The George Barr McCutcheon MEGAPACK ®. George Barr McCutcheon

      “Why isn’t that reasonable?” he asked himself after the boy had gone. “Making property over to one’s wife is neither a loan nor is it charity. Old Jones might call it needless extravagance, since he’s a bachelor, but it’s generally done because it’s good business.” Monty was hopeful.

      Following his habit in trouble, he sought Margaret Gray, to whom he could always appeal for advice and consolation. She was to come to his next dinner-party, and it was easy to lead up to the subject in hand by mentioning the other guests.

      “And Barbara Drew,” he concluded, after naming all the others. They were alone in the library, and she was drinking in the details of the dinner as he related them.

      “Wasn’t she at your first dinner?” she asked, quickly.

      He successfully affected mild embarrassment.

      “Yes.”

      “She must be very attractive.” There was no venom in Peggy’s heart.

      “She is attractive. In fact, she’s one of the best, Peggy,” he said, paving the way.

      “It’s too bad she seems to care for that little Duke.”

      “He’s a bounder,” he argued.

      “Well, don’t take it to heart. You don’t have to marry him,” and Peggy laughed.

      “But I do take it to heart, Peggy,” said Monty, seriously. “I’m pretty hard hit, and I want your help. A sister’s advice is always the best in a matter of this sort.”

      She looked into his eyes dully for an instant, not realizing the full importance of his confession.

      “You, Monty?” she said, incredulously.

      “I’ve got it bad, Peggy,” he replied, staring hard at the floor. She could not understand the cold, gray tone that suddenly enveloped the room. The strange sense of loneliness that came over her was inexplicable. The little something that rose in her throat would not be dislodged, nor could she throw off the weight that seemed pressing down upon her. He saw the odd look in her eyes and the drawn, uncertain smile on her lips, but he attributed them to wonder and incredulity. Somehow, after all these years, he was transformed before her very eyes; she was looking upon a new personality. He was no longer Montgomery, the brother, but she could not explain how and when the change crept over her. What did it all mean? “I am very glad if it will make you happy, Monty,” she said slowly, the gray in her lips giving way to red once more. “Does she know?”

      “I haven’t told her in so many words, Peggy, but—but I’m going to this evening,” he announced, lamely.

      “This evening?”

      “I can’t wait,” Monty said as he rose to go. “I’m glad you’re pleased, Peggy; I need your good wishes. And, Peggy,” he continued, with a touch of boyish wistfulness, “do you think there’s a chance for a fellow? I’ve had the very deuce of a time over that Englishman.”

      It was not quite easy for her to say, “Monty, you are the best in the world. Go in and win.”

      From the window she watched him swing off down the street, wondering if he would turn to wave his hand to her, his custom for years. But the broad back was straight and uncompromising. His long strides carried him swiftly out of sight, but it was many minutes before she turned her eyes, which were smarting a little, from the point where he was lost in the crowd. The room looked ashen to her as she brought her mind back to it, and somehow things had grown difficult.

      When Montgomery reached home he found this telegram from Mr. Jones:

      MONTGOMERY BREWSTER,

      New York City.

      Stick to your knitting, you damned fool.

      S. JONES.

      CHAPTER IX

      LOVE AND A PRIZE-FIGHT

      It is best not to repeat the expressions Brewster used regarding one S. Jones, after reading his telegram. But he felt considerably relieved after he had uttered them. He fell to reading accounts of the big prize-fight which was to take place in San Francisco that evening. He revelled in the descriptions of “upper cuts” and “left hooks,” and learned incidentally that the affair was to be quite one-sided. A local amateur was to box a champion. Quick to see an opportunity, and cajoling himself into the belief that Swearengen Jones could not object to such a display of sportsmanship, Brewster made Harrison book several good wagers on the result. He intimated that he had reason to believe that the favorite would lose. Harrison soon placed three thousand dollars on his man. The young financier felt so sure of the result that he entered the bets on the profit side of his ledger the moment he received Harrison’s report.

      This done, he telephoned Miss Drew. She was not insensible to the significance of his inquiry if she would be in that afternoon. She had observed in him of late a condition of uneasiness, supplemented by moroseness and occasional periods of irascibility. Every girl whose occupation in life is the study of men recognizes these symptoms and knows how to treat them. Barbara had dealt with many men afflicted in this manner, and the flutter of anticipation that came with his urgent plea to see her was tempered by experience. It had something of joy in it, for she cared enough for Montgomery Brewster to have made her anxiously uncertain of his state of mind. She cared, indeed, much more than she intended to confess at the outset.

      It was nearly half-past five when he came, and for once the philosophical Miss Drew felt a little irritation. So certain was she of his object in coming that his tardiness was a trifle ruffling. He apologized for being late, and succeeded in banishing the pique that possessed her. It was naturally impossible for him to share all his secrets with her, that is why he did not tell her that Grant & Ripley had called him up to report the receipt of a telegram from Swearengen Jones, in which the gentleman laconically said he could feed the whole State of Montana for less than six thousand dollars. Beyond that there was no comment. Brewster, in dire trepidation, hastened to the office of the attorneys. They smiled when he burst in upon them.

      “Good heavens!” he exclaimed, “does the miserly old hayseed expect me to spend a million for newspapers, cigarettes and Boston terriers? I thought he would be reasonable!”

      “He evidently has seen the newspaper accounts of your dinner, and this is merely his comment,” said Mr. Ripley.

      “It’s either a warning, or else he’s ambiguous in his compliments,” growled Brewster, disgustedly.

      “I don’t believe he disapproved, Mr. Brewster. In the west the old gentleman is widely known as a wit.”

      “A wit, eh? Then he’ll appreciate an answer from me. Have you a telegraph blank, Mr. Grant?”

      Two minutes later the following telegram to Swearengen Jones was awaiting the arrival of a messenger-boy, and Brewster was blandly assuring Messrs. Grant & Ripley that he did not “care a rap for the consequences”:

      NEW YORK, October 23, 1—

      SWEARENGEN JONES,

      Butte, Mont.

      No doubt you could do it for less than six thousand. Montana is regarded as the best grazing country in the world, but we don’t eat that sort of stuff in New York. That’s why it costs more to live here.

      MONTGOMERY BREWSTER.

      Just before leaving his apartments for Miss Drew’s home he received this response from faraway Montana:

      BUTTE, MONTANA, Oct. 23, 1—

      MONTGOMERY BREWSTER, New York.

      We are eight thousand feet above the level of the sea. I suppose that’s why it costs us less to live high.

      S. JONES.

      “I was beginning to despair, Monty,” said Miss Drew, reproachfully, when he had come down from the height of his exasperation and remembered that there were things of more importance.

      The