"Sorry, Mother," says he, "but I'm going to do nothing of the sort. You're an old dear, and the best mother a boy ever had. I never knew how much you had given up for me, never dreamed. But from now on it's going to be different. It's my turn now!" "But--but, Royce," protests Mrs. Hammond, "you--you don't quite understand. We can't go on living as we have. Our income isn't so much as it was once, and----" "I know," said Royce. "I had a talk with your attorney last week. It's the fault of that Honduras rubber plantation, where most of our funds are tied up. That Alvarez, your rascally Spanish superintendent, has been robbing you right and left. Well, I'm going to put a stop to that." "You, Royce!" says Mother. "Yes," says he quiet but earnest, "I'm going down there and fire him. I'm going to run the plantation myself for awhile." "Why, Royce!" gasps Mrs. Hammond. He smiles and pats her on the shoulder again. "I know," he goes on. "I seem useless enough. I've been trained to shine at dinner parties, and balls, and _thes dansants_. I suppose I can too. And I've learned to sound my final G's, and to use the right forks, and how to make a parting speech to my hostess. So you've kept your promise to Father. But I've been thinking it all over lately. That isn't the sort of person I want to be. You say Father was a real man. I want to be a real man too. I mean to try, anyway. This little affair with Alvarez ought to test me. They say he's rather a bad one, that he can't be fired. We'll see about that. There's a steamer for Belize next Thursday. I'm going to sail on her. Will you go along too?" For a minute they stood there, Mother and Sonny boy, gazin' into each other's eyes without sayin' a word; and then--well, we turns our backs as they goes to a clinch and Mother turns on the sprinkler. But J. Bayard's programme for helpin' Royce break into the younger set is bugged for fair. Instead we've dug up an expert in rubber farmin' and are preparin' to send him down as first assistant to the classiest plantation manager that ever started for Honduras. Mrs. Hammond announces that she's goin' too. "There's good stuff in that young chap," says J. Bayard. "He isn't the son of Hungry Jim for nothing. I'll bet he wins out!" "Win or lose," says I, "he's ducked bein' a parlor rat for life, which is something." CHAPTER VIII GUMMING GOPHER TO THE MAP I'd heard the front office door pushed open and listened to a couple of heavy steps on the floor runner before I glances round to find this high party with the wide, stooped shoulders and the rugged face standin' there beamin' at me genial and folksy. In one hand he has a green cloth bag with somethin' square in it, and in the other he has a broad-brimmed soft hat about the color of Camembert cheese. A tank station delegate and no mistake! "The Horse Dealers' Exchange is over east of Fourth avenue, about eight blocks down," says I.