"'You may cheer me with your friendship, As you are gentlemen, But the friend I want the hand-grip of Is not within your ken. "'So keep your praise, and keep your blame, And save your good red wine, For though this town be home for you, It is no home of mine. "'And when your lights are brightest, Ah, then, across the glare, I pledge my friends of yesterday, And love of otherwhere.'" The applause was loud and long. They patted the singer on the back, and thumped him on the chest. They gave him three cheers and a drink (which made more than three drinks). O'Rourke shouted for their attention. "All Potts did was make up the silly tune," he cried. "I wrote the verses--with my little pen." When Hemming and O'Rourke got back to their rooms, they found a steamer-trunk and a couple of bags packed and strapped, and Smith snug abed. The time was 2.30 A.M. They lit the fire, changed their coats, and drew their chairs to the hearth. O'Rourke placed a decanter and glasses on the corner of the table. They talked a little in murmured, disjointed sentences. Each followed his own thoughts as they harked back to the past and worked into the future. They sipped their Scotch and soda, with meditative eyes on the fire. O'Rourke sighed. "Thank God, Helen likes New York no better than I do," he said. Hemming looked up and nodded. "My boy," he said, gravely, "if I ever find you and Helen blinking out such a stupid existence as the thing some of our friends call life, I'll drop you both." "No danger of that," laughed O'Rourke, happily. "Remember the Hickses," warned Hemming. For long after O'Rourke had turned in, Hemming continued his musings by the sinking fire. Just as the dawn gleamed blue between the curtains, he lit a candle, and unrolled the final proof-sheets of his novel. By the time these were corrected to his satisfaction, the room was flooded with sunshine, and Smith was astir. CHAPTER VIII. HEMMING WOULD PUT HIS DREAMS TO THE PROOF