"But, Henrietta, I am not a house-breaker. I deny the charge." "We all are," said Henrietta. "That is all I can see to it." "Money—" began Bartlett again, the refrain of his life. He felt he could not be arrested and haled before a magistrate, even such an humble one as a country justice of the peace. His whole scheme would be ruined. Batchelor would probably want to return to the city as soon as he could bail himself out, and not care to have anything more to do with motor trips run on similar lines. "No," snapped the general, "we will have no graft." "Graft," sputtered Bartlett. "Who suggested graft? A wise manipulation of the financial end of a difficulty will more often save you than not. There is no graft in paying for a night’s lodging." "Under the present circumstances, paying for a night’s lodging is graft," declared the general. "It’s graft, then, or prison," snapped Bartlett. "Prison," said the general heroically. "Prison is foolish," said Billy, "when one has a motor-car and can get away." "Besides," said Bartlett, "graft is not dishonest for the man who gives the bribe." "It ain’t," agreed the Watermelon, "if the man has money enough to give publicly to some college or institution." Henrietta drew on her gloves. "I think you are all cynics," said she. "Graft is dishonest." "Why?" asked Bartlett, turning to her. "Why, Henrietta?" "Because," said Henrietta firmly. "The only dishonor is playing on another man’s weakness, using that for your own ends. If I know a man has a price, am I dishonest to take advantage of the knowledge? No, certainly not. The dishonor is in him who has a price, whose dirty little soul cares so much for money that he lets his manhood go at so much in dollars and cents, like merchandise." "Ah," cried Henrietta with quick sympathy for the tempted. "Poverty is so terrible and money such a temptation. It doesn’t seem to be fighting fair to take advantage of it." "Father used to say that it would take the constitution of an ostrich, the empty head of a fool and the nerves of a prize-fighter to stand poverty," said the Watermelon, thinking of those days when there were eight children and no money. "I think," said Billy, as one propounding a wholly original suggestion, "that we should go at once." "If we have done wrong," said the general, "we should suffer for it. We should not attempt to evade the consequences of our acts." There was a heavy step on the porch without. The general turned pale, Bartlett reached for his pocket-book and Billy leaned weakly against the knobby end of the haircloth sofa. Only Henrietta and the Watermelon were quite calm, the latter with the calmness of desperation, the former, of despair. *CHAPTER XII* *THE KEY TO THE SITUATION*