"Ye-e-es?" says I. "But what's this cue for?" "I will tell you, Boy," says she, comin' up confidential. "You see, I must trust someone in this matter. And you will be right here, where you can see him every day, won't you--my son Mortimer, I mean?" "I expect I'll have to," says I, "if he sticks." "Then you must do this for me," she goes on. "Keep close to him. Make yourself his friend." "Me?" says I. "Well, there might be some trouble about that." "I understand," says she. "It will be difficult, under the circumstances. And Mortimer has such a proud, reserved nature! He has always been that way. But now that he is thrown upon his own resources, and if you could once gain his confidence, he might allow you to--well, you'll try, won't you? And then I shall depend upon you to send word to me once every week as to how he looks, if he seems happy, how he is getting on in business, and so on. Come, do you promise?" "Is this a case of philanthropy, or what?" says I. "Oh, I shall see that you are well repaid," says she. "That listens well," says I; "but it's kind of vague. Any figures, now?" "Why--er--yes," says she, hesitatin'. "Suppose I should send you, say, five dollars for every satisfactory report?" "Then I'm on the job," says I. And in two minutes more she's left me the address of her London bankers, patted me condescendin' on the shoulder, and has flitted. So here I am with a brand new side line,--an assignment to be friendly at so much per. Can you beat that? It wa'n't until afterwards, either, when I'm busy throwin' on the screen pictures of how that extra five'll fat up the Saturday pay envelope, that I remembers the exact wordin' of the contract. Five for every satisfactory report. Gee! that's different! Then here's where I got to see that Mortimer behaves, or else I lose out. And I don't waste any time plannin' the campaign. I tackles him as he strolls out thirty seconds ahead of the twelve o'clock whistle. "After another one of them clubby lunches?" says I. "What's that to you?" he growls. "I'm interested, that's all," says I. "Oh, no, you're not," says he; "you're just fresh." "Ah, come now, Morty," says I. "This ain't no reg'lar feud we're indulgin' in, you know. Ditch the rude retort and lemme tow you to a joint where for----" "Thanks," says Mortimer. "I prefer my own company." "Gee! what poor taste!" says I. And it looked like I'd gone and bugged any five-spot prospects with my first try. So I lets Mortimer simmer for a few days, not makin' any more cracks, friendly or otherwise. I was about to hand in a blank report too, when one noon he sort of hesitates as he passes the desk, and then stops. "I say," he begins, "show me that cheap luncheon place you spoke of, will you?" It's more of an order than anything else; but that only makes this sudden shift of his more amusin'. "Why, sure," says I. "Soured on the club, have you?"