Thank you, Mr. McCabe."

"That's all right," says I. "You go down to the office and put your case to 'em straight."

"No," says he, shruggin' his shoulders, "that wouldn't do at all. I suppose I've come on a fool's errand. Kronacher, we'll go back."

"That's too bad," says I, "if you had business with Bobby that was on the level."

"Since you've been so kind," says he, "perhaps you would give me your opinion--if I am not detaining you?"

"Spiel away!" says I. "I'll own up you've got me some interested."

Well, say, when he'd described his visit as a dippy excursion, he wa'n't far off. Seems that this Rev. Sam Hooker ain't a reg'lar preacher, with a stained glass window church, a steam heated parsonage, and a settled job.

He's sort of a Gospel promoter, that goes around plantin' churches here and there,--home missionary, he calls it, though I always thought a home missionary was one that was home from China on a half-pay visit.

Mainly he says he drifts around through the coke oven and glass works district, where all the Polackers and other dagoes work. He don't let it go with preachin' to 'em, though. He pokes around among their shacks, seein' how they live, sendin' doctors for sick babies, givin' the women folks hints on the use of fresh air and hard soap, an' advisin' 'em to keep their kids in school. He's one of them strenuous chaps, too, that believes in stirrin' up a fuss whenever he runs across anything he thinks is wrong. One of the fights he's been making is something about the boys in the glass works.

"Perhaps you have heard of our efforts to have a child labor bill passed in our State?" says he.

"No," says I; "but I'm against it. There's enough kids has to answer the mill whistle, without passin' laws to make 'em."

Then he explains how the bill is to keep 'em from goin' at it too young, or workin' too many hours on a stretch. Course, I'm with him on that, and says so.

"Ah!" says he. "Then you may be interested to learn that young Mr. Rankin is the most extensive employer of child labor in our State. That is what I want to talk to him about."

"Ever see Bobby?" says I.

He says he hasn't.

"Know anything of his habits, and so on?" I asks.

"Not a thing," says the Rev. Sam.

"Then you take it from me," says I, "that you ain't missed much."

See? I couldn't go all over that record of Bobby Brut's, specially to a preacher. Not that Bobby was the worst that ever cruised around the Milky Way in a sea goin' cab with his feet over the dasher; but he was something of a torrid proposition while he lasted. You remember some of his stunts, maybe? I hadn't kept strict tabs on him; but I'd heard that after they chucked him out of the sanatorium his mother planted him here, with a man nurse and a private doctor, and slid off to Europe to stay with her son-in-law Count until folks forgot about Bobby.

And this was the youth the Rev. Mr. Hooker had come to have a heart to heart talk with!

"Ain't you takin' a lot of trouble, just for a few Polackers?" says I.

"They are my brothers," says he, quiet like.

"What!" says I. "You don't look it."

His mouth corners flickers a little at that, and there comes a glimmer in them solemn gray eyes of his; but he goes on to say that it's part of his belief that every man is his brother.

"Gee!" says I. "You've adopted a big fam'ly."

But say, he's so dead in earnest about it, and he talks so sensible about other things, besides appearin' so white clear through, that I can't help likin' the cuss.

"Look here!" says I. "This is way out of my line, and it strikes me as a batty proposition anyway; but if you're still anxious to have a chin with Bobby, maybe I can fix it."

"Thank you, thank you!" says he, givin' me the grateful grip.

It's a good deal easier than I'd thought. All I does is get one of Bobby's retinue on the house 'phone, tell who I am, and say I was thinkin' of droppin' up with a couple of friends for a short call, if Bobby's agreeable. Seems he was, for inside of two minutes we're on our way up in the elevator.

Got any idea of the simple way a half baked young plute can live in a place like the Perzazzer? He has one floor of a whole wing cut off for his special use,--about twenty rooms, I should judge,--and there was hired hands standin' around in every corner. We're piloted in over the Persian rugs, with the preacher blinkin' his eyes to keep from seein'

some of the statuary and oil paintin's.

