"First," said the general, as the four gathered around him in the light of the car lamps, "first I thought they were hold-up men. The lamps on my car had gone out and they did not see it, thought that there was only one car, so there would not be many to defend it; besides, I was the only one they had seen, and doubtless they surmised I was alone and they could have held me up easily." "Father," cried Henrietta, "what did you do?" "Before I could do anything they asked me the make of my car. I told them. They said it didn’t look like a Packard, and I saw that they were looking at Will’s car and hadn’t seen mine, back near the wall and with the lights out. I pointed to it and said that was my car. They seemed surprised to see two cars. I told them my name, gave them my card, and told them I was motoring to Maine with a party of friends and asked them what they were going to do about it." "What did they say?" asked Bartlett, while the Watermelon slowly rolled a cigarette. "Oh, they apologized," admitted the general. "But what I want to know, and what I don’t like at all, is why every one is so curious to know the make of my car, the engine number and the license number. What business is it of theirs?" The two girls slept in one car, Bartlett and the general in the other. The Watermelon lay on the grass on Billy’s side of the car and sought to reason the thing out, to plan what to do. Alone in the dark, he did not sleep, but stared before him, ears attuned to the many sounds of the summer night. In every whir of insects’ wings, in every whispering breeze that passed, he heard Billy’s soft sweet voice. He stared up at the stars and likened them to Billy’s eyes, twinkling points of light as far above him as Billy was, for Billy was Billy, and he was a tramp, a hobo—a Weary Willie. *CHAPTER XV* *LOVE IN IDLENESS*