"Yes," says J. Bayard Steele, adjustin' the chin part in his whiskers and tiltin' back comf'table in his chair, "I am beginning to think that the late Pyramid Gordon must have been a remarkably good judge of human nature."

"For instance?" says I.

"His selection of me as an executor of his whimsical will," says he.

"Huh!" says I. "How some people do dislike themselves! Now, if you want to know my views on that subject, J. B., I've always thought that was one of his battiest moves."

But he's got a hide like a sample trunk, Mr. Steele has. He only shrugs his shoulders. "Yes, you have given me similar subtle hints to that effect," says he. "And I will admit that at first I had doubts as to my fitness. The doing of kind and generous acts for utter strangers has not been a ruling passion with me. But so far I have handled several assignments—in which have I failed?"

"Look who's been coachin' you, though!" says I.

J. Bayard bows and waves a manicured hand graceful. "True," he goes on, "your advice has been invaluable on occasions, friend McCabe; especially in the early stages of my career as a commissioned agent of philanthropy. But I rather fancy that of late I have developed an altruistic instinct of my own; an instinct, if I may say so, in which kindly zeal is tempered by a certain amount of practical wisdom."

"Fine!" says I. "Bein' a little floral tribute, I take it, from Mr. Steele to himself."

"Unless it should occur to you, McCabe," says he, "to make the distinction between offensive egoism and pardonable pride."

"I don't get you," says I; "but I feel the jab. Anyhow, it's instructin' and elevatin' to hear you run on. Maybe you've got somethin' special on your mind?"

"I have," says he, producin' an envelope with some notes scribbled on the back.

"Is that No. 6 on the list?" says I. "Who's the party?"

"Here," says he, tappin' the envelope impressive, "are my findings and recommendations in the case of Hackett Wells."

"Shoot it," says I, settlin' back in the desk chair.

It's a pity too I can't give you all the high English J. Bayard uses up in statin' this simple proposition; for he's in one of them comf'table, expandin', after-luncheon moods, when his waist band fits tight and the elegant language just flows from him like he had hydrant connection with the dictionary.

It seems, though, that this Wells party had been sort of a partner of Pyramid's back in the early days. Some sort of a buyers' pool for Eastern coal deliveries, I believe it was, that Hackett had got into accidental and nursed along until he found himself dividin' the cream of the profits with only half a dozen others. Then along came Pyramid with his grand consolidation scheme, holdin' out the bait of makin' Mr. Wells head of the new concern and freezin' out all the rest.

Wells, he swallows it whole: only to wake up a few months later and discover that he's been double crossed. Havin' served his turn, Gordon has just casually spilled him overboard, thinkin' no more of doin' it than he would of chuckin' away a half-smoked cigar.

But to Hackett Wells this was a national calamity. Havin' got in with the easy-money bunch by a fluke in the first place, he wa'n't a man who could come back. Course he brought suit, and wasted a lot of breath callin' Pyramid hard names from a safe distance; but Pyramid's lawyers wore him out in the courts, and he was too busy to care who was cussin' him.

So Mr. Wells and his woe drops out of sight. He's managed to keep hold of a little property that brings him in just enough to scrub along on, and he joins that hungry-eyed, trembly-fingered fringe of margin pikers that hangs around every hotel broker's branch in town, takin' a timid flier now and then, but tappin' the free lunch hard and reg'lar. You know the kind,—seedy hasbeens, with their futures all behind 'em.

And in time, broodin' over things in gen'ral, it got to Hackett Wells in his weak spot,—heart, or liver, or something. Didn't quite finish him, you understand, but left him on the scrapheap, just totterin' around and stavin' off an obituary item by bein' mighty careful.

"I suppose Gordon must have heard something of the shape he was in," says J. Bayard, "when he included him in his list. Well, I hunted him up the other day, in a cheap, messy flat-house to the deuce and gone up Eighth avenue, got his story from him, and decided on a way of helping him out."

"Want to buy him a coal mine, or something like that?" says I.

J. Bayard refuses to notice my little sarcastic play. "I am sure Pyramid would have wanted this worn-out, cast-off tool of his to end his days decently," goes on Mr. Steele; "but to give him a lump sum would be worse than useless. Two or three plunges, and it would be all gone."

"Think of puttin' him in a home somewhere?" says I.

