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 and added up their expenditures. Their furnishing had cost them $12 each; the supply of food in their larder, $3.10; their month's rent, $8 each; their deposit to the gas company, $5; tips and sundries, $1.25. "There you are! For less than twenty-five dollars each, we're set up for life—rent paid for a month and money out at interest with the gas company. And unless we get gold-bricked we can live now for $3 a week each . . . eh?' he crowed. "How's yon for management?"

Don was making a rapid calculation that he had enough money of his own to keep him for six months at least. Conroy had laid a ten-dollar bill beside his plate and was searching his pockets for more. "What the dickens," he muttered in his pipe. "I must have lost"

Pittsey enjoyed the situation. "I know! I know the feeling. Where did it go, eh? Where did it go? Refrain: 'But what has become of last year's snow?' I'll write a ballad for one of the weekly comics on it." He made a note on the back of an envelope from his pocket.

"That's all right, Con," Donald put in. "I'll carry your proportion until you get things going."

They repaid Pittsey what he had expended for them. He accepted it jocularly. "Now, I'm the chef, you know," he said, "but you two have to wash up. Get to work. We're going out to see the sights of a great city as soon as you've finished."

"You go, Don," Conroy said. "I'll clean up here." They looked at him, surprised. He had an expression