The Watermelon leaned back in the deep soft cushions of the big car and smiled a smile of calm and peace and comfort. The car ran smoothly, noiselessly, little breezes laden with the sweetness of the approaching night wandered by, on each side of him was a pretty girl. Tramping idealized! It was living idealized. And that morning, hungry, shabby, unshaved, he had been content to lie in the sweet lush grasses of a chance meadow, under a butternut tree, with the convivial James and the corpulent Mike! He crossed one well-pressed, silken leg over the other and saw by the wayside, lounging in the shadows, waiting for the car to pass, the two, James and Mike—Mike, fat, red-faced, dirty, his frowsy hat pulled aslant over his small, bleary eyes, shoulders humped from long habit in cold weather, toes coming out of his boot ends; James, clean shaven, but otherwise no better dressed, no cleaner, both chewing tobacco with the thoughtful rumination of the cows watching over the pasture bars at the end of the wooded lane. Over the trees, the sun was dropping from sight. Clearly and sweetly on the quiet air of the eventide, the church bells began to toll from the village below them in the valley. Billy nudged the Watermelon to call his attention to the two weary figures by the wayside. "Poor fellows," said Henrietta softly, lest they hear her. The Watermelon glanced at them in lofty disgust and catching James’ eye, his own flickered the fraction of an inch and he raised his hands languidly to adjust the brown silk tie at his throat. When they had passed, he turned and waved a graceful farewell. He explained to Billy as they swept on into the deepening dusk. "You might as well encourage the poor fellows. They probably want to ride as well as I." And Henrietta fancied that possibly his father had looked thus on a Sunday, in the pulpit of a country church. "Yes," agreed Billy. "They may be perfectly dandy fellows." "Assuredly," laughed Henrietta. "The stout one fairly radiated truth and nobility, a manly, upright youth." "I don’t care," declared Billy warmly. "You can’t always tell from appearances. You ought to know that, Henrietta. Clothes don’t make the man." "Nor his manners," laughingly retorted Henrietta. "Sure," said the Watermelon. "Father used to say that manners didn’t count any more than the good apples on the top of the box to hide the rotten ones beneath." "I think your father was a cynic," said Henrietta sharply, into whose ears Billy had been recounting the sayings of the absent divine. "Yes," admitted the Watermelon, "he was." "Cynicism is a sign of failure," quoted Henrietta. "Surely your father wasn’t a cynic."