But his thoughts were not now concerned with the locally famous reporter, were not concerned, for the moment, even with himself. He was impressed by the spectacle of Hy Lowe standing treat, casually tossing out a five-dollar bank note; so much so that he promptly and with a grin accepted Hy's nod as an invitation and settled, after a moment's thoughtful consideration, on an old-fashioned whisky cocktail. It was not that Hy was stingy; simply that the task of dressing well, taking in all the new shows and entertaining an apparently inexhaustible army of extraordinarily pretty girls with taxis and even occasional wine was at times too much for the forty-five a week that Hy earned. Now, as it happened, while Peter thought about Hy, Hy was thinking about Peter. Not six times in the more than three years of his life with Peter and the Worm had Hy seen so jovial an expression on the long face of the well-known playwright. The man was self-conscious to the point of morbidity. This at all times, dating far, far back of his painful relationship with Sue Wilde, back of his tempestuous affair with Grace Derring, back of the curious little mix-up with that Tonifetti girl. Lately he had been growing worse. Why, it was not yet a fortnight since he had fought Zanin, over at the Muscovy. Then Sue had broken their engagement, and Peter had left town a crushed and desperate man. Hy had gone to the trouble of worrying about him; an exertion which he was now inclined to resent a bit. He had even mentioned his fears to the Worm; which sage young man had smiled and observed dryly and enigmatically, “Peter will never really love anybody else.”... And now, of all times, Peter was grinning! The journalist left them to read _Le Sourire_ and nibble toast in the corner room. Peter cheerfully regarded Hy's new homespun suit, his real Panama hat with a colored stripe in the white fluffy band, his flaming new tie and the silk shirt of exclusive pattern beneath it. Hy caught this scrutiny, and returned the grin. “I'm in soft, Pete,” he murmured. “Got a raise.” “Not out of old Wilde?” Hy nodded. “Considerable story, my son. First the old boy fired me. That was at nine-thirty A. m. I went out and made a day of it. Then, of all things, the Worm comes into the office--” “The Worm! Henry Bates?” “Yep. He was on _The Courier_, you know.” “Was?” “Was--and isn't. They sent him up with a stiff story about the missionary funds we've collected through the paper. And what does the old boy do but lock him out and holler through the transom that he'll eat poison, just like that, unless the Worm goes back and kills the story.” “And what does the Worm?” “As per instructions.” “Kills the story?” “And his job with it. He's writing a novel now--like everybody else. Have another,” Hy added cheerfully, “on the old Walrus' partner in crime.” Peter had another.