“Gladly,” was the reply. “I was secretly informed of that wager of yours and I was immensely interested in your little social experiment. You see I make my living by prevarication and subterfuges. And that”—with a laugh—“is more than a man can make by telling the truth. It’s a wicked world. Fraud and humbug are trumps.” “What I want you to do,” said Bob, ignoring this homily, “is to express my grip to New York. Also, tell Miss Gerald that I’ve gone and kindly thank Mrs Ralston and Miss Gerald for asking me down.” “Why don’t you thank them yourself?” “I think they would be more pleased if I complied with the formalities by proxy.” “Shall I add you had a charming time?” “You may use your own judgment.” Bob walked to the door. “I guess it’s I who am crazy,” said the maniac-doctor, again waking up. CHAPTER XXIII—MAKING GOOD Bob sent dad a modest-sized check the next day. “Result of hustling,” he wrote. “Spend freely. There’ll be more coming presently.” Then Bob went down on the narrow road that isn’t straight, but that has a crook in it. He stopped somewhere near the crook, and entering an office greeted a melancholy-looking man who had “bad business” and “country going to pot” written all over his face. The melancholy man was a club acquaintance. “What’s the most abused and worst thing on the street that isn’t straight?” said Bob debonairly. “That’s right. Call us names,” replied the melancholy man with a sigh. “Everybody’s doing it.” “Have you got something so awful people turn their heads away when you speak of it?” “There’s the Utopian,” observed the other. “Only a buzzard would get near it.” “Do they call the promoter a thief?” “They do.” “And is he crazy?” “He is. It’s either jail or a lunatic asylum for him.” Bob handed what was left of the commodore’s check to the melancholy man. “Buy Utopian,” he said. “All right,” answered the melancholy man listlessly. He was beyond feeling any emotion. “I believe in Utopian,” observed Bob. “I have here,” touching his forehead, “inside information that it is an excellent little railroad property.” “Oh, it isn’t a railroad,” said the melancholy man. “It’s—” “Don’t tell me what it is,” retorted Bob. “Repeat some of those things the world calls the promoter.” The melancholy man was obliging. “Heavens! He must be an awful honest man!” said Bob and started toward the door, where he turned. “Pyramid with the profits.” And Bob walked out.