“No,” said Bob. “I’ve only got about fifteen dollars and a half to my name. I guess you’re worth more than that yourself, aren’t you?” With sudden respect in his tone. “I guess I am,” said the man, grinning. “Then, logically, I should be carrying your valise,” retorted Bob. “Ha! ha! That’s good.” The fellow had been transporting the overflow of Mrs. Ralston’s guests for years, but he had never met quite such an eccentric one as this. He chuckled now as if it were the best joke. “I’ll tell you what—I’ll take it for nothing, and leave it to you what you give me!” Maybe, for a joke, he’d get a fifty—dollars, not cents. These young millionaire men did perpetrate little funnyisms like that. Why, one of them had once “beat him down” a quarter on his fare and then given him ten dollars for a tip. “Ha! ha!” repeated the fellow, surveying Bob’s elegant and faultless attire, “I’ll do it for nothing, and you—” Bob walked away carrying his grip. Here he was telling the truth and he wasn’t believed. The man took him for one of those irresponsible merry fellows. That was odd. Was it auspicious? Should he derive encouragement therefrom? Maybe the others would only say “Ha! ha!” when he told the truth. But though he tried to feel the fellow’s attitude was a good omen, he didn’t succeed very well. No use trying to deceive _himself_! Might as well get accustomed to that truth-telling habit even in his own thoughts! That diabolical trio of friends had seen plainer than he. _They_ had realized the dazzling difficulties of the task confronting him. How they were laughing in their sleeves now at “darn fool Bob!” Bob, a young Don Quixote, sallying forth to attempt the impossible! The preposterous part of the whole business was that his role _was_ preposterous. Why, he really and truly, in his transformed condition, ought to be just like every one else. That he was a unique exception—a figure alone in his glory, or ingloriously alone—was a fine commentary on this old world, anyhow. What an old humbug of a world it was, he thought, when, passing before the one and only book-store the little village boasted of, he ran plump into, or almost into, Miss Gwendoline Gerald. She, at that moment, had just emerged from the shop with a supply of popular magazines in her arms. A gracious expression immediately softened the young lady’s lovely patrician features and she extended a hand. As in a dream Bob looked at it, for the fraction of a second. It was a beautiful, shapely and capable hand. It was also sunburned. It looked like the hand of a young woman who would grasp what she wanted and wave aside peremptorily what she didn’t want. It was a strong hand, but it was also an adorable hand. It went with the proud but lovely face. It supplemented the steady, direct violet eyes. The pink nails gleamed like sea-shells. Bob set down the grip and took the hand. His heart was going fast. “Glad to see you,” said Miss Gwendoline.