Pepper/McHenry and the Blue Ribbon

FTER he had once learned to play the banjo, McHenry played it regularly every morning and evening, and at all other times when he felt the joy of living, until dissuaded by physical violence, or moral suasion. When he remembered to lock the door, as in the present instance, the only solution to the problem of universal peace was for the man whose room was directly over his to draw a baseball bat quickly but firmly across the radiator coils, thus creating an accompaniment so immeasurably superior in tonal quality to the banjo that McHenry generally gave up in disgust, with the loud remark that the world was going to the dogs, and nobody appreciated good music.

The man upstairs had just laid down his bat in grim triumph, and McHenry had once more unbarred his portal, when Monk Spinden came in with the morning papers, and helped himself to Pepper's cigarettes.

"I can't tell you, old fellow," said Spinden, inhaling luxuriously, "how glad I am to see you still keep these things in your room. I've heard that tobacco injures the health."

"Monk," said his host, "I'd brain you—if you had anything to brain!"

The civilities having been accomplished, Spinden disposed himself on McHenry's divan, and blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

"I heard a whale of a row last night when I went past the Lampoon Building," he remarked. "What was it, another initiation?"

"It was all of that," said McHenry reminiscently. "There was a large, corpulent neophyte built on the classic lines of a hack—and the candidates gave a play, a sort of allegorical farce, in which there had to be a typhoon. Well, this two-hundred-and-sixty-pound lad was the typhoon, and, after he had about six steins of punch in him, I want to tell you that he was a pretty good imitation of two typhoons. He broke three chairs and one window, and we've made a rule that hereafter no candidates' play can have anything more allegorical than a gentle breeze."

"It seems to me," said Spinden severely, "that you funny men on the Lampoon are much too convivial. It ought to be stopped—unless you send me an invitation to your next punch. Here—want to see the papers?"

"Thanks," said McHenry, accepting them. He turned to the sporting page of the Herald, and read it carefully. Spinden smoked, and watched him. McHenry pawed over the financial columns, utterly disregarded the editorials, and came to rest at the local news. Suddenly his jaw dropped startlingly—and Spinden lighted his second cigarette, and looked out of the window.

"Holy mackerel!" breathed McHenry, tightening his grip on the Herald, and devouring the first column with all the symptoms of mental indigestion.

"Anything interesting, Pepper?"

"Why—why—"

"Go on—read it, if it's any good!"

McHenry wet his lips, and breathed stertorously. Then, with eyes opened very wide, and a mouth which twitched in spite of his wrath and indignation, he slowly read the following item of political and social importance:

""

"Holy—mackerel!" said McHenry, dropping the paper to the floor.

"Ha—rather good, you know!" volunteered Spinden, in the accent popularly supposed to be English. "The idea—Pepper McHenry on the water wagon! ''Woosh!" ''

He placed his cigarette much too carefully on the window ledge, and rolled on the divan in paroxysms of mirth. In an instant McHenry was upon him, struggling for the hold which the handbooks say is unbreakable. The handbooks never assumed that one of a hundred and thirty pounds would attempt to practise manhandling on one of a hundred and sixty, so that the results were not in the least according to the illustrations. McHenry was deposited, panting, on the floor.

"You did that, Spinden!" he croaked. "I know you did! You—you—"

"If you call me any more names," promised his guest, resuming the cigarette, "I'll throw you in the ash barrel, Pep. Anyway, now we're square."

"Square! You play a trick like that on a man you can lick, and call it square!"

"Pause, dear friend," said Spinden amicably. "Let's walk hand in hand through the dim vista of the past. Perhaps you don't recall a little episode of freshman year. One Spinden, a trustful youth with no acquaintances in Cambridge, met one McHenry on the avenue on the first day of college, and took him for an upperclassman—that was because you were so darned cocky, Pep. Said Spinden asked for a little advice, after which he dashed over to Mem to apply for membership in the Dining Association. The auditor was very decent until I said that my application was backed by a prominent sophomore. Then he grinned, and said that since there was room for only sixteen hundred men in the joint, I needn't worry."

"That was merely a passing jest," said McHenry feebly, scrambling to his feet, and reaching for the Herald.

"Once again, dear friend. I didn't go over to Brine's to ask for a Freshman Bible, because that really did sound too fishy, but I didn't see anything out of the way in reporting to the president. You see, I'd been in England that summer, and I knew how the freshmen at Oxford have to report to the vice chancellor, so I just naturally waltzed up to prexy's office, got by the Ethiopian, and introduced myself."

"A little idea of my own," said McHenry, trying to smile.

"Quite so. Then, since you'd told me your name—or I thought it was your name—and where you lived, I slammed into somebody's room in Thayer ready to slay you. The name you'd given me was A. B. See. The senior in that room suggested that I'd better go look at a dictionary. So I started out, mad as a hornet, and just as I got down on the walk, a fat little man bumped into me, and knocked me off my feet. I was busy explaining his pedigree to him when I saw it was the dean."

