“Seriously, though, my boy, it’s no light job they’ve got you into. From what Corliss says――or, rather, from what he doesn’t say――it is pretty evident that little Phillip is a holy terror. He is undoubtedly thoroughly spoiled, and comes here with the sole intention of, as Corliss so delicately puts it, breaking through into the next field. Old George is getting frightfully horsey, by the way! And I am to follow him about, smiling fatuously like an indulgent parent, murmuring ‘Now don’t do that, Phillip!’ or ‘No, no, dear; mind Uncle John!’” He looked at his watch and found it was nearly four o’clock. With a sudden determination to hunt up his charge and learn the worst at once, he drew himself regretfully from the chair and rescued the letter from the floor. Donning his jacket, he slipped letter and tobacco pouch into his pocket. “I’ll get this dive fixed up and dusted before dinner if I can find any one about,” he murmured. “It looks like a morgue.” The sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor brought a grin to his face. Rushing to the door, he threw himself violently into the arms of a large and perspiring man. A suit case crashed to the floor. “Oh, Davy!” he sobbed, “I’m _so_ glad you’ve come! I’ve wanted you so, Davy, I’ve wanted you so! Hold me tighter, Davy; they’ve gone and made me a foster-mother!” CHAPTER II David Meadowcamp removed John’s clinging embrace, placed his suit case on the couch and sat down beside it, smiling jovially the while. “Eh?” he said.