The effect upon Mr. Jones would have been no different if Kelly had prescribed an aeroplane or a submarine. "I can't ride a motorcycle, and even if I could, where can I get one?" he objected. "That's the point." Kelly was as enthusiastic as a life insurance agent. "I have a friend who has one. He nearly killed himself on it and now he is in the hospital. I'll bet that he is tired of it and will sell it cheap." "What do I want with the thing if it nearly killed him?" Mr. Jones protested logically. "Don't be a fool. The motorcycle never hurt him. He ran into an automobile and hurt himself." Mr. Jones believed the difference to be immaterial. "I won't ride a motorcycle," he declared obstinately. Kelly clung to his scheme with constructive pride. "It's up to you, my friend," he argued. "You are going to die unless you get out into the air. I suggest the way to do it." "Yes, and I'll get killed on the blamed old motorcycle," predicted Mr. Jones mournfully. "Take your choice!" the generous Kelly invited. "I am going up to the hospital to see that fellow after office hours. Why don't you come along and meet him and then you can decide about the machine." Mr. Jones, fearful that he might overlook an important engagement, consulted a note-book with care. After concluding his investigation of the records, he said, "Well, as I don't happen to have anything on, I don't mind going up there with you, but you can write it in your hat that I'm not strong for any motorcycle business." Within a few moments after the prescribed closing hour, Obadiah's official staff appeared upon the streets of South Ridgefield. Their steps lead them towards the hospital and on the way they passed Mr. Vivian's cool oasis of refreshment amidst the burning sands of the town's business section. Here, the confectioner and his assistants arrayed in pure white moved gracefully about, serving the guests with cooling drink or, from time to time, gave attention to the adjustment of the mechanical piano which furnished melody for the lovers of music. Mr. Jones feasted his eyes upon this scene of innocent revelry and good fellowship. "Come on," he said to Kelly, "have a drink?" Kelly received the invitation with insulting words. "That's your trouble," he exclaimed in a voice which carried far. "That's what makes your complexion so fierce." The sensitive soul of Mr. Jones rebelled at this public outcry of his physical defects. "Say, you big chump," he burst out, "don't you know any better than to bawl a fellow out that way in a place where everybody can hear you? That's a dickens of a thing to do." "Come on. Nobody was listening." Kelly looked about as if disappointed at failing to find an audience awaiting other personal allusions. "It's the truth," he maintained vigorously.