The Watermelon, in his silk socks, his soft panama and fine linen, was too much in the habit of taking fate as he found it, without wonder or protest, to marvel now at his change of fortune or to be disturbed or embarrassed at the unexpected society in which he found himself. Between him and Bartlett was only the difference of a few millions, both lived by their wits, and if one preferred to walk while the other rode, it was merely a matter of choice—no sign of inferiority between man and man. They stopped that evening at a small town in the north of Vermont, as far from a railway and telegraph office as Bartlett could bring them. He had watched Batchelor carefully for signs of restlessness, but the young man appeared entirely absorbed in the present, with no thought for anything but the moment and Billy and Henrietta. After supper, they loitered a while on the porch. The night was dark and warm. Across the road and over the fields, the frogs in a distant pond were croaking, and the air was thick with fireflies. "Isn’t it dark and still," said Billy, her hands thrust into the pockets of her linen coat, her feet slightly parted, as a boy would stand, her small head thrown back. The Watermelon watched her covertly from the cigarette he was rolling, the clear oval of her dainty profile, her slender throat and well-shaped head with its coronet of braids. "Dark as misery," said Henrietta dreamily. "In the day, one sees a world," quoted Bartlett, standing beside her where she leaned, a slender figure, against the post of the porch. "In the night one sees a universe," and he waved his lighted cigar vaguely toward the myriads of stars above them. "What good does that do," asked the Watermelon, "seeing a universe? It’s miles away and can’t help you any." "Ah, but it’s beautiful," cried Henrietta, who had never had much experience with misery. "It teaches one to look up, the night-time does." The Watermelon lighted his cigarette in the cup of his hands and tossed his match away. "If you are trying to walk in the dark," he objected, "trying to get out of your troubles, say, and not standing still in the same old place, you can’t look up." "You have no beauty in your soul," declared Henrietta. "I think the idea is beautiful, seeing a universe." "When you are down and out, you don’t take any pleasure in looking at a universe," said the Watermelon. "A dollar, or even a quarter, will look a darned sight more beautiful." "I wouldn’t like to be poor," said Billy. "It must be so terrible to have no motor-car, for one thing." "It is," agreed the Watermelon, who would have agreed to anything Billy said. "It’s simply awful." "What did you mind most," asked Billy, "when you were a newsboy?" "Let’s go look at the universe," suggested the Watermelon hastily. "We can see it much better down the road a bit."