"That might be a good plan," says Steele, "if he was still a widower; but it appears that he has married again,—a young woman too, some waitress that he met in a quick-lunch place. I saw her. Bah! One of these plump, stupid young females, who appeared in a dingy dressing gown with her hair down. What an old fool! But I suppose she takes care of him, in a way. So I thought that an annuity, of say a thousand or two, paid in monthly installments, would be the wisest. That would enable them to move out into the country, get a nice little house, with a garden, and really live. It was pathetic to see how grateful he was when I told him of my scheme. Of course, McCabe, all this is subject to your indorsement. Thought you might like to have a talk with them first, and see for yourself; so I asked them to meet me here about——"

"Guess they're right on time," says I as the studio door opens, and in drifts a December-and-May pair that answers all the details of his description.

The old boy might have been still in the sixties; but with his remnant of white hair, watery eyes, and ashy cheeks he looks like a reg'lar antique. Must have been one of these heavy-set sports in his day, a good feeder, and a consistent drinker; but by the flabby dewlaps and the meal-bag way his clothes hang on him I judge he's slumped quite a lot. Still, he's kind of a dignified, impressive old ruin, which makes the contrast with the other half of the sketch all the more startlin'.

She's a bunchy blonde, she is, about four foot six in her French heels, with yellow hair, China-doll eyes, a snub nose, and a waxy pink and white complexion like these show-window models you see in department stores. She's costumed cheap but gaudy in a wrinkled, tango-colored dress that she must have picked off some Grand street bargain counter late last spring. The ninety-nine-cent soup-plate lid cocked over one ear adds a rakish touch that almost puts her in the comic valentine class.

But when I'm introduced to the old scout he glances fond at her and does the honors graceful. "Mrs. Wells, Professor," says he, and she executes an awkward duck response.

While the three of us are talkin' over J. Bayard's proposition she sits at one side, starin' blank and absentminded, as if this was somethin' that don't concern her at all.

It ain't a long debate, either. Hackett Wells seems satisfied with most any arrangement we want to make. He's a meek, broken old sport, grateful for anything that comes his way. That's what led me to insist on boostin' the ante up to twenty-five hundred, I guess; for it didn't look like he could go on pullin' that down for many years more. And of course J. Bayard is tickled to get my O.K. so easy.

"Then it's all settled," says Mr. Steele. "You will receive a check from the attorney of Mr. Gordon's estate on the first of every month. You and Mrs. Wells ought to start to-morrow to look for a place in some nice little country town and—why, what's the matter with your wife?"

She has her face in her hands, and her dumpy shoulders are heavin' up and down passionate. At first I couldn't make out whether it's woe, or if she's swallowed a safety pin. Anyway, it's deep emotion of some kind.

"Why, Deary!" says Mr. Wells, steppin' over and pattin' her on the back.

But that don't have any effect. The heavin' motion goes right on, and no answer comes from Deary.

"Mabel! Mabel, dear!" insists Hackett. "Tell me what is wrong. Come now!"

Mabel just shakes off his hand and continues her chest gymnastics. Also she begins kickin' her heels against the chair rungs. And as Hubby stands there lookin' helpless, with J. Bayard starin' disturbed, but makin' no move, it appears like it was up to me to take a hand.

"Don't mind the furniture, Ma'am," says I. "Take a whack at the desk too, if you like; but after you're through throwin' the fit maybe you'll let us know what it's all about."

At which she begins rockin' back and forth and moanin' doleful. A couple of hairpins works loose and drops to the floor.

"Excuse me, Ma'am," says I, "but you're goin' to lose the inside of that French roll if you keep on."

That fetched her out of it in a hurry. Grabbin' wild at her back hair, she sat up and faced us, with no signs at all of real weeps in her eyes.

"I won't live in the country, I won't!" she states explosive.

"Why, Mabel dear!" protests Mr. Wells.

"Ah, don't be an old bonehead!" comes back Mabel. "What's the idea, wishin' this Rube stuff on us? You can just count me out, Hacky, if that's the game. Do you get me?"

Hacky does. "I'm very sorry, Gentlemen," says he, "to ask you to modify your generous terms; but I feel that my wife's wishes in the matter ought to be taken into account."

"Why—er—to be sure," says J. Bayard. "I merely suggested your living in the country because it seemed to me the wisest plan; but after all——"

"Do we look like a pair of jays, I'd like to know?" demands Mrs. Wells indignant. "And another thing: I don't stand for this so much a month dope, either. What's the good of a little now and then? If we've got anything coming to us, why not hand it over annual? There'd be some sense to that. Stick out for once a year, Hacky."

