Rex tried to speak calmly, but he was boiling over with rage at the trick which he now realized had been played upon him. “Me wantee new glass,” the Chinaman insisted. “Play money.” How fervently Rex wished at that moment that they had come into their inheritance. He would have put his hand into his pocket, drawn out a five dollar bill with a lordly air and handed it over with the words: “Take this. I didn’t break the glass, but I pity the poor heathen’s distress.” As it was, he had not a penny about him. It was difficult to keep up an air of bravado under these circumstances. The crowd was growing bigger each minute. The policeman looked somewhat perplexed. He judged from Rex’s appearance that he was not a hoodlum who would be likely to throw a stone at a Chinaman’s window, but he admitted that he had been running, and here was a man ready to swear that he saw him throw the stone. “What is your name?” he asked. “Reginald Bemis Pell,” replied Rex promptly. He was proud of his name, and brought it out now with a kind of flourish. “Where do you live?” went on the officer, while the crowd pressed closer to hear the replies. “At Marley.” “You don’t look like a boy who would break windows for the fun of it.” “Of course I wouldn’t, and when my brother hears of this outrage he’ll raise a big fuss over it. He’s a lawyer and knows how to do it.” Rex didn’t feel a bit humorous when he made this assertion, but there was something in it that struck the crowd as very funny. A good many laughed, and the policeman tried to repress a smile. “Where is this brother of yours?” “Right here in the city,” and Rex gave the address. “That’s not far,” said the officer. “We’ll go round there and see if you have told us a straight story. Come along, John,” he added to the laundryman. Rex glowed with a sense of triumph for a minute, and then began to reflect on what Syd would say at seeing him appear in such company—with a police officer and a Chinaman. And there was the crowd that strung on behind as the three moved off! “I wish I’d stayed at home,” groaned poor Rex to himself. However, he tried to take some comfort from the fact that the policeman’s arm was not on his shoulder. People they passed might think it was the Chinaman who was under arrest. Then he felt that he ought to be glad that it was midsummer, with no chance of his meeting any of his friends. He was trying to decide what he should do in case Syd had not come back by the time they reached the office, when just as they turned into Chestnut Street a familiar voice cried out: “Hello, Rex, what under the sun?” It was Scott Bowman. He had just come out of a trunk store in time to confront the sorry procession. Rex wished the manhole cover over which he was passing would suddenly give way and precipitate him under the sidewalk in theatrical trap door fashion. Scott was the last person in all the world whom he wished to see.