"I would hate to be a clerk at a bargain sale," said the Watermelon, pilfering a cracker from the box Billy held. "Yes," agreed Bartlett, "think of the microbes—" "Microbes?" asked Billy who had not been following the conversation. "Where?" "In kisses, Billy," said the general. "I should think you would have found it out by this time. Everybody you kiss—" "I never kiss anybody," protested Billy, blushing delightfully. "Father used to say—" began the Watermelon. "Look here," interrupted Bartlett, "that father of yours was a minister, you say. I vow he could know nothing about this subject." "He married more people than you have," said the Watermelon. "Yes," said Henrietta kindly, "he must have known all about it. Do tell us what he said." "He used to say that kissing was just the reverse of poker—" "Poker," cried Bartlett. "No wonder your father left the ministry." "It says in the papers that your father was a policeman," declared the general. "A policeman of souls," said Henrietta softly. The general waved the sentiment aside as immaterial. "How could he have been a policeman and a minister?" "I can’t say," answered the Watermelon, and turned to help Billy with a sardine can as the best way out of a tight place. "How is kissing the reverse of poker?" asked Henrietta, always amused by the Reverend Mr. Batchelor’s remarks. "A pair would beat a royal flush," replied the Watermelon. "Surely," persisted the general, "if your father were a minister—" The Watermelon looked up from the key of the tin he was laboriously turning and glanced gently at the general, his woman’s eyes amused and pitying, the expression they always wore for the general. "Why, you see that is just what I always fancied. He used to preach and have a church—but if the papers say he was a cop, he probably was." "It’s a wise child that knows his own father," said Henrietta. "Come to supper everybody." Bartlett spread the filmy paper napkin on his knees and taking the plate Henrietta handed him, balanced it on his lap with great nicety. He was so sure that the Watermelon was William Hargrave Batchelor that it never occurred to him to doubt it. There were the cards, the monogram on the automobile and the general to vouch for it. The papers were a bit wrong. Supper over, the general conceived the sudden inspiration of tinkering a while with the cars. Alphonse stood by to assist and the others wandered off down the road before turning in for the night.