“Fired,” explained Pep tersely, and looking as if he had not enjoyed the experience one bit. “Say, don’t bother me now about it. I’m hungry as a bear, and had to walk eight miles to get here before dark, and I’ll feel better natured when I’ve had something to eat and a little rest.” Ben Jolly arched his eyebrows in an inquiring way and Randy looked Pep over sharply. Jolly had just returned from Fairlands that morning, and Randy had heard from Pep by mail only twice during his sojourn at the Tyson home at Brenton. From all he had learned and seen during his brief visit there, Randy had been led to believe that Pep would return with waving colors. He would not only be mended up, as Randy had reason to figure it out, but would have a comfortable sum of money representing lost time. Pep, however, did not look like a favorite of fortune. He used both hands with equal celerity in dispatching the meal, and his injured wrist seemed to give him no inconvenience or pain. His face was glum, however, and when he spoke of being “fired” Randy knew that something was up. “Tell us about this accident of yours, Pep,” urged Frank as all hands got over the first promptings of appetite. “Randy will,” snapped Pep. Randy was agreeable to the suggestion. He was glad to descend on the heroism of his chum, and dwelt somewhat upon the bravery of Pep in risking his life for the little child in the baby carriage. Randy led the course of the narrative to his visit to Brenton, the peculiar situation in which he found Pep, and detailed the contents of the two letters he had received from their absent partner. “Well, Pep,” hailed Frank heartily, at the end of the story. “I suppose you’ve turned out an adopted son or great favorite with this Mr. Tyson.” Pep had just finished a second helping of Jolly’s famous rice pudding and was ready to talk now. “Oh, yes, I have! See me!” he retorted in a scornful and disgusted way. “Say, the next fellow who plays me for an invalid will be a good one, I tell you. It’s all right up to where Randy left me in the arms of luxury at the Tyson residence. Yes, it was all right for two days after that. Then I got into my usual trim—restless. Of course I couldn’t work with my bad arm, but it didn’t bother me a bit. I told Mr. Tyson so. He spoke to that old fogy surgeon of his and after a regular battle we came to terms.” “What terms, Pep?” inquired Frank. “I wanted something to do. I was dead sick of hanging around doing nothing. It seems that Mr. Tyson runs a broker’s office in Brenton. It’s a branch of a big Wall Street concern in New York City. They do some business, too, and he hires a lot of clerks. Well, the surgeon said that as long as I didn’t use my bad arm it was all right, so old Tyson takes me down to the office. First day he put me at the information desk. Then the boy who held that position regularly came back and he set me at one of the telephones.” “What doing, Pep?” inquired Jolly.