If any man of the Bar-20 punchers had been brought face to face with George McAllister he would have suffered the shock of his life. "Frenchy?" he would have hesitated, "What in—? Why, Frenchy?" And the shock would have been mutual, since Frenchy McAllister had been dead some months, a fact of which his brother George was sorrowfully aware. Yet so alike were they that any of Frenchy’s old friends would have thought the dead come to life. A distinguishing feature was the eye-glasses which George had long found necessary. He took them off and laid aside his book as the butler announced Mr. Booth. H. Whitby Booth entered the room with the hesitating step of one who has a favor to ask. A tall, well-set-up man of the blonde type of so many of his countrymen, his usual movements were slow when compared with the nervous action of those in the hustling city of Chicago. Hesitation gave him the appearance of a mechanical figure, about to run down. Mr. McAllister’s hearty welcome did not seem to reassure him. "Ah—Miss McAllister—ah—is not at home," he volunteered, rather than questioned. The other man eyed him quizzically. "No," he agreed, "she and Mrs. Blake are out somewhere; I am not just sure where. Shall I inquire?" "No, oh no. I rather wanted to talk to you, you know—that is—ah—" "Sit down, Whitby, and relieve your mind. Cigars on that table there, and some whiskey and fizz. Shall I ring for brandy?" "Awfully good of you, really. No, I—I think I ’ll go in as I am. The fact is I want Margaret—Miss McAllister—and I thought I ’d ask if you had any objections." "Margaret has." "Oh, I say!" "Fact, she has. Might as well face the music, Whitby. The truth is just this: It’s less than a week ago since Margaret was holding you up as a horrible example. Margaret comes from a line of hustlers; she has not had common sense and national pride bred out of her in a fashionable school; and she looks with extreme disfavor on an idler." "But I say, Mr. McAllister, you don’t think—" "No, my boy, I don’t think where Margaret is concerned—Margaret thinks. Don’t misunderstand me. I like you, Whitby. Confidentially, I believe Margaret does, too. But I am quite sure she will never marry a man who does nothing and, as she expressed it herself, lives on an allowance from his father." "Then I understand, sir, you have no objections?" "None in the world—because I believe you will strike your gait before long and become something of a hustler yourself. But let me tell you, Margaret does n’t deal in futures—I ’m used to it—but she insists on a fact, not a probability." Whitby drew a breath which was largely expressive of relief. "In that case, sir, I ’ll try my luck," and he arose to say good-night. "You know where to find them?" "Rather! I was going there when I had spoken to you."