Mrs. Bob was right in the act of helpin' herself to the jelly omelet, usin' a swell silver servin' shovel about half the size of a brick layer's trowel. She's so stirred up that she absentmindedly scoops up a double portion, and just as Bob springs his remark what does she do but up and let fly at him, right across the table. Maybe she'd have winged him too,--and served him right for saying what no gentleman should to a lady, even if she is his wife,--but, what with her not stoppin' to take good aim, and the maid's gettin' her tray against her elbow, she misses Bob by about three feet and plasters the English Bishop square between the eyes.

Now of course that wa'n't any way to serve hot omelet to a stranger, no matter how annoyed you was. DeLancey told her as much while he was helpin' swab off the reverend guest. Afterwards he added other observations more or less definite. Inside of two hours Mr. and Mrs. Bob found their baggage waitin' under the porte cochere, and the wagonette ready to take 'em to the noon train. They went. It was given out that they was travelin' abroad, and if it hadn't been for the omelet part of the incident they'd been forgotten long ago. That was a stunt that stuck, though.

As I looks at DeLancey there in the limousine I has to grin. "Say," says I, "was it a fact that the Bishop broke loose and cussed?"

"That humiliating affair, Mr. McCabe," says he, "I would much prefer not to talk about. I refer to my brother now because, knowing that you are going to Clam Creek, you will probably meet him there."

"Oh!" says I. "Like to have me give him your best regards!"

"No," says DeLancey. "I should like, however, to hear how you found him."

"Another report, eh!" says I. "All right, Mr. Cathaway, I'll size him up for you."

"But chiefly," he goes on, "I shall depend upon your discretion not to mention my brother's whereabouts to anyone else. As an aid to that discretion," says he, digging up his roll and sortin' out some tens, "I am prepared to----"

"Ah, button 'em back!" says I. "Who do you think you're dealin' with, anyway?"

"Why," says he, flushin' up, "I merely intended----"

"Well, forget it!" says I. "I ain't runnin' any opposition to the Black Hand, and as for whether I leak out where your brother is or not, that's something you got to take chances on. Pull up there, Mr. Chauffeur! This is where I start to walk."

And say, you could put his name on all the hospitals and orphan asylums in the country; but I never could see it again without growin' warm under the collar. Bah! Some of these perfectly good folks have a habit of gettin' on my nerves. All the way down to Clam Creek I kept tryin' to wipe him off the slate, and I'd made up my mind to dodge Brother Bob, if I had to sleep in the woods.

So as soon as I hops off the train I gets my directions and starts to tramp over this tract that Duke Borden was plannin' on blowin' some of his surplus cash against. And say, if anybody wants an imitation desert, dotted with scrub pine and fringed with salt marshes, that's the place to go lookin' for it. There's hundreds of square miles of it down there that nobody's usin', or threatenin' to.

Also I walked up an appetite like a fresh landed hired girl. I was so hungry that I pikes straight for the only hotel and begs 'em to lead me to a knife and fork. For a wonder, too, they brings on some real food, plain and hearty, and I don't worry about the way it's thrown at me.

Yon know how it is out in the kerosene district. I finds myself face to face with a hunk of corned beef as big as my two fists, boiled Murphies, cabbage and canned corn on the side, bread sliced an inch thick, and spring freshet coffee in a cup you couldn't break with an ax. Lizzie, the waitress, was chewin' gum and watchin' to see if I was one of them fresh travelin' gents that would try any funny cracks on her.

I'd waded through the food programme as far as makin' a choice between tapioca puddin' and canned peaches, when in drifts a couple that I knew, the minute I gets my eyes on 'em, must be Mr. and Mrs. Bob Cathaway. Who else in that little one-horse town would be sportin' a pair of puttee leggin's and doeskin ridin' breeches? That was Bob's makeup, includin' a flap-pocketed cutaway of Harris tweed and a corduroy vest. They fit him a little snug, showin' he's laid on some flesh since he had 'em built. Also he's a lot grayer than I expected, knowin' him to be younger than DeLancey.

As for Mrs. Bob--well, if you can remember how the women was dressin' as far back as two years ago, and can throw on the screen a picture of a woman who has only the reminders of her good looks left, you'll have her framed up. A pair of seedy thoroughbreds, they was, seedy and down and out.

[Illustration: "I knew it must be Mr. and Mrs. Bob Cathaway"]

I was wonderin' if they still indulged in them lively fam'ly debates, and how soon I'd have to begin dodgin' dishes; but they sits down across the table from me and hardly swaps a word. All I notices is the scornful way Lizzie asks if they'll have soup, and the tremble to Bob Cathaway's hand as he lifts his water tumbler.

As there was only us three in the room, and as none of us seemed to have anything to say, it wa'n't what you might call a boisterous assemblage.

While I was waitin' for dessert I put in the time gazin' around at the scenery, from the moldy pickle jars at either end of the table, over to the walnut sideboard where they kept the plated cake basket and the ketchup bottles, across to the framed fruit piece that had seen so many hard fly seasons, and up to the smoky ceilin'. I looked everywhere except at the pair opposite.

