The Watermelon was having the time of his young life. Abstract problems of right and wrong did not trouble him. He took each event as it came and never fretted about it when it was over or worried about the next to come. Last night in the open with the fat Mike and the languid James, all dirty, all tired, all tramps, he had slept as peacefully and had fallen asleep as quickly, as he did that night in a comfortable bed with an austere member of the New York Stock Exchange as bedfellow and a retired general of the United States army on the couch at the foot. The whole adventure was diverting, amusing, nothing more. He took each day as it came and let the morrow take care of itself. Batchelor would probably try to make trouble, but if Bartlett were as successful as he hoped to be, and kept on getting lost, there was little danger from that source. Bartlett, desiring secrecy as much as the Watermelon, had effectually silenced the enterprising reporter at the hotel. It was early when Bartlett awoke. The birds were singing riotously in the vines over the porch and the sun streamed through the cracks in the shabby window shade. He yawned and stretched, glancing with amusement at the general, still raising melodious sounds of slumber from the couch at the foot of the bed. Then suddenly he became aware that the place at his side was empty, that the Watermelon was gone. He crawled stealthily out of bed and dressed, filled with misgivings. Batchelor had consented so readily the day before to come with them that now, when he had had time to think it over, he might have regretted his decision and be already on the way to the railroad, somewhere. His had been the master mind to conceive the check and ruination of the cotton scheme, and surely he would see the folly in what he had done the day before, when lured on by the pretty, bewitching Billy. He would realize now in the clear light of day that he must return to the city or get word to his brokers somehow. He might even then be in a telegraph office, sending a despatch of far-reaching importance. Bartlett dressed with feverish haste and hurried out to the side porch. The Watermelon was there, sitting in the sun, his feet hanging over the edge of the porch, talking carelessly with the immobile Alphonse. Both were smoking and both had apparently been up for some time. Had Batchelor been to the village and telegraphed already? He would have had time to go and return if he had used one of the cars. The Watermelon looked up. "Hello," said he. "Hello," said Bartlett. "Been up long?" "Not so long," said the Watermelon. "Are the cars all right?" asked Bartlett. "I haven’t been to see," returned the Watermelon, rolling another cigarette. Bartlett drew a sigh of relief and started after Alphonse for the shed beside the barn. The Watermelon had not had time to walk to the village and back, besides telegraphing. Bartlett paused and glanced over his shoulder. "Aren’t you coming?"