"Hello, yourself, you old scallywag!" came back a voice which was familiar, though for a minute I could not place it. "Who is it?" I asked angrily. "Who's been biting you?" came back the answer. "This is Fred Barlow, old surly face. What's the matter, anyway? Had a row with the wife?" Fred Barlow! Old Barlow's son! If ever there was an irrepressible young man it was Fred Barlow. "I'm coming right over to see you," he said, and click went the receiver. I went back in the room and growled at Betty: "Fred Barlow's coming over here. Try to be civil to him." Betty looked at me for a minute, then crossed the room, and put one arm around my shoulder. "Dawson, dear," she said, "you must not get vexed with me. You know, dearest, I would do everything to make you happy. But you must also know, dear, you have such a great big heart that you sometimes let it run away with your head--now, don't you? But you must not get angry with me. We cannot afford to get cross with each other--can we?" "I--" but what then happened is nobody's business but ours. Suffice to say that, when Fred Barlow did breeze into the house, Betty and I were both smiling, and smiling from our hearts. "Well, you old turtle doves," said Fred, "what's the price of dollar razors to-day? I want to buy one so that I can razor rumpus." "Dawson," said Betty severely, yet with a twinkle in her eye, "please throw this person out of the house. A man who makes puns on Sunday is breaking the Sabbath." "Never mind the Sabbath," said Fred. "If you will ask me to break bread with you I will stay. What's doing?" "Well," I said, "I suppose we shall have to ask him, sha'n't we, Betty?" Then we stopped fooling, and began to talk of general matters. I told him about Larry Friday. "Poor old Larry," said Fred. "Why poor old Larry?" I asked, with a sinking feeling in my heart. "Why the poor devil only got clear of the bankruptcy court three months ago. You know he tried to run the Providence business after his father died, but he made a bad mess of it. Still, I guess he's learned his lesson." I had a cold feeling around my heart, and I began to wish that I had heeded Betty's advice. A five hundred dollar note is not much to endorse, if a fellow's got the money; but-- "But can he?" I heard Betty ask. "Of course he can!" said Fred. "What's that?" I asked, coming out of my brown study. "I suppose you know," Fred said, "that I am an agent for the Michigan car, the best little four-cylinder on the market, twenty miles on a gallon of gas, seats five people, rides like a feather bed, nine hundred and fifty dollars." "Hold on," I cried, "if you have come here to sell me a car, just beat it while the beating is good."