“This Fletcher Farrell must be very rich,” I said. “I wonder,” I asked, “if I could sell him an automobile?” The moment I spoke I noticed that the manner of Miss Briggs toward Me perceptibly softened. Perhaps, from my buying offhand a fifty-dollar book she had thought me one of the rich, and had begun to suspect I was keeping her waiting on me only because I found her extremely easy to look at. Many times before, in a similar manner, other youths must have imposed upon her, and perhaps, also, in concealing my admiration, I had not entirely succeeded. But, when she believed that, like herself, I was working for my living, she became more human. “What car are you selling?” she asked. “I am TRYING to sell,” I corrected her, “the Blue Bird, six cylinder.” “I never heard of it,” said Miss Briggs. “Nor has any one else,” I answered, with truth. “That is one reason why I can't sell it. I arrived here this morning, and,” I added with pathos, “I haven't sold a car yet!” Miss Briggs raised her beautiful eyebrows skeptically. “Have you tried?” she said. A brilliant idea came to me. In a side street I had passed a garage where Photaix cars were advertised for hire. I owned a Phoenix, and I thought I saw a way by which, for a happy hour, I might secure the society of Miss Briggs. “I am an agent and demonstrator for the Phoenix also,” I said glibly; “maybe I could show you one?” “Show me one?” exclaimed Miss Briggs. “One sees them everywhere! They are always under your feet!” “I mean,” I explained, “might I take you for a drive in one?” It was as though I had completely vanished. So far as the lovely Miss Briggs was concerned I had ceased to exist. She turned toward a nice old lady. “What can I show you, Mrs. Scudder?” she asked cheerily; “and how is that wonderful baby?”