“I’ve just returned from a trip down South,” proceeded Bott, “and I have secured the authentic baffy used by Bobby Jones in his first important contest--the Infants’ All-In Championship of Atlanta, Georgia, open to those of both sexes not yet having finished teething.” Bradbury gasped. He had heard rumours that this treasure was in existence, but he had never credited them. “You’re sure?” he cried. “You’re positive it’s genuine?” “I have a written guarantee from Mr. Jones, Mrs. Jones, and the nurse.” “How much, Bott, old man?” stammered Bradbury. “How much do you want for it, Gladstone, old top? I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars.” “Ha!” “Five hundred thousand.” “Ha, ha!” “A million.” “Ha, ha, ha!” “Two million.” “Ha, ha, ha, ha!” Bradbury Fisher’s strong face twisted like that of a tortured fiend. He registered in quick succession rage, despair, hate, fury, anguish, pique, and resentment. But when he spoke again his voice was soft and gentle. “Gladdy, old socks,” he said, “we have been friends for years.” “No, we haven’t,” said Gladstone Bott. “Yes, we have.” “No, we haven’t.” “Well, anyway, what about two million five hundred?” “Nothing doing. Say, listen. Do you really want that baffy?” “I do, Botty, old egg, I do indeed.” “Then listen. I’ll exchange it for Blizzard.” “For Blizzard?” quavered Fisher. “For Blizzard.” It occurs to me that, when describing the closeness of the rivalry between these two men I may have conveyed the impression that in no department of life could either claim a definite advantage over the other. If that is so, I erred. It is true that in a general way, whatever one had, the other had something equally good to counterbalance it; but in just one matter Bradbury Fisher had triumphed completely over Gladstone Bott. Bradbury Fisher had the finest English butler on Long Island. Blizzard stood alone. There is a regrettable tendency on the part of English butlers to-day to deviate more and more from the type which made their species famous. The modern butler has a nasty nack of being a lissom young man in perfect condition who looks like the son of the house. But Blizzard was of the fine old school. Before coming to the Fisher home he had been for fifteen years in the service of an earl, and his appearance suggested that throughout those fifteen years he had not let a day pass without its pint of port. He radiated port and pop-eyed dignity. He had splay feet and three chins, and when he walked his curving waistcoat preceded him like the advance guard of some royal procession. From the first, Bradbury had been perfectly aware that Bott coveted Blizzard, and the knowledge had sweetened his life. But this was the first time he had come out into the open and admitted it. “Blizzard?” whispered Fisher. “Blizzard,” said Bott firmly. “It’s my wife’s birthday next week, and I’ve been wondering what to give her.”