoed clear and sweet as though among the pillars of some huge

grotto. A brook laughed between its mossy banks, tumbling into foamy

little waterfalls over every boulder that got in its path. The

Watermelon determined to follow the brook, sure that in the end it would

lead him to the hotel. City people had a failing for brooks and no

hotel management would miss the chance of having one gurgling by, close

at hand. The brook grew wider and wider, and through a break in the

trees the Watermelon saw a lake, disappearing in the leafy distance. He

heard a splash and saw the shiny white body of a man rise for one joyful

moment from the green depths ahead and then dive from sight with another

cool splash.

The Watermelon decided from habit to get a better view of the lonely

swimmer before he let his own presence become known. He slipped into

the bushes and slowly wriggled his way to the little glade. The lake

was bigger than at first appeared. It turned and twisted through the

woods and was finally lost from view around a small promontory. The

trees grew nearly to the water's edge, a dense protecting wall to one

who wished to sport in nature's solitude, garbed in nature's simple

clothing. The lake was too far from the hotel to have been annexed as

one of the attractions of that hostelry. All this the Watermelon

noticed at a glance. He also noticed that the man swimming in the cool

brown depths, with long easy strokes, was alone and a stranger. The

Watermelon looked for the clothes and found them on a log, practically

at his feet.

In everything but color, they fulfilled his dream of what raiment should

be like. Instead of the pale gray he rather favored, the suit was

brown, a light brown, with a tiny green stripe, barely visible,

intertwined with a faint suggestion of red, forming a harmonious whole

that was vastly pleasing to the Watermelon's aesthetic senses. In the

matter of socks, he realized that the stranger had not taken the best

advantage of his opportunity. Instead of being red or green to lend

character to the delicate suggestion of those colors found in the suit,

they were a soft dun brown. There was a tie of the same shade and a

silk negligee shirt of white with pale green stripes. The owner was

clearly a young man of rare taste, unhampered by a vexatious limitation

of his pocket-book.

He could be seen swimming slowly and luxuriously in the little lake,

perfectly contented, unconscious that some one besides the woodpeckers

and the squirrels was watching him. The swimmer's strokes had quickened

and the Watermelon perceived that he was swimming straight up the lake

with the probable intention of rounding the promontory and exploring the

farther lake. When he disappeared, the Watermelon quickly, carefully,

gathered up the clothes and likewise disappeared.

The swimmer was a big man and the clothes as good a fit as one could

look for under the circumstances. They set off the Watermelon's long,

lean figure to perfection, and the hat, a soft and expensive panama,

lent added distinction. The Watermelon removed the three dollars and

ten cents and the keys from his own pockets, and making a bundle of his

cast-off dollies, stuffed them out of sight in a hollow log, where later

he could return and find them. It was just as well to leave the stranger

a practical captive in nature's depths until the beauty show was pulled

off. After that event, he would return, and if the stranger was

amenable to reason, he could have his good clothes back, but if he acted

put out at all, for punishment he would have to accept the Watermelon's

glorious attire.

Clean-shaven, well-clothed, there was no longer any need for him to go

to the hotel, unless he wished to dine there. If the devotee of nature,

back in the swimming pool, was a stranger in these parts and not a guest

at the hotel, the Watermelon felt that he could do this with pleasure

and safety. It was after twelve, and his ever-present desire to eat was

becoming too pronounced to be comfortable. It would be a fitting climax

to a highly delightful morning to have dinner, surrounded by gentle folk

again, for the Watermelon came of a gentle family. He had no fear, for

some time at least, of the owner of the borrowed clothes making himself

unnecessarily conspicuous. But, on the other hand, if he were a guest at

the hotel, the clothes would probably be recognized and murder be the

simplest solution of their change of owners. Still, reasoned the

Watermelon, with a shrewd guess at the truth, if he were a guest, it was

hardly likely that he would be swimming alone in the isolated pond, in

the bathing suit designed by nature. The clothes hardly indicated a

young man of a serious turn of mind, who would seek the wooded solitudes

in preference to the vivacious society of his kind to be found in a big

hotel.

The wood ended abruptly at a stone wall. There was a road beyond the

wall, and beyond the road, another stone wall and more woods. It was a

narrow woodland road, a short cut to the hotel. It wound its way out of

sight, up a hill, through the pines. It was grass-grown and shady and

the trees met overhead. Sweetbrier and wild roses grew along the stone

walls, while gay little flowers and delicate ferns ventured out into the

road itself, and with every passing breeze nodded merrily from the ruts

of last winter's wood hauling. By the side of the road, like a glaring

anachronism, a variety theater in Paradise, a vacuum cleaner among the

ferns and daisies, stood a huge red touring car with shining brass work

and raised top. No one was anywhere in sight and the Watermelon climbed

into the tonneau and leaned comfortably back in the roomy depths.

"Home, Henry," said he languidly to an imaginary chauffeur.

A honk, honk behind him answered. He leaned from the car and saw

another turn into the road and come toward him. It was a touring car,

big and blue. An elderly gentleman, fat, serious, important, was at the

wheel. Beside him sat a lady, and a chauffeur languished in the tonneau.

"Hello, Thomas," called the old gentleman with the affability of a

performing elephant, addressing the Watermelon by the name of his car,

as is the custom of the road.

"Hello, William," answered the Watermelon, wondering why they called him

Thomas.

