"Why," says I, "I don't live anywhere just now. I'm movin'; but I don't know where to."

"I suppose that is either impudence or epigram," says she; "but never mind. Perhaps you will tell me where you work?"

"I don't work at all," says I. "I'm head office boy for the Corrugated Trust, and it's a cinch job."

"Indeed!" says she. "The Corrugated Trust? Let me see, who is at the head of that concern?"

"Say," says I, "you don't mean you never heard of Old Hickory Ellins or Mr. Robert, do you?"

She kind of smiles at that; but dodges makin' any answer.

"Well," says I, "do I get pinched, or just given the run? Either way, I've got some baggage down by the area door that ought to be looked after."

"Why, certainly, I will have it----" then she stops and looks me over sort of shrewd. "Suppose," she starts in again, "you go and get it yourself?"

"Sure!" says I, and it ain't until I'm outside that I sees this is just her way of tryin' me out; for I has a fine chance to beat it. "Nix!"

thinks I. "I might as well see this thing through and get a decision."

So back I goes with the suitcase and laundry bag. She hadn't even followed me to the door.

"Ah!" says she, lookin' up. "You weren't afraid to come back, then.

Why?"

"Oh, I guess it was because I banked on your givin' me a square deal,"

says I.

That gets a grin out of her. "Thank you very much for the compliment,"

says she. "I may say that the inquisition is over. However, I should like to have you remain a little longer, if you care to. Won't you leave your things in the hall there? Your hat and overcoat too."

"Zen.o.bia," says Martha, wakin' up, "surely you are not going to----"

"Precisely," says Zen.o.bia. "I am going to ask him to stay for dinner with us. Will you?"

"Yep!" says I. "I never let any free eats get by me."

"But," gasps Martha, "you don't know who he is?"

"Neither does he know us," says Zen.o.bia. "Torchy, I am Mrs. Zen.o.bia Preble. This is my sister, Miss Martha Hadley. She is very good, I am very wicked, and we are both women of mature years. You will probably find our society rather dull; but the dinner is likely to be fairly good. Besides, I am feeling somewhat indebted to you."

"It's a go," says I, "if I can have a chance to wash up first."

"Of course," says she. Then she gives me a key and directions how to find a certain door on the third floor. "My son's quarters," she goes on, "that I have kept just as he left them twenty years ago. I shall expect you to make yourself quite at home there."

Do I? Why, say, it's a back joint such as you might dream about: two rooms and bath across the front of the house, guns and swords and such knickknacks on the walls, a desk, a lot of books, and even a bathrobe and slippers laid out. Say, while I was scrubbin' off some of the inkstains and smoothin' down my hair with the silver-backed brushes I felt like a young blood gettin' ready for a party.

Then after awhile I strolls down to the lib'ry and makes myself to home some more. It's a comf'table place, with lots of big easy-chairs, nice pictures on the wall, and no end of bookshelves. The old ladies has cleared out, not even lockin' up any of the curios or sendin' a maid to watch me.

And when it comes to the feed--why, say, it's a reg'lar course dinner, such as you'd put up a dollar for at any of these high-cla.s.s table dotty ranches. Funny old china they had too, and a big silver coffeepot right on the table. The only bad break I makes is just at the start, when I dives into the soup without noticin' that Aunt Martha has her head down and is mumblin' something about bein' thankful.

"Never mind," says Mrs. Preble. "We aren't included in this, anyway."

That begins the talk. I ain't put through the wringer, you understand, but just follows Zen.o.bia while she goes from one thing to another, givin' her opinions of 'em and now and then callin' for mine. We got real chatty too, and once in awhile she stops to laugh real hearty, though I couldn't see where I'd got off any crack at all.

Near as I can make out, Zen.o.bia is a lively old girl for her age. She's seen all the best Broadway shows, knows what's goin' on in town, and reads the papers reg'lar. Also it comes out that she don't follow the kind of programme you generally look for antiques to stick to. She ain't got any use for churches, charity inst.i.tutions, society, or the suffragettes. All of which seems to shock Sister Martha, who don't say much, but only shudders now and then.

"You see, Torchy," says Zen.o.bia, droppin' two lumps into her demita.s.se, "I am an unbeliever. I don't even believe in growing old. When I hear of other persons who have come to disbelieve in established things, no matter what, I send for them and find out all about it across the dinner table. We discuss art, religion, politics, goodness knows what. We denounce things, from the existing social order, to the tariff on stockings. My sister, who believes in everything as it is, usually takes a nap and snores."

"Zen.o.bia!" says Martha.

"Oh, not in a disturbing way," says Zen.o.bia. "And I'm sure I almost do the same whenever your friend the rector is here. Torchy, have you ever been talked to about your soul?"

"Once when I drifted into a mission a guy sprung that on me," says I.

"Yes?" says Zen.o.bia. "What then?"

"I told him to go chase himself," says I.

Hearty chuckles from Zen.o.bia, while Sister Martha turns pale and gasps.

Next thing I know I'm tellin' Mrs. Preble about my fallin' out with Mother Sykes, and how I guess I'd better be pikin' up to engage a thirty-cent room until I can draw on my reserve and locate a new boardin' place.

And, say, what do you guess that conversation leads up to? Well, it struck me all in a heap at the time, though I didn't let on; but I couldn't figure out the answer until I'd had a talk with Mr. Robert next day.

"Say, Mr. Robert," says I. "You don't happen to know an old party by the name of Zen.o.bia Preble, do you?"

"I do," says he. "It isn't exactly an accident, either. She is a cousin of my father."

"Gee!" says I. "Cousin to the old--to the boss! Wh-e-ew!"

"Rather an original old lady, Zen.o.bia," says Mr. Robert. "And I understand, from a talk I had with her over the 'phone early last evening, that she was arbitrating the case of a young man who was in some danger of arrest in her home. How did it come out, Torchy?"

"Ah, say, you're on, ain't you?" says I. "Well, it was a verdict for the defense, because I promised to do it again if I ever got the chance."

Mr. Robert grins. "That grandson of hers is certainly a holy terror,"

says he. "You and Zen.o.bia parted friends, then?"

"Not yet," says I. "We ain't parted at all. I'm stayin' as a trial boarder."

"What!" says he, sittin' up. "Oh, I see. An experiment in practical sociology, eh?"

"Maybe that's it," says I. "Anyway, it depends on whether or not I can stand Aunt Martha."

And when I leaves Mr. Robert he still has his mouth open.

CHAPTER XIII

FIRST AID FOR THE MAIN STEM