He smiled as one who meets an old and congenial friend, for Jeroboam Martin had shown a fine capability for getting out of a tight place and carrying through a desired project with success and nerve, and Bartlett had grown to like the lad. "Am I bum enough?" asked the Watermelon, with no answering smile. When one has come to test love, life is too grim for smiles. "You are fairly dirty and shabby," agreed Bartlett. "You look thin." "I have had hard luck," said the Watermelon. "How’s Billy?" "Pretty well, thanks." "Expecting me?" asked the Watermelon, taking off his hat and gently patting his back hair as he had a way of doing. Bartlett nodded. "Yes, but not exactly as you are." "It’s tough on the little girl," muttered the Watermelon. He sank into a chair and stretched out his long legs with the weather-stained trousers and dirty, broken shoes. "Oh, mama, I’m tired. Been hoofing it since sun-up yesterday with hardly a stop, I wanted to see the kid so." "Well, go and get drunk," returned Bartlett. "And then you can see her." The Watermelon frowned. "See here, I don’t drink, necessarily. I’m not a brand to be plucked from the burning, a sheep strayed from the fold. The whisky bottle wasn’t my undoing and didn’t make me take to the highway. I’m not fallen. I was always down, I guess. I hate work; I hate worry and trouble, slaving like a Swede all day for just enough money to be an everlasting cheap guy. I like leisure and time to develop my own soul." He waved his hand in airy imitation of James. "That’s all right," said Bartlett. "But get drunk. If she can stand you soused, she can stand you sober. She has got to know what she’s getting, if she decides to take you after all." The Watermelon’s tired face grew a bit whiter under the tan and beard. He shrugged hopelessly and rose. "All right, if you say so. I hope to hell it will kill her love on the spot and she won’t suffer for it afterward. I suppose it will." He started for the door and paused, one hand on the knob. "Shall I have it on you?" he asked with a smile. "I’m broke." Bartlett tossed him a bill. "Is that enough?" "Yes," said the Watermelon and slipped it into his pocket. "Have one with me before you go," said Bartlett, pushing a glass and the bottle across the table. The Watermelon filled his glass and raised it. "To Billy," said he. "To Billy’s happiness," amended Bartlett.