Which he done. She had him well trained, Mabel did. He shrugs his shoulders, tries to smile feeble, and spreads out his hands. "You see, Gentlemen," says he.

I must say too that Mr. Steele puts up a mighty convincin' line of talk, tryin' to show 'em how much better it would be to have a couple of hundred or so comin' in fresh on the first of every month, than to be handed a lump sum and maybe lose some of it, or run shy before next payday. He explains how he was tryin' to plan so the money might do 'em the most good, and unless it did how he couldn't feel that he'd done his part right.

"All of which," he goes on, "I am quite sure, Mrs. Wells, you will appreciate."

"Go on, you whiskered old stuff!" comes back Mabel spiteful. "How do you know so much what's good for us? You and your nutty dreams about cows and flower gardens and hens! I'd rather go back to Second avenue and frisk another quick-lunch job. Hand us a wad: that's all we want."

Course it was a batty piece of work, tryin' to persuade people to let you push money on 'em; but that's just where we stood. And in the end J. Bayard wipes his brow weary and turns to me.

"Well, McCabe, what do you say?" he asks. "Shall we?"

"I leave it with you," says I. "You're the one that's developed this what-do-you-call-it instinct, temperin' kindly zeal with practical wisdom, ain't you? Then go to it!"

So five minutes later Hackett Wells shuffles out with an order good for the whole twenty-five hundred in his pocket, and Mabel clingin' tight to his arm.

"So long, Profess," says she over her shoulder, as I holds the door open for 'em. "We're headed for happy days."

And J. Bayard Steele, gazin' after her, remarks puzzled, "Now just precisely what can she mean by that?"

"Bein' only a crude and simple soul, J. B.," says I, "I got to give it up. Anyhow, Mabel's entirely too thick a girl for me to see through."

Besides, not knowin' her tastes or little fads, how was I to guess her notion of happy days? Then again, I didn't have to. All that's clear is that Pyramid had wanted us to do some good turn for this old goat, to sort of even up for that spill of years gone by, and we'd done our best. Whether the money was to be used wise or not accordin' to our view was a problem that don't worry me at all. Might have once, when I was dead sure my dope on things in gen'ral was the only true dope. But I'm getting over that, I hope, and allowin' other folks to have theirs now and then. In fact, I proceeded to forget this pair as quick as possible, like you try to shake a bad dream when you wake up in the night. And I warned J. Bayard that if he didn't quit luggin' his punk philanthropy specimens into my studio I'd bar him out entirely.

Let's see, that was early in the summer, and it must have been just before Labor Day that I broke away for a week or so to run up into the White Mountains and bring back Sadie and little Sully. First off Sadie was plannin' to come by train; but by the time I got there she'd changed her mind and wanted to tour back in the machine.

"It's such gorgeous weather," says she, "and the leaves are turning so nicely! We'll take three days for it, making short runs and stopping at night wherever we like."

"You mean," says I, "stoppin' wherever you can find an imitation Waldorf-Castoria."

"Not at all," says she. "And you know some of these little automobile inns are perfectly charming."

Well, that's what brought us to this Sunset Lake joint the first night out. Somewhere in New Hampshire it was, or maybe Vermont. Anyway, it was right in the heart of the summer boarder belt, and it had all the usual vacation apparatus cluttered around,—tennis courts, bowling alleys, bathing floats, dancing pavilion, and a five-piece Hungarian orchestra, four parts kosher, that helped the crockery jugglers put the din in dinner.

It was a clean, well-kept place, though, and by the quality of the tomato bisque and the steamed clams that we started with I judged we was actually goin' to be surprised with some real food. We'd watched the last of the sunset glow fade out from the little toy lake, and while we was waitin' to see what the roast and vegetables might be like we gazed around at the dinner push that was filterin' in.

And what a job lot of humanity does have the coin to spend the summer, or part of it, at these four-a-day resorts! There's middle-aged sports, in the fifties or over, some of 'em with their fat, fussed-up wives, others with giddy young Number Twos; then there's jolly, sunburned, comf'table lookin' fam'ly parties, includin' little Brother with the peeled nose, and Grandmother with her white lace cap. Also there's quite a sprinklin' of widows, gay and otherwise, and the usual bunch of young folks, addin' lively touches here and there. All city people, you know, playin' at bein' in the country, but insistin' on Broadway food at Broadway prices.

