"What does it mean then?" said Bobo irritably. "It means your skin is worth five hundred a month to the Red Gang, and they've no notion of letting McGann's crew damage their property!" 12 Bobo was of a very elastic temperament. The pot of coffee quickly completed his restoration. "Say," he said, "I feel all right now. I've got a clean shirt. It's not too late to go to Mrs. Cleaver's." "Well!" said Jack. "I was thinking you'd had enough company for to-night." "She'll be sore if we don't come," said Bobo. "Well, I don't mind. Put on your things, and I'll telephone for the car to be sent back." Mrs. Cleaver had a modest little house in the Murray Hill district. When Jack learned more about such things he appreciated her astuteness in thus setting up her banner in the stronghold of yesterday's aristocracy. The great people of day before yesterday still linger north of Washington Square, but they hardly count nowadays. A house on Murray Hill though still gives its owner a cachet of exclusiveness that the grandest mansion uptown may lack. The modest aspect of Mrs. Cleaver's house was limited to the Park avenue façade. "My little house," she always called it. But once inside one was astonished by the great sweep of salon, hall, music room. Below there was a billiard room; above, a library and a little salon. Strangers wondered where the inmates lived. Jack and Bobo were not too late, for other cars were still rolling up to the door. "None sweller than this outfit," Bobo remarked with satisfaction. They trod a red carpet under a peppermint striped awning. "Lord! What'll we do when we get inside?" whispered Bobo in a sudden panic. "Just drift on the current," said Jack. "I expect things will be made easy for us." And they were. On the entrance floor there were cloak rooms as efficiently run as those in a hotel--indeed, the house was in all ways like a hotel. They presently found themselves mounting the main stairway without having made a break. The whole floor above was thrown into one room, and as they mounted a roar of polite conversation met them like an advancing wave. A superb major-domo at the head of the stairs threw terror into Bobo's soul by demanding his name. Bobo stared at him dumbly, but Jack caught on and answered for both. Their names were bellowed to the roof. "Mr. Norman!" "Mr. Robinson!" Mrs. Cleaver having allowed it to become known that the amazing young millionaire of a day, New York's latest sensation, might be expected, the sound of his name had an electrical effect. The conversational surf was stilled as if by magic, and every face was turned towards the two young men. Bobo suddenly discovering that "society" people, of whom he had stood secretly in awe, were no harder to impress than those of the hotel, soared like a balloon. He advanced with languid eyebrows, lacking only the monocle to give a perfect imitation of his hero, the imported actor. Jack followed at his heels, smiling.