The volatile, insouciant Mr. Parr employed the correct word when he said “snake,” for he wriggled a swift and serpentinous way through the traffic of Clay Street in his noisy red roadster, keeping up a running fire of conversation all the time, much of it being drowned by the louder fire of the muffler cut-out—which he used unsparingly in place of his horn in tight pinches. “There’s Jane on ahead,” he sang out to Oliver as they whizzed across Pershing Street. “Where?” cried Oliver, starting up. “Back there,” replied Sammy, with a jerk of his head. Oliver twisted in the seat and looked over his shoulder. Jane was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring after the red roadster. He half-rose and waved his hand to her. She did not respond at once. The car was swinging into a cross street before she recovered from her astonishment. Then she waved her hand—and the last he saw of her she was standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk. “Say, what the—what’s the rush?” he roared. “I want to speak to Jane. Stop the damn thing, will you? Let me out. I’ll run back and—” “Keep your shirt on,” chirped Sammy. “I’ll run you clear around the block and we’ll head her off. Quicker than backing and turning in this—” “Go ahead!” commanded Mr. Baxter sharply. “Let’s get home. You can see Jane to-morrow or next day,” he shouted to his son. “Oh, I say, dad!” “If you’d sooner see her than me—all right. All right! Turn around, Sammy, and take him back. Let me out. I’ll walk the rest of the way home.” “Drive on, Sam,” said Oliver, sinking back in the seat. Presently Mr. Baxter cackled. He was in high good humor again. “Say,” he said, “I fooled the whole crowd of ’em. I told Joe and the rest of ’em you wouldn’t be coming down till to-morrow. Pretty smart trick, eh? Joe’ll be so mad he’ll pay me the twenty dollars he owes me, claiming he don’t want to have anything more to do with me. He-he-he!” Oliver was silent. Sammy snorted and then got very red in the face. “I had to tell Serepty Grimes,” went on Mr. Baxter, as if apologizing to himself. “She’s keeping house for me now, and so I had to tell her. I didn’t tell her till just about an hour ago, though. She was as mad as a wet hen.” “Aunt Serepta keeping house for you?” “Yes. Have you got any objections?” “None whatever, dad. I think it’s great.” “Well,” began the old man, slightly mollified, “I’m glad it suits you.” “I wouldn’t have thought she’d give up her own nice little house to—Don’t tell she’s in financial difficulties, dad.”