"True nobility," said Mike, "is in them words."
"Aw, cut the gas!" growled James. "Where'd you get the blooming outfit?"
"I win, do I?" persisted the Watermelon.
"Mike's the judge," returned James, losing interest in what was too obviously a one-sided contest.
"In this competition, there are three points to decide," declared Mike, not quite sure whom he feared the more, James or the Watermelon. "Beauty of face, beauty of clothes and beauty of soul. The one who gets two points out of the three wins."
The Watermelon nodded, James grunted.
Mike glanced thoughtfully from one to the other and decided that danger lay in either choice. "Neither of you," said he slowly and wisely, "win. For unexcelled art in raiment, me young friend here might be said to be the only competitor. For rare physical beauty and winning charm in looks, unaided by mere externals, me friend and fellow-citizen, James, gets the just reward, and for pure, manly beauty of the soul, truth, which I always follow, compels me to give the prize to me humble self."
"Aw," growled James, "this ain't no show. We will have another."
The Watermelon hitched up his trousers and chose a clean seat on a fallen log. When coat and trousers legs were adjusted so as best to keep their faultless creases, he spoke with the bored accents of the weary scion of great wealth.
"I'm starting for a motor tour with some of me friends," said he.