"Yes," says he, "this is Robert Ellins. Yes, I know such a person. That's right--Clifford. He's my cousin. No, is that so? Why, there must be some mistake. Oh, there must be! I'll come up and explain. Yes, I'll sign the bail bond." He didn't have a word to say when he turns around and catches me grinnin'; but grabs his hat and coat and pikes for the green lights. There wa'n't any call for me to do any rubberin' next day, or ask any questions. It was all in the mornin' papers: how a batty gent who looked like a disguised second story worker had collected a crowd and blocked traffic on Fifth Avenue by standin' on the curb in front of one of the Vanderbilt houses and drawin' plans of it on a pad. Course, he got run in as a suspect, and I guess Mr. Robert had his troubles showin' the desk sergeant that Clifford wa'n't a Western crook who was layin' pipes for a little jimmy work. Cliffy's architect tale wouldn't have got him off in a month, and if it hadn't been that Mr. Robert taps the front of his head they'd had Clifford down to Mulberry-st. and put his thumb print in the collection. He was givin' it to 'em straight, though. Architectin' was what Cliffy was aimin' at. He'd been studying that sort of thing out in Michigan, and now he was makin' a tour to see how it was done in other places, meanin' to polish off with a few months abroad. Then, after he'd got himself well soaked in ideas, maybe he'd go back to Bubble Creek, rent an office over the bank, and begin drawin' front elevations of iron foundries and double tenements. That's what comes of havin' rich aunts and uncles in the fam'ly, and duckin' real work while you wait for notice from the Surrogate to come on and take your share. It wa'n't a case of hustle with Clifford. I suspicioned that his bein' an architect was more or less of a fad; but he was makin' the most of it, there was no discountin' that. He'd laid out a week to put in seein' how New York was built, high spots and low, and he went at it like he was workin' by the piece. Now, say, there ain't no special harm in goin' around town gawpin' at lib'ries and office buildin's and churches. 'Most anyone could have done it without bumpin' into trouble; but not Cliffy. It was wonderful how he dug up ructions--and him the mildest lookin' four-eyed gent ever let loose. And green! Say, what sort of a flag station is Bubble Creek, anyway?