Our waitress was just staggerin' in with a loaded tray, and Sadie was tryin' to induce little Sully not to give the college yell when he asked personal questions about folks at the next table, when I notices her glance curious at something over my head, then lower her eyes and sort of smile. Course I suspects something worth lookin' at might be floatin' down the aisle; so I half swings around to get a view. And I'd no sooner got it than I wished I hadn't been so curious; for the next second there comes, shrillin' sharp and raspy above the dinin' room clatter, a free and happy hail.

"Well, what do you know! Professor McCabe, ain't it!"

Me—I just sat there and gawped. I don't know as I could be blamed. Course, I'd seen bunchy little blondes before; but this was the first time I'd ever seen one that had draped herself in a rainbow. That's the only word for it. The thin, fluttery silk thing with the butterfly sleeves is shaded from cream white to royal purple, and underneath is one of these Dolly Varden gowns of flowered pink, set off by a Roman striped sash two feet wide. And when you add to that such details as gold shoes, pink silk stockin's, long pearl ear danglers, and a weird lid perched on a mountain of yellow hair—well, it's no wonder I was sometime rememberin' where I'd seen them China-doll eyes before.

"Deary," she goes on, turnin' to what's followin' her, "look who's here! Our old friend, the Profess!"

And with that she motions up a dignified old wreck dolled out in a white flannel suit and a red tie. If it hadn't been for that touch of red too, he sure would have looked ghastly; for there was about as much color in his face as there was in his white buckskin shoes. But he steps up spry and active and shoves out a greetin' hand.

I ain't got the nerve, either, to look at Sadie while I'm doin' the introducin'. I was watchin' Mrs. Hackett Wells sort of fascinated and listenin' to her chatter on.

"Well, if this don't froth the eggs!" says she, pattin' me chummy on the shoulder. "Havin' you show up like this! And, say, lemme put you wise,—here's where you want to stick around for a week or so. Yea, Bo! Perfectly swell bunch here, and something doin' every minute. Why, say, me and Deary has been here six weeks, and we've been havin' the time of our lives. Know what they call me here? Well, I'm the Hot Baby of Sunset Lake; and that ain't any bellboy's dream, either! I'm the one that starts things. Yes, and I keep 'em goin' too. Just picked this place out from the resort ads in the Sunday edition; and it was some prize pick, believe me! 'A quiet, refined patronage of exclusive people,' the picture pamphlet puts it, and I says to Deary, 'Me for that, with three wardrobe trunks full of glad rags.' So you can tell your friend with the face privet that we got to the country after all. Did I miss my guess? Never a miss! Why, say, some of these swell parties lives on West End avenue and the Drive, and I can call half of 'em by their first names. Can't I, Deary?"

And Hackett Wells nods, smilin' at her fond and sappy.

"Drop round to the dancin' pavilion later," says she, "and watch me push him through the onestep. After that me and one of the boys is goin' to tear off a little Maxixe stuff that'll be as good as a cabaret act, and about ten-thirt we'll tease Deary into openin' a couple of quarts in the cafÉ. So long! Don't forget, now!" And off she floats, noddin' cheerful right and left, and bein' escorted to her table by both head waiters.

I couldn't stave off meetin' Sadie's glance any longer. "Eh?" says I. "Why, that's only Mabel. Cunnin' little thing, ain't she?"

"Shorty," demands Sadie, "where on earth did you ever meet such a person?"

Then, of course, I had to sketch out the whole story. It was high time; for Sadie's lips was set more or less firm. But when she hears about J. Bayard's wise-boy plans for settlin' the Hackett Wells in some pastoral paradise, and how they got ditched by militant Mabel, she indulges in a grim smile.

"A brilliant pair of executors you and Mr. Steele are," says she, "if this is a sample of your work!"

"Ah, come, don't be rough, Sadie!" says I. "It's hard to tell, you know. What's the odds if they do have to go back to their little Eighth avenue flat next week? They're satisfied. Anyway, Mabel is. She's New York born and bred, she is, and now that she's had her annual blow she don't care what happens. Next year, if Deary hangs on, they'll have another."

"But it's so foolish of them!" insists Sadie.

"What else do you expect from a pair like that?" says I. "It's what they want most, ain't it? And there's plenty like 'em. No, they ain't such bad folks, either. Their hearts are all there. Just a case of vacancy in the upper stories: nobody home, you know."