"Oh, Lord!" groaned Pepper, slumping dismally into his chair. "They've got an editorial on me—it's headed:  'Good for McHenry!'  Oh, Monk—you—you're a human error! Look at it—it congratulates me—they'll copy this in the New York papers, and when that uncle of mine sees it! Monk, you've ruined me!"

"It was a pretty clever hunch," admitted Spinden joyously. "It's in the New York papers, too—they're all there if you care to look at them. You see, it was like this: I was in town chasing ads for the Monthly, and when I was having lunch at the Parker House it occurred to me that we've had Republican, and Democratic, and Progressive Clubs out here during the campaigns, but never a Prohibition Club. So I had another high ball, and went up to the State headquarters, and told them what a pure, high-minded lobster you are, and how you were out to down the high cost of living, and all those things—and—"

"But my uncle!" said McHenry, in utter wretchedness, "my uncle's coming over here in a few days, and—of course, it doesn't make any particular difference for a rhinoceros like yourself—but my birthday comes along about then, and I half expected to—say, how did you know he's one of that Anti-Cigarette gang?"

"You told me yourself," crowed Spinden, appropriating a third cork-tipped specimen. "And, Pepper, dear, don't you suppose your uncle will be happy to know his little Pepper's growing so manly at college?"

"Manly!" roared McHenry. "How do you suppose I'm going to get out of this mess, you young hyena? This is the roughest deal I've ever had in my life! What in thunder do you mean by it?"

"Oh, a lad as clever as you are ought to handle it all right," said Spinden carelessly. "If I could get away with reporting to the president, and asking for A. B. See, and talking dialect to the dean, I guess you ought to manage one innocent uncle easily enough. You're such a clever boy!"

It was the first time in his brief college career that McHenry had ever been on the defensive, and he didn't relish the part. At the same time, he saw very clearly that his reputation with the class, with Spinden, and with his family was at stake. It was still another opportunity to display that wealth of strategy which, according to the general rumor, was the characteristic feature of his genius. He smiled—feebly.

"It'll mean that I'll have to give up smoking for a few days," he murmured.

"Smoking's poison, anyway—where are the matches?"

"On the table—was that somebody knocking?"

"Come in!" said Spinden lazily.

An infinitesimal messenger poked his head around the corner of the door, and came in leisurely. In one hand he held a telegram, and in the other the signature book. McHenry scrawled his initials in the proper space, and tore open the yellow envelope. He read the message once, twice—and then he rose, and chased the messenger into the corridor.

The telegram was from the reformer-uncle, and it read, in substance:

"And this," said McHenry bitterly, forgetting all about the Dining Association, and the president, and A. B. See, and the dean, "this is your long-legged, slab-sided, red-headed, pigeon-toed idea of a joke! Spinden, I'll remember this!"

"You bet you will," agreed his friend, in great glee.

As soon as he had finished the cigarette, he took his departure, and during the interval he had exchanged no further words with the great tactician, who sat moodily at his desk, drawing meaningless squares and circles on a theme tablet. McHenry thus employed was dangerous, and Spinden knew it.

"By gosh!" said the jester to himself, as he hurried down the long hallway to his own room, "I wonder if he will remember it? Doesn't the poor prune know when we're square?"

That contingency, if the truth be told, hadn't even occurred to McHenry.

Mr. Frederic G. Prince, reformer and idealist, sat in his nephew's comfortable room, and examined the minutiæ thereof with lively interest. It was the first time he had ever bearded a student in his den, and he liked the scenery.

"But I had an impression, James," he said, "that the boys went around—er—visiting—that is, more than they seem to do. No one called this afternoon, and no one has been in this evening. Isn't that rather unusual?"

"Oh, no," said Pepper promptly. "The fact is that my friends are—well—"

"Naturally," opined Mr. Prince, "if they're the sort of boys who believe in moderation and dignity, they're diligent students. I hadn't thought of that. They're probably studying."

"Undoubtedly," said Pepper, with great relief, but his respite was of unmercifully short duration, for a tremendous rap on the door was followed by the entrance of John Phillips in an old master's gown and hood, Spinden with a luxuriant pair of false whiskers, and Ted Sewall in a cutaway coat and silk hat.

"I beg your pardon' stammered Sewall, "we didn't—we only wanted to interview you about the Prohibition Club!"

"Come in, gentlemen, come in!" invited the uncle warmly. "I'm delighted to see you!"

McHenry, taken completely off his guard, stood petrified while his three friends introduced themselves under charmingly romantic aliases, as a proctor, a tutor, and a class president, and seated themselves about the room. By the time he came to his senses, he realized that he couldn't expose them without exposing himself. He was trapped. He tried desperately to grin.

