So far Jack and Frank Foley were nip-and-tuck in their race. Neither had missed a game. Jack tried to say that since Foley scarcely ever played an entire contest through he was already defeated, but Handsome Frank――more handsome than ever now that Summer was at hand, with its better opportunities for sartorial display――reminded his rival of the terms of the wager. “I said I’d play in more games with outside teams than you would. I don’t have to play a game through from start to finish.” “It’s a good thing you don’t, then,” laughed Jack. “If you did I’d be carrying my bat around in that nice leather case right now! All right, old chap. Go to it. But you’ll have hard work stealing a game on me!” “Oh, I don’t know. You might break something or have measles, Jack. I hear there’s lots of measles around town.” “Don’t worry. I’ve had ’em.” “I know, but some folks have them two or three times.” Foley grinned exasperatingly. “Haven’t you got a sort of rash on your forehead there now?” “No, I haven’t! That’s sunburn, you idiot!” “Well, take care of yourself, Jack. You never can tell what’s going to happen.” Foley sauntered away, a picturesque figure in immaculate blue serge and a pale yellow shirt, and Jack watched his departure with mingled sentiments of admiration and contempt. “Of all the high-faluting dudes,” muttered Jack, “he’s the high-falutingest! Did you see that brown straw hat, Chester, with the pleated silk scarf around it? Say, he’s gone you one better, hasn’t he?” The encounter had taken place in the lobby of the Adams Building on a Saturday morning. Foley and Mr. Chester Young, doubtless drawn together by their mutual fondness for startling attire, had become very good friends, and Foley was quite frequently to be found at the news-stand. Mr. Chester Young, flicking the ashes from his cigarette, smiled untroubledly. “Old stuff,” he said. “They were wearing those in the East last Summer. The latest straws are higher and just off the straw-colour. I’ve got one on the way. You have to send to Chicago for them.” Joe, who was taking stock of the cigars on hand, smiled and winked at his partner. “Oh, those are too cheap for Foley,” he said carelessly. “Cheap!” exclaimed Young. “Oh, yes, they’re cheap like anything! Ten dollars is what they stand you, Faulkner.” “For one?” gasped Jack. “Well, you didn’t think it was for a dozen, did you?” asked Young pityingly. “That lid Foley’s sporting cost about six. He thinks he’s a pretty swell little dresser, Foley does. Well, he ain’t so bad, only he just sort of misses it about every crack he makes. See his socks? Dark blue they were. They ain’t wearing colours this season.” [Illustration: “He thinks he’s a pretty swell little dresser, Foley does”] “They’re not? Help!” Jack regarded his own brown stockings in dismay. “I’ve got to go home and change, Joe. Honest, this thing of keeping up with the styles is killing, isn’t it?”