“It might. Least we can do is to see him start on his way rejoicing.” “That’s so. Come on.” Which they did. Bob offered no objection. He didn’t much care at the time whether they did or not. What would happen would. He braced himself for the inevitable. CHAPTER II—A TRY-OUT To tell the truth—to blurt out nothing but the truth to every one, and on every occasion, for three whole weeks—that’s what Bob had contracted to do. From the point of view of the commodore and the others, the man who tried to fill this contract would certainly be shot, or electrocuted, or ridden out of town on a rail, or receive a coat of tar and feathers. And Bob had such a wide circle of friends, too, which would make his task the harder; the handsome dog was popular. He was asked everywhere that was anywhere and he went, too. He would certainly “get his.” The jovial commodore was delighted. He would have a whole lot of fun at Bob’s expense. Wasn’t the latter the big boob, though? And wouldn’t he be put through his paces? Really it promised to be delicious. The commodore and the others went along with Bob just for a little try-out. At first nothing especially interesting happened. They walked without meeting any one they were acquainted with. Transients! transients! where did they all come from? Once on their progress down the avenue the hopes of Bob’s friends rose high. A car they knew got held up on a side street not far away from them. It was a gorgeous car and it had a gorgeous occupant, but a grocery wagon was between them and it. The commodore warbled blithely. “Come on, Bob. Time for a word or two!” But handsome Bob shook his head. “The ‘even tenor of his way,’” he quoted. “I don’t ordinarily go popping in and out between wheels like a rabbit. I’m not looking to commit suicide.” “Oh, I only wanted to say: ‘How do you do,’” retorted the commodore rather sulkily. “Or ‘May I tango with you at tea this afternoon, Mrs. Ralston?’” “Or observe: ‘How young she looks to-day, eh, Bob?’” murmured that young gentleman suspiciously. “Artful! Artful!” Clarence poked the commodore in the ribs. “Sly old sea-dog!” “Well, let’s move on,” yawned Dickie. “Nothing doing here.” “Wait!” The commodore had an idea. “Hi, you young grocery lad, back up a little, will you?” “Wha’ for?” said the boy, aggressive at once. Babes are born in New York with chips on their shoulders. “As a matter of trifling accommodation, that is all,” answered the commodore sweetly. “On the other side of you is a stately car and we would hold conversation with—” “Aw, gwan! Guess I got as much right to the street as it has.” And as a display of his “rights,” he even touched up his horse a few inches, to intervene more thoroughly.