Lizzie was balancin' the soup plates on her left arm and singsongin' the bill of fare to 'em. "Col'-pork-col'-ham-an'-corn-beef-'n'-cabbage," says she.

If Bob Cathaway didn't shudder at that, I did for him. "You may bring me--er--some of the latter," says he.

I tested the canned peaches and then took a sneak. On one side of the front hall was the hotel parlor, full of plush furniture and stuffed birds. The office and bar was on the other. I strolls in where half a dozen Clam Creekers was sittin' around a big sawdust box indulgin' in target practice; but after a couple of sniffs I concludes that the breathin' air is all outside.

After half an hour's stroll I goes in, takes a lamp off the hall table, and climbs up to No. 7. It's as warm and cheerful as an underground beer vault. Also I finds the window nailed down. Huntin' for someone to fetch me a hammer was what sent me roamin' through the hall and took me past No. 11, where the door was part way open. And in there, with an oil-stove to keep 'em from freezin', I see Mr. and Mrs. Bob Cathaway sittin' at a little marble topped table playin' double dummy bridge. Say, do you know, that unexpected glimpse of this little private hard luck proposition of theirs kind of got me in the short ribs. And next thing I knew I had my head in the door.

"For the love of Mike," says I, "how do you stand it?"

"Eh?" says Bob, droppin' his cards and starin' at me. "I--I beg pardon?"

Well, with that I steps in, tells him who I am, and how I'd just had a talk with Brother DeLancey. Do I get the glad hand? Why, you'd thought I was a blooming he angel come straight from the pearly gates. Bob drags me in, pushes me into the only rocker in the room, shoves a cigar box at me, and begins to haul decanters from under the washstand. They both asks questions at once. How is everybody, and who's married who, and are so and so still living together?

I reels off society gossip for an hour before I gets a chance to do some pumpin' on my own hook. What I wants to know is why in blazes they're hidin' in a hole like Clam Creek.

Bob only shrugs his shoulders. "Why not here as well as anywhere?" says he. "When you can't afford to live among your friends, why--you live in Clam Creek."

"But two years of it!" says I. "What do you find to do?"

"Oh, we manage," says he, wavin' at the double dummy outfit. "Babe and I have our little game. It's only for a dime a point; but it helps pass away the time. You see, when our monthly allowance comes in we divide it equally and take a fresh start. The winner has the privilege of paying our bills."

How was that for excitement? And Bob whispers to me, as we starts out for a little walk before turnin' in, "I generally fix it so Babe--er, Mrs.

Cathaway--can win, you know."

From other little hints I gathers that their stay in Clam Creek has done one thing for 'em, anyway. It had put 'em wise to the great fact that the best way for two parties to get along together is to cut out the hammer music.

"So you had a talk with DeLancey?" says Bob on the way back. "I suppose he--er--sent no message?"

It had taken Bob Cathaway all this while to work up to that question, and he can't steady down his voice as he puts it. And that quaver tells me the whole story of how he's been hoping all along that Brother DeLancey would sometime or other get over his grouch. Which puts it up to me to tell him what a human iceberg he's related to. Did I? Honest, there's times when I ain't got much use for the truth.

"Message?" says I, prompt and cheerful. "Now what in blazes was it he did say to tell you? Something about asking how long before you and Mrs.

Cathaway was goin' to run up and make him a visit, I guess."

"A visit!" gasps Bob. "Did--did DeLancey say that? Then thank Heaven it's over! Come on! Hurry!" and he grabs me by the arm, tows me to the hotel, and makes a dash up the stairs towards their room.

"What do you think, Babe?" says he, pantin'. "DeLancey wants to know when we're coming back!"

For a minute Mrs. Bob don't say a word, but just stands there, her hands gripped in Bob's, and the dew startin' out of her eye corners. Then she asks, sort of husky, "Isn't there a night train, Bob?"

There wa'n't; but there was one at six-thirty-eight in the mornin'. We all caught it, too, both of 'em as chipper as a pair of kids, and me wonderin' how it was all goin' to turn out.

For three days after that I never went to the 'phone without expectin' to hear from Bob Cathaway, expressin' his opinion about my qualifications for the Ananias class. And then here the other afternoon I runs into Brother DeLancey on the avenue, not seein' him quick enough to beat it up a side street.

"Ah, McCabe," he sings out, "just a moment! That little affair about my Brother Robert, you know."

"Sure, I know," says I, bracin' myself. "Where is he now?"

"Why," says DeLancey, with never an eyelash flutterin', "he and his wife are living at Green Oaks again. Just returned from an extended trip abroad, you know." Then he winks.

Say, who was it sent out that bulletin about how all men was liars? I ain't puttin' in any not guilty plea; but I'd like to add that some has got it down finer than others.

CHAPTER VI

PLAYING HAROLD BOTH WAYS