"Hello," said Mike facetiously. "Going in?" and he nodded casually backward to the lake. "Been in," chattered the miserable wretch, trying to control his teeth so that he could say more. "Oughtn’t to stay in too long," advised James solicitously. "Your lips look blue." "Bad for the heart," said Mike. "We ain’t ladies," added James with delicacy. "You might come out from them bushes." "Some—some one stole my—my—my clothes," stammered the young man, stepping carefully forth. "Been here—here since this—this morning." He looked sharply at the shabby pair before him, with quick distrust in his bloodshot eyes and added coldly, "Some—some tramp." "Did you see him?" asked James. "No—no—no. But who else could have stolen them?" "I," said Mike, drawing himself up to his five feet five and throwing back his pudgy shoulders, "I am a tramp. I trust, sir, you meant no insult to me profession?" The stranger waved the question aside. "Get me some clothes and I’ll give you some money." "What money?" asked James. "I will send you some. I am rich. My car is in the road. Maybe you saw it. I was coming through the woods to the hotel to get a tow up, for I was out of gasolene, when I saw the lake. It was early and I thought I would take a swim. Maybe you saw my car by the side of the road?" "I didn’t see no car," said Mike. "Did you come by the road?" "Yes, a narrow wood road." "Yes, yes; that’s where I left it. The damned thief has probably gone off with my car, too." "Then he couldn’t be a tramp," said James judiciously. "Tramps don’t know nothing about motor-cars." "Maybe he took it up to the hotel," said Mike, cheerfully helpful. The stranger shook his head. "No, he wouldn’t do that. He would get out of the country as fast as he could." "If there wasn’t no gasolene," suggested James tentatively. "He could easily get some from the hotel. It was early when he stole my clothes." And James realized with relief that the youth before him was, in his own eyes, always right, and advice wholly superfluous. "I saw a big red car," said Mike, "down the road a bit, over the other side of the village, going south. But maybe your car wasn’t red." "Yes, yes, it was," cried the stranger. "What was the make? Could you tell?" "A Thomas car—" "Ah, my car. Get me something to put on and I’ll make it worth your while. I’m William Hargrave Batchelor. Maybe you have read about me in yesterday’s papers?" And the poor, shivering, naked wretch drew himself up proudly and smiled with much complacency. "I," said Mike, tapping himself on his breast, "am George V., of England." "No, no," protested the stranger. "I’m not fooling. Get me, some clothes and come with me to the nearest telegraph office and I’ll show you." "How much," asked Mike, "will you give me?" "Us," corrected James. "How much do you want?" "How much will you give?" "Ten dollars." "For a suit of clothes?" Mike’s fat red face depicted his horror.