The old gentleman flushed angrily and the lady laughed, a delightful

laugh of girlish amusement. The Watermelon smiled.

"We are a Packard," explained the old gentleman stiffly.

"Are you?" said the Watermelon, wholly unimpressed by the information.

"Well, I ain't a Thomas."

"I called you by the name of your car," said the old gentleman. "I

surmise that you have not had one long."

"I don't feel as if I owned it now," the Watermelon admitted.

The old gentleman smiled genially. Anything was pardonable but

flippancy in response to his own utterances, none of which was ever

lacking in weight or importance. The young man, it seemed, was only

ignorant.

"Are you in trouble?" he asked with a gleam of anticipated pleasure in

his eyes. To tinker with a machine and accomplish nothing but a crying

need for an immediate bath was his dearest recreation.

"No," said the Watermelon, thinking of the three, ten, in the pocket of

the new clothes and of the lonely swimmer. "I ain't--yet."

The old gentleman was vaguely disappointed. "Can you run your machine?"

he asked, hopeful of a reply in the negative.

"No," said the Watermelon.

"Won't go, eh?" The old gentleman turned off the power in his car and

stepped forth, agilely, joyfully, prepared to do irreparable damage to

the stranger's car. He drew off his gloves and slipped them into his

pocket, then for a moment he hesitated.

"Where is your chauffeur?"

"I haven't one," said the Watermelon.

The old gentleman disapproved. "Until you know more about your machine,

you should have one," said he oratorically. "I am practically an

expert, and yet I always take mine with me."

He waved aside any comment on his own meritorious conduct and foresight

and turned to the machine. "There is probably something the matter with

the carburetor," said he, and raised the hood.

"Probably," admitted the Watermelon, alighting and peering into the

engine beside the old gentleman.

"Father," suggested the lady gently, "maybe you had better let

Alphonse--"

Alphonse, sure of the reply, made no move to alight and assist.

The old gentleman, with head nearly out of sight, peering here and

there, tapping this and sounding that, replied with evident annoyance.

"Certainly not, Henrietta. I am perfectly capable--"

His words trailed off into vague mutterings.

The Watermelon glanced at the lady, girl or woman, he was not sure

which. Between thirty and thirty-five, the unconquerable youth of the

modern age radiated from every fold of her dainty frock, from the big

hat and graceful veil. Her hair was soft and brown and thick, her mouth

was rather large, thin-lipped and humorous, and yet pathetic, the mouth

of one who laughs through tears, seeing the piteous, so closely

intermingled with the amusing. Her eyes were brown, clever, with

delicate brows and a high smooth forehead. The Watermelon decided that

she was not pretty, but distinctly classy. She was watching him with

amused approval, oddly mingled with wistfulness, for the Watermelon was

young and tall and graceful, good-looking and boyish. His man's mouth

and square chin were overtopped by his laughing woman's eyes, soft and

gentle and dreaming, a face that fascinated men as well as women. And

he was young and she was--thirty-five. He smiled at the friendliness he

saw in her eyes and turned to the old gentleman, who was now thoroughly

absorbed.

"I need a monkey-wrench," said he. "I thought at first that there was

something the matter with the carburetor, but think now that it must be

in the crank shaft assembly."

"Oh, yes," agreed the Watermelon vaguely, and got the wrench from the

tool-box as directed.

"I--I think that maybe you had better let us tow you to some garage,"

said the lady timorously, her voice barely audible above the old

gentleman's noisy administrations.

"Search me," returned the Watermelon, standing by to lend assistance

with every tool from the box in his arms or near by where he could reach

it instantly at an imperious command.

"Automobiles," said the lady, "are like the modern schoolmarms, always

breaking down."

"Like hoboes," suggested the Watermelon, "always broke."

The old gentleman straightened up. "There is something the matter with

the gasolene inlet valve," he announced firmly.

"The whole car must be rotten," surmised the Watermelon, catching the

oil-can as it was about to slip from his already over-burdened hands.

"No, no," returned the old gentleman reassuringly, as he buttoned his

long linen cluster securely. "The crank shaft seems to be all right,

but the--"

He knelt down, still talking, and the Watermelon had a horrible fear for

a moment that his would-be benefactor was about to offer up prayers for

the safety of the car. He reached out his hand to stay proceedings,

when the old gentleman spoke:

"I must get under the car."

"Maybe it's all right," suggested the Watermelon, who did not like the

idea of being forced to go after him with the tools.

"Father," the lady's voice was gentle, but firm, and the old gentleman

paused. "Let Alphonse go. You know we are to dine with the Bartletts.

Alphonse, please find out what the trouble is."

Alphonse alighted promptly. He was a thin, dapper little man with a

blase superiority that was impressive as betokening a profound knowledge

of the idiosyncrasies of motor-cars. He plainly had no faith in the old

gentleman's diagnosis. He approached the car and announced the trouble

practically at once.

"There is no gasolene."

The old gentleman was not in the least perturbed over his own slight

error in judgment. "A frequent, very frequent oversight," said he,

rising. "We will tow you to the hotel, my dear sir. You can get the

gasolene there."

"Never mind," said the Watermelon. "I can hoof it."

"Hoof it!" The old gentleman was pained and hurt. "Hoof it, when I

have my car right here! No, indeed. Alphonse, get the rope."