Well, the commodore called that some one quick. “Five thousand he can’t do it.” “For how long?” says Dickie. “A week,” answered the commodore. “Make it two.” “Oh, very well.” “Three, if you like!” from Bob, the stormy petrel. They gazed at him admiringly. “It isn’t the green garden talking, is it, Bob?” asked Clarence Van Duzen whose sole occupation was being a director in a few corporations—or, more strictly speaking, _not_ being one. It took almost all Clarence’s time to “direct” his wife, or try to. Bob looked at Clarence reproachfully. “No,” he said. “I’m still master of all my thoughts.” Gloomily. “I couldn’t forget if I tried.” “That’s all right, then,” said Dickie. Then Clarence “took” some one else who staked Bob. And Dickie did likewise. And there was some more talk. And then Bob staked himself. “Little short of cash at the bank just now,” he observed. “But if you’ll take my note—” “Take your word if you want,” said the commodore. “No; here’s my note.” He gave it—a large amount—payable in thirty days. It was awful, but he did it. He hardly thought what he was doing. Having the utmost confidence he would win, he didn’t stop to realize what a large contract he was taking on. But Dan, Dickie, Clarence and the others did. “Of course, you can’t go away and hide,” said Dickie to Bob with sudden suspicion. “No; you can’t do that,” from Clarence. “Or get yourself arrested and locked up for three weeks! That wouldn’t be fair, old chap.” “Bob understands he’s got to go on in the even tenor of his way,” said the commodore. Bob nodded. “Just as if nothing had happened!” he observed. “I’ll not seek, or I’ll not shirk. I’m on honor, you understand.” “That’s good enough for me!” said Dickie. “Bob’s honest.” “And me!” from Clarence. “And me!” from half a dozen other good souls, including the non-aqueous commodore. “Gentlemen, I thank you,” said Bob, affected by this outburst of confidence. “I thank you for this display of—this display—” “Cut it!” “Cork it up! And speaking of corks—” “When does it begin?” interrupted Bob. “When you walk out of here,” “At the front door?” “When your foot touches the sidewalk, son.” The commodore who was about forty in years sometimes assumed the paternal. “Never mind the ‘son.’” Bob shuddered. “One father at a time, please!” And then hastily, not to seem ungracious: “I’ve got such a jolly good, real dad, you understand—” The commodore dropped the paternal. “Well, lads, here’s a bumper to Bob,” he said. “We see his finish.” “No doubt of that.” “To Bob! Good old Bob! Ho! ho!” “Ha! ha!” said Bob funereally. Then he got up. “Going?” “Might as well.” The commodore drew out a watch. “Twelve minutes after three p.m. Monday, the twelfth of September, in the year of our Lord, 1813,” he said. “You are all witnesses of the time the ball was opened?” “We are.” “Good-by, Bob.” “Oh, let’s go with him a way!” “_Might_ be interesting,” from Clarence sardonically.