"Gwan!" says I. "You're only kiddin' yourself. Come now, ain't you as strong for Miss Hampton as ever?" He stiffens up for a second; but then his shoulders sag. "Torchy," says he, "your perceptions are altogether too acute. I admit it. But what's the use? As you have so clearly pointed out, this little affair of mine seems to be quite thoroughly ended." "It is if you let things slide as they stand," says I. "Eh?" says he, sort of eager. "You mean that she--that if----" "Say," I breaks in, "do you want it straight from a rank amateur? Then here goes. You don't gen'rally wait to have things handed to you on a tray, do you? You ain't that kind. You go after 'em. And the harder you want 'em the quicker you are on the grab. You don't stop to ask whether you deserve 'em or not, either. You just stretch your fingers and sing out, 'Hey, that's mine!' And if somebody or something's in the way, you give 'em the shoulder. Well, that's my dope in this case. You ain't goin' to get a young lady like Miss Hampton by doin' the long-distance mope. You got to buck up. Rush her off her feet!" "By Jove, though, Torchy," says he, bangin' his fist down on the table, "I believe you're right! And I do want her. I've been afraid to say it, that's all. But now----" He squares his shoulders and sets his jaw solid. "That's the slant!" says I. "And the sooner the quicker, you know." "Yes, yes!" says he, jumpin' up. "Tonight! I--I'll write to her at once." "Ah, squiffle!" says I, indicatin' deep disgust. Mr. Robert gazes at me astonished. "I beg pardon!" says he. "Don't be a nut!" says I. "Excuse me if I seem to throw out any hints, but maybe letter writin' ain't your long suit. Is it?" "Why," says he, "I'm not sure, but I had an idea I could----" "Maybe you can," says I; "but from the samples I've seen I should have my doubts. You know this 'Yours of the steenth just received' and so on may do for vice-presidents and gen'ral managers; but it's raw style to spring on your best girl. Take it from me, sizzlin' sentiments that's strained through a typewriter are apt to get delivered cold." "But I'm not good at making fine speeches, either," he protests. "You ain't exactly tongue-tied, though," says I. "And you ain't startin' out on this expedition with both arms roped behind you, are you?" For a minute he stares at me gaspy, while that simmers through the oatmeal. Then he chuckles. "Torchy," says he, givin' me the inside-brother grip, "there's no telling how this will turn out, but I--I'm going up!" I stayed long enough to see him start, too. Then I goes home, not sure whether I'd set the scene for an ear cuffin', or had plugged him in on a through wire. CHAPTER XVII MR. ROBERT GETS A SLANT