“Oh, very well.”
“Three, if you like!” from Bob, the stormy petrel.
They gazed at him admiringly.
“It isn’t the green garden talking, is it, Bob?” asked Clarence Van Duzen whose sole occupation was being a director in a few corporations—or, more strictly speaking, not being one. It took almost all Clarence’s time to “direct” his wife, or try to.
Bob looked at Clarence reproachfully. “No,” he said. “I’m still master of all my thoughts.” Gloomily. “I couldn’t forget if I tried.”
“That’s all right, then,” said Dickie.
Then Clarence “took” some one else who staked Bob. And Dickie did likewise. And there was some more talk. And then Bob staked himself.
“Little short of cash at the bank just now,” he observed. “But if you’ll take my note—”
“Take your word if you want,” said the commodore.
“No; here’s my note.” He gave it—a large amount—payable in thirty days. It was awful, but he did it. He hardly thought what he was doing. Having the utmost confidence he would win, he didn’t stop to realize what a large contract he was taking on. But Dan, Dickie, Clarence and the others did.