"It's the gospel truth," affirmed Mr. Trotter, depositing his long, graceful body in a rocking chair facing the sheet-iron stove at the back of the shop. "Got my walking papers last night, Bramby." "What's wrong? I thought you were a fixture on the job. What have you been up to?" "I'm blessed if I know," said the young man, shaking his head slowly. "Kicked out without notice, that's all I know about it. Two weeks' pay handed me; and a simple statement that he was putting some one on in my place today." "Not even a reference?" "He offered me a good one," said Trotter ironically. "Said he would give me the best send-off a chauffeur ever had. I told him I couldn't accept a reference and a discharge from the same employer." "Rather foolish, don't you think?" "That's just what he said. I said I'd rather have an explanation than a reference, under the circumstances." "Um! What did he say to that?" "Said I'd better take what he was willing to give." Mr. Bramble drew up a chair and sat down. He was a small, sharp-featured man of sixty, bookish from head to foot. "Well, well," he mused sympathetically. "Too bad, too bad, my boy. Still, you ought to thank goodness it comes at a time when the streets are in the shape they're in now. Almost impossible to get about with an automobile in all this snow, isn't it? Rather a good time to be discharged, I should say." "Oh, I say, that _is_ optimism. 'Pon my soul, I believe you'd find something cheerful about going to hell," broke in Trotter, grinning. "Best way I know of to escape blizzards and snow-drifts," said Mr. Bramble, brightly. The front door opened. A cold wind blew the length of the book-littered room. "This Bramble's?" piped a thin voice. "Yes. Come in and shut the door." An even smaller and older man than himself obeyed the command. He wore the cap of a district messenger boy. "Mr. J. Bramble here?" he quaked, advancing. "Yes. What is it? A telegram?" demanded the owner of the shop, in some excitement. "I should say not. Wires down everywheres. Gee, that fire looks good. I gotta letter for you, Mr. Bramble." He drew off his red mittens and produced from the pocket of his thin overcoat, an envelope and receipt book. "Sign here," he said, pointing. Mr. Bramble signed and then studied the handwriting on the envelope, his lips pursed, one eye speculatively cocked. "I've never seen the writing before. Must be a new one," he reflected aloud, and sighed. "Poor things!" "That establishes the writer as a woman," said Trotter, removing his pipe. "Otherwise you would have said 'poor devils.' Now what do you mean by trifling with the women, you old rogue?" The loss of his position did not appear to have affected the nonchalant disposition of the good-looking Mr. Trotter.