"As an officer of the university," began Phillips, rolling up his sleeves, and fanning himself with his cap, "I called to congratulate your nephew, sir, on the stand he has taken for purity in morals. He's—well, sir, he's a perfect demon on morality. He's one of the best little moral students we've got here."

"Ah—indeed!" said the reformer, watching Phillips' sleeves as though fascinated.

"You bet he is!" confirmed Sewall, producing his silver case. He extracted a cigarette, and continued: "Your nephew, Mr. Prince, has the unqualified support of the—er—the right crowd. We're with him tooth and nail!" He pinched the cigarette, and doubled with agony at the reminder which Spinden conveyed to his shin through the medium of his number tens. "This," said Sewall, with marvelous presence of mind, although his eyes were swimming with involuntary tears, "this, sir, is the curse of modern youth!" He held up the cigarette for inspection, and laid it on the table.

"Right!" exclaimed the reformer. "That and cocktails." "Speaking of cocktails," said Phillips quite unconsciously, "there's a new bar—"

"Some one at the door!" thundered Spinden.

McHenry, who was by this time on the verge of nervous prostration, beheld Roger Ward, dapper, energetic, deferential, on the threshold with a notebook in his hand.

"Beg pardon," apologized Ward, bowing to each of the five in turn. "Which is Mr. James McHenry? I represent the press of Boston."

"Didn't I tell you, James?" beamed his uncle. "A man who undertakes some uplifting mission like yours is infinitely more important to the community than a lazy, purposeless student! Come in, sir—my nephew has a message for all the youth of all the world to hear."

"What I really wanted," explained Ward, holding his hand to his face, as he caught sight of Spinden's whiskers, "was a statement of—of the—the details—"

"Exactly!" cried Mr. Prince. "The more publicity the better! James, here's the chance of a lifetime!"

Under the window there was the sudden roar of many voices. Phillips, who was fast losing control of himself, rose, and looked down into Mount Auburn Street.

"Hurray for our side!" he choked. "It's—it's a demonstration!"

The multitude, which was largely composed of the gamins of Cambridge, who can be hired for any temporary emergency at the current rate of five cents, cheered obligingly.

"Speech! Speech!"

"Hurrah for Mac—t'ree cheers for McHenry!"

"Speech! Put out your bean, Mac!"

"Yea! Speech!"

"Speech! Put our your bean, Mac!"

"We want McHenry! We want McHenry!"

The reformer fairly bubbled with pride and excitement.

"They want you, James! Say something to them! I tell you, gentlemen, this is a wonderful triumph for the clean-minded young men of this university! Go on, James—make them a speech."

Pepper, who was hardly able to stand on his feet, staggered to the window and peered out. The crowd cheered wildly.

"Speech! Speech!"

"Hey, mister, scramble a cent!"

"Fellows," said McHenry hoarsely, "the saloons must go!"

"Yea, bo!"

"So—so—so let's all help to keep 'em going!"

"I told you he's clever!" yelled Sewall, pounding Spinden on the back—to make up for the punishment accorded to his own shin.

"I thank you!" said Pepper, closing the window with a bang. The crowd outside yelled vociferously, and added catcalls to its repertoire.

"It seems to me you missed an exceptional opportunity," complained the reformer, wishing that the populace had inquired for him instead. "Why, James, where are you going?"

"Just outside a minute—I'll be back in ten seconds," promised the strategic one, escaping to the hallway.

Upon his return, he found his uncle rehearsing the creed of the Anti-Cigarette League to the four men who tried to look interested as they listened. He took his seat in the darkest comer, and waited. He knew his uncle very well, and two or three times he almost smiled as their visitors attempted to turn their attention to himself, and were as promptly brought back to the subject by the indefatigable idealist. Ten minutes passed, and twenty—Mr. Prince dilated upon the unsullied boyhood of his nephew, and related countless anecdotes touching upon his veneration of truth, his love of modesty, and his yearning for a higher life.

Pepper writhed, but waited confidently. He observed with joy that Spinden's whiskers were drooping pitiably, and that Phillips was growing very warm in his padded gown. He suffered exquisite pain when Sewall, stretching himself, threatened to put his foot in his silk hat, and missed it by the merest fraction of an inch; but he rejoiced a thousandfold when Ward, in pushing back his chair, scraped the nap from the fourteen-dollar tile, and ruined it hopelessly. His content was all the greater because Sewall, having assumed the rôle of a moralist, couldn't be profane about it. And then, just when Pepper was beginning to despair, when his jocular friends had worn out their imagination in his behalf, and his uncle was on the point of demanding personal revelations, there came a reverberating tattoo on the study door, and for the first time that night Pepper felt no uneasiness.

"Come in!