"Me? Never!" cried Moore. "Not for a fraction of a minute. Not that Winnie is n't a dear girl, for none knows that she is such better than I, but we would never do for a couple."
"Unfortunately I thought otherwise," responded Farrell. "That is the trouble."
"You interest me very much," said the poet, helping himself to a seat on the desk. "Go on with your tale of woe."
"I was so sure of it," continued Farrell, "that I bet Lieutenant Cholmondely you would propose to her before the first of the month."
"A nice performance," commented Moore, swinging his feet. "Then what?"
"Arbuckle heard me, and, like a sneak, went off quietly and asked Winnie the next day."
"And was accepted? Serves him right, Terry."
"But the bet stands," persisted Farrell, sorrowfully. "And to-morrow is the first of the month. I have n't a penny to pay Cholmondely."
"It is too bad, Terry," replied Moore, sympathetically, "but you should never have made such a bet. It shows lack of respect for Winnie. At least some people would think so, though I am sure you never meant to convey any such impression."
"I thought you might help me," said Farrell, disconsolately. "Can't you, Tom?"