"I'm not foolin', boys," he said quite seriously. "I feel it coming. I haven't money enough to tell 'em to go to the devil, and they know it. That's the trouble in not havin' money. So, I've made up my mind to follow the governor's advice. I'm going to marry it." "Good boy!" cried the drawler, humoring him. "Either that or go to work," said Bosworth, slowly, impressively. Again they laughed, and again he flushed. "I mean it. I'm either going to marry some one who can support me in the latest and most approved fashion, or I'm going to chuck the whole business and devote my time to solving the labor problem by trying to hold a job somewhere. Twelve thousand a year is all right if a chap's working part of the time. He's at least earning the interest on what he spends. But twelve thousand isn't even pin money in the crowd I'm trying to keep up with." "I've always said you'd marry a wad as big as the best of 'em," said Sticky, greatly encouraged. "If I don't marry pretty soon, the governor will," mused Buzzy. "The Lord knows _he_ won't marry for love or experience. No, gentlemen, you can't expect to be much more than a poodle dog on twelve thousand. I had to lick a feller at college once for calling me a pup. I'd hate it like the deuce if I should live to see his statement proved true. No, I won't be a trained dog. I'll get married and pay my debts. And--I say, what time's it getting to be? Eight forty-five? Well, I must be on my way." He swung his leg down from the table, straightened his slender, elegant figure with a palpable effort, and smiled his most genial farewells to the crowd. "Rotten night," he said once more. The drawler took his arm and accompanied him to the door. They were very good friends. "Better stay in to-night, Buzzy," he said. Bosworth looked at him in haughty surprise. "You think I'm tight," he retorted. "There, forgive me, old chap; I didn't mean to snap you off like that. Le' me tell you about those cocktails. I took 'em to brace me up. I'm going to do it to-night." This in a whisper. "Do it? Do what?" "Ask her!" "What the dev--Ask who what?" "I don't know just who yet, but I certainly know what. I'm going to ask some one to become Mrs. Van Pycke. There are three of 'em who are eligible, according to the governor. He's ding-donged 'em at me for three months. I've got a taxicab waiting for me out there. The chances are that it'll get stuck in the snow somewhere. That's why I can't say which one I'm going to ask. It all depends on which one lives nearest to the snowdrift in which we get stuck. They're all the same to me. And I think they are to the governor. But, see here, George, I'm not going to ask more than one of 'em. If I get turned down to-night, that ends it. I'm going to work!" "I don't wish you any bad luck, Buzzy, but I hope you'll be turned down," said his friend, earnestly.