"But Batchelor," stammered Bartlett, confused. The power of suggestion had been so strong that, though he occasionally thought the youth a bit eccentric for a stock-broker, it had never entered his head to question his identity. "Batchelor is in New York," returned the Watermelon. "I just telegraphed him, C.O.D., where he could find his blooming car. Don’t suppose the police had sense enough to look for it at the hotel." "A low dirty trick," sputtered Bartlett. The Watermelon agreed. "Typical of the Street," he sneered. "Yah, it fairly reeks with the filth of money, your plan and mine." "My plan?" Bartlett flushed and looked away. "Stung," said he humbly, and crumpled the telegram in his hand as he gazed moodily through the open door to the village street, impotent to refute the words of the Watermelon. The Watermelon nodded without any undue elation, in fact, not thinking at all about Bartlett, he was too entirely absorbed in his own troubles. "I suppose you are his partner—friend?" questioned Bartlett, after a moment’s painful readjusting of ideas. "No, I am a stranger. We met by chance, as you might say. I am a tramp." "A tramp!" Bartlett’s business chagrin vanished before the rush of his paternal alarm and surprise. "But, by heavens, man, I told Billy she could marry you." The horror in his tones angered the Watermelon. The hot blood leaped into his face and his hands clenched. "Well, why not?" he demanded. "I am a man if I am a tramp." "Bah," sneered Bartlett. "A man? A cow, rather, an animal too lazy to work. I suppose you stole your clothes." Both talked in low voices that the clerk, who only restrained himself from approaching by the exertion of tremendous will power, might not hear them. The Watermelon’s face was very white, and he spoke slowly, carefully, as he retold the episode of the swimming-hole and the stolen car, still leaning against the varied assortment of dress goods. "I borrowed these clothes," he concluded, "to keep you away from New York for a week. That object may not sound original to you, and it wasn’t. You were the one who suggested it to me through the telegraph clerk last Sunday." "That boy would take candy from the baby," swore Bartlett gently. "You were stung, that’s all. I love Billy and she loves me. I hate work, but for Billy I will work and am going to work. I love her." "Does she know you are a tramp?" [Illustration: "Does she know you are a tramp?"] "Yes." "You haven’t a cent, I suppose." "No, but I can earn some." "How?" "Working." "At what?" "Something." "What?" "Anything. Damn it, I ain’t incapable of anything but sleep!" "I’ve lost thousands through that dirty trick of yours—" "Yours. You originated it, you know."