At last we comes to a big room with an eastern exposure, furnished like a show window. Sittin' at a big mahogany table in the middle is a narrow browed, pop eyed, bat eared young chap in a padded silk dressin' gown, and I remembers him for the Bobby Brut I used to see floatin' around with the Trixy-Madges at the lobster palaces. He has a couple of decks of cards laid out in front of him, and I guesses he's havin' a go at Canfield solitaire. Behind his chair stands a sour faced lackey who holds up his hand for us to wait.

Bobby don't look up at all. He's shiftin' the cards around, tryin' to make 'em come out right, doin' it quick and nervous. All of a sudden the lackey claps his hand down on a pile and says, "Beg pardon, sir, but you can't do that."

"Blast you!" snarls Bobby. "And I was just getting it! Why didn't you look the other way? Bah!" and he sends the whole lot flyin' on the floor.

Do you catch on? He has the lackey there to see that he don't cheat himself.

But while the help was pickin' up the cards Bobby gets a glimpse of our trio, ranged up against the door draperies.

"Hello, Shorty McCabe!" he sings out. "It's bully of you to drop in.

Nobody comes to see me any more--hardly a soul. Say, do you think there's anything the matter with my head?"

"Can't say your nut shows any cracks from here," says I. "Who's been tellin' you it did?"

"Why, all those blasted doctors," says he. "They won't even let me go out alone. But say," here he beckons me up and whispers mysterious, "I'll fix 'em yet! You just wait till I get my animals trained. You wait!" Then he claps his hands and hollers, "Atkins! Set 'em going!"

Atkins, he stops scrabblin' after the cards and starts around the room.

And say, would you believe it, on all the tables and mantelpieces was a lot of those toy animals, such as they sell durin' the holidays. There was lions and tigers and elephants, little and big, and every last one of 'em has its head balanced so it'll move up and down when you touch it.

Atkins' job was to go from one to the other and set 'em bobbin'. Them on the mantels wa'n't more'n a few inches long; but on the floor, hid behind chairs, was some that was life size. One was a tiger, made out of a real skin, and when his head goes his jaws open and shut, and his tail lashes from side to side, as natural as life. Say, it was weird to watch that collection, all noddin' away together--almost gave you the willies!

"Are they all going?" says Bobby.

"Yes, sir," says Atkins, standin' attention.

"What do you think, eh?" says Bobbie, half shuttin' his pop eyes and starin' at me, real foxy.

"Great scheme!" says I. "Didn't know you had a private zoo up here. But say, I brought along someone that wants to have a little chin with you."

With that I hauls the Rev. Sam to the front and gives him the nudge to fire away. And say, he's all primed! He begins by givin' Bobbie a word picture of the Rankin glass works at night, when the helpers are carryin'

the trays from the hot room, where the blowers work three-hour shifts, with the mercury at one hundred and twenty, to the coolin' room, where it's like a cellar. He tells him how many helpers there are, how many hours they work a day, and what they get for it. It didn't make me yearn for a job.

"And here," says the Rev. Mr. Hooker, pullin' the Dummy up by the sleeve, "is what happens. This boy went to work in your glass factory when he was thirteen. He was red cheeked, clear eyed, then, and he had a normal brain. He held his job six years. Then he was discharged. Why? Because he wasn't of any more use. He was all in, the juice sapped out of him, as dry as a last year's cornhusk. Look at him! Any doubt about his being used up? And what happened to him is happening to thousands of other boys. So I have come here to ask you, Mr. Rankin, if you are proud of turning out such products? Aren't you ready to stop hiring thirteen-year-old boys for your works?"

Say, it was straight from the shoulder, that talk,--no flourishes, no fine words! And what do you guess Bobby Brut has to say? Not a blamed thing! I doubt if he heard more'n half of it, anyway; for he's got his eyes set on that pasty face of Dummy Kronacher, and is followin' his motions.

The Dummy ain't payin' any attention to the speech, either. He's got sight of all them animals with their heads bobbin', and a silly grin spreads over his face. First he sidles over to the mantel and touches up one that was about stopped. Then he sees another, and starts that off again, and by the time Hooker is through the Dummy is as busy and contented as you please, keepin' them tigers and things movin'.

"Well?" says the Rev. Sam.

"Eh?" says Bobby, tearin' his eyes off the Dummy. "Were you saying something about the glass works? Beastly bore! I never go near them. But say! I want that chap over there. I want to hire him. What's his name?"