“That’s fiddling, young Fessenden!” murmured Jones. He clapped his hands softly and Barry joined him. A form darkened the lighted window, stood there a moment as though peering across, and then vanished. “That was his amende,” said Jones, gravely. “And his thanks. A decent kid, I guess, but brought up wrong. I’ll bet he couldn’t toss a ball from first base to second! Or boot a football, or――or clean a fish, always supposing he could catch one. That’s no way to bring a fellow up, Locke. And if he is that sort, the last place to send him to is a boarding-school. There are too many rough-necks here who don’t know a――an andante from a――you say it, Locke.” “Anduncle,” said Barry, gravely. “Huh? Well, anyway, you get the idea. That kid’s in for a lot of hard knocks in the next few months, and he won’t know how to take them because about all he knows of life is keeping his feet dry and his fiddle tuned! Let’s go up.” “Come in and see my antique,” said Barry, when they had climbed the stairs. “That is, if you have the time.” “I’ll take time,” Jones replied, and, when the light was on: “Well! a gen-oo-ine Chippendale! Or is it Sèvres?” “Real Ming,” said Barry. “Ming, eh? One of our best little designers.” Jones took the arm-chair and surveyed the desk approvingly. “I knew him well. Also his uncle, Grand Rapids. Say, Locke, where’d you find that relic? Is there a public dump around somewhere?” “I like your nerve!” exclaimed Barry, indignantly. “What’s the matter with it?――except that it’s a bit more modern than the rest of the stuff.” “Maybe that’s it,” said the other, grinning. “I hope you’ve got it clamped to the floor so Toby won’t pinch it! Joking aside, though, it’s not half bad. Has lots of room, too. I suppose you didn’t pay anything for having it delivered.” “I didn’t, as a matter of fact, but what of it? Go on and spring it.” “Nothing of it. Only, if any one gave me a nice desk like that I’d expect him to deliver it.” “You’re insulting. I paid six dollars for that desk, Jones, and I’ll bet you wish you owned it.” “I’ll bet I wish I were the fellow who got the six dollars! Well, getting to love your little home, are you? You look quite fixed up. Photographs and everything! Mind if I look?” “Help yourself. Just the family, mostly.” “This must be your father. Looks rather like you. And this is Allen, isn’t it? Makes him look quite noble.” Jones completed the inspection of the photographs and lounged back to his chair. Then, looking over at Barry with a smile, he said, “I suppose he warned you against me, Locke.” “Warned me?” Barry repeated, confused. “What makes you think that?” Jones chuckled. “Oh, I just knew he would! He doesn’t approve of me, doesn’t like me. And I don’t like him. You mustn’t mind that, because I dislike lots of persons and things――like Napoleon and Pansy Chester and vanilla ice-cream――that other folks admire hugely. So my taste isn’t any criterion.”