"Yes," says she. "He's changed for the worse lately. He'd do it, all right, if I took him to court."

"What if I stood ready to break his, eh?" says I. "Would that hold him?"

Say, it wa'n't an elevatin' or cheerful conversation me and Mrs. Tiscott indulged in; but it was more or less to the point. She's some int'rested in the last proposition of mine, and when I adds a few frills about givin' a butcher's order and standin' for a sack of potatoes, she agrees to swear out the summons for Tony, providin' I'll hand it to him and be in court to scare the liver out of him when she talks to the Justice.

"I hate to do it too," says she.

"I know," says I; "but no meat or potatoes from me unless you do!"

Sounds kind of harsh, don't it? You'd think I had a special grudge against Tony Tiscott too. But say, it's only because I know him and his kind so well. Nothing so peculiar about his case. Lots of them swell coachmen go that way, and in his day Tony has driven for some big people.

Him and me got acquainted when he was wearin' the Twombley-Crane livery and drawin' down his sixty-five a month. That wa'n't so long ago, either.

But it's hard waitin' hours on the box in cold weather, and they get to boozin'. When they hit it up too free they lose their places. After they've lost too many places they don't get any more. Meantime they've accumulated rheumatism and a fam'ly of kids. They've got lazy habits too, and new jobs don't come easy at forty. The next degree is loafin' around home permanent; but they ain't apt to find that so pleasant unless the wife is a good hustler. Most likely she rows it. So they chuck the fam'ly and drift off by themselves.

That's the sort of chaps you'll find on the bread lines. But Tony hadn't quite got to that yet. I knew the corner beer joint where he did odd jobs as free lunch carver and window cleaner. Also I knew the line of talk I meant to hand out to him when I got my fingers on his collar.

"Well?" says Miss Ann, when I comes back with the empty basket. "Did you find it an interesting case?"

"Maybe that's the word," says I.

"You saw the young woman, did you?" says she, "the one who----"

"Sure," says I. "She's got it--bad."

"Ah!" says Miss Ann, brightenin' up. "And now about that life membership!"

"Well," says I, "the Piny Crest proposition is all right, and I'd like to see it started; but the fact is, Miss Colliver, if I should put my name down with all them big people I'd be runnin' out of my class."

"You would be--er----Beg pardon," says she, "but I don't think I quite get you?"

I'd suspected she wouldn't. But how was I going to dope out to her clear and straight what's so muddled up in my own head? You know, all about how Annie got her cough, and my feelin's towards the firms that's sweatin'

the Tiscotts, from the baby up, and a lot of other things that I can't state.

"As I said," goes on Miss Colliver, "I hardly think I understand."

"Me either," says I. "My head's just a merry go round of whys and whatfors. But, as far as that fund of yours goes, I don't come in."

"Humph!" says she. "That, at least, is quite definite. Home, Hutchins!"

And there I am left on the curb lookin' foolish. Me, I don't ride back to the studio on any broadcloth cushions! Serves me right too, I expect. I feels mean and low down all the rest of the day, until I gets some satisfaction by huntin' up Tony and throwin' such a scare into him that he goes out and finds a porter's job and swears by all that's holy he'll take up with the fam'ly again.

But think of the chance I passed up of breakin' into the high toned philanthropy class!

CHAPTER XVI

CLASSING TUTWATER RIGHT

Maybe that brass plate had been up in the lower hall of our buildin' a month or so before I takes any partic'lar notice of it. Even when I did get my eye on it one mornin' it only gets me mildly curious. "Tutwater, Director of Enterprises, Room 37, Fourth Floor," is all it says on it.

"Huh!" thinks I. "That's goin' some for a nine by ten coop under the skylight."

And with that I should have let it drop, I expect. But what's the use?

Where's the fun of livin', if you can't mix in now and then. And you know how I am.

Well, I comes pikin' up the stairs one day not long after discoverin' the sign, and here on my landin', right in front of the studio door, I finds this Greek that runs the towel supply wagon usin' up his entire United States vocabulary on a strange gent that he's backed into a corner.

"Easy, there, easy, Mr. Poulykopolis!" says I. "This ain't any golf links, where you can smoke up the atmosphere with language like that.

What's the row, anyway?"

"No pay for five week; always nex' time, he tells, nex' time. Gr-r-r-r! I am strong to slap his life out, me!" says Pouly, thumpin' his chest and shakin' his black curls. They sure are fierce actin' citizens when they're excited, these Marathoners.

"Yes, you would!" says I. "Slap his life out? G'wan! If he handed you one jolt you wouldn't stop runnin' for a week. How big is this national debt you say he owes you! How much?"

"Five week!" says Pouly. "One dollar twenty-five."

"Sufferin' Shylocks! All of that? Well, neighbor," says I to the strange gent, "has he stated it correct?"

"Perfectly, sir, perfectly," says the party of the second part. "I do not deny the indebtedness in the least. I was merely trying to explain to this agent of cleanliness that, having been unable to get to the bank this morning, I should be obliged to----"

"Why, of course," says I. "And in that case allow me to stake you to the price of peace. Here you are, Pouly. Now go out in the sun and cool off."

"My dear sir," says the stranger, followin' me into the front office, "permit me to----"

"Ah, never mind the resolutions!" says I, "It was worth riskin' that much for the sake of stoppin' the riot. Yes, I know you'll pay it back. Let's see, which is your floor?"

"Top, sir," says he, "room 37."

"Oh ho!" says I. "Then you're the enterprise director, Tutwater?"

"And your very humble servant, sir," says he, bringin' his yellow Panama lid off with a full arm sweep, and throwin' one leg graceful over the back of a chair.

At that I takes a closer look at him, and before I've got half through the inspection I've waved a sad farewell to that one twenty-five. From the frayed necktie down to the runover shoes, Tutwater is a walkin'

example of the poor debtor's oath. The shiny seams of the black frock coat shouts of home pressin', and the limp way his white vest fits him suggests that he does his own laundry work in the washbowl. But he's clean shaved and clean brushed, and you can guess he's seen the time when he had such things done for him in style.

Yet there ain't anything about the way Tutwater carries himself that signifies he's down and out. Not much! He's got the easy, confident swing to his shoulders that you might expect from a sport who'd just picked three winners runnin'.

Rather a tall, fairly well built gent he is, with a good chest on him, and he has one of these eager, earnest faces that shows he's alive all the time. You wouldn't call him a handsome man, though, on account of the deep furrows down each side of his cheeks and the prominent jut to his eyebrows; but, somehow, when he gets to talkin', them eyes of his lights up so you forget the rest of his features.

You've seen chaps like that. Gen'rally they're cranks of some kind or other, and when they ain't they're topliners. So I puts Tutwater down as belongin' to the crank class, and it wa'n't long before he begun livin'

up to the description.

"Director of enterprises, eh?" says I. "That's a new one on me."

"Naturally," says he, wavin' his hand, "considering that I am first in the field. It is a profession I am creating."