And still holding him by the hand, he patted the Watermelon on his arm, jovially. After all he liked the boy, and right or wrong, wise or foolish, fate was against any other action, fate in the form of a half-drowned poodle dog. The Watermelon rested his arm on Bartlett’s shoulder with boyish affection. "Say, Bartlett," said he in a low voice, "I got drunk, honest to rights. But it was so blamed hot, I cooled off in the ocean before I knew what I was about and that sobered me up again. Then I saw something fall from the yacht and I thought it was a kid from the noise they were making, not just a pup. I swam out to help and of course they hauled me on board, and now the widow is planning to marry me." Bartlett roared. "Say, boy, er—er—maybe you need a loan until I can see about that job for you." Once more their eyes met and this time in complete and tender accord. "You’re all right," whispered the Watermelon, his face softening. "And don’t you worry about Billy," he added, "I’ll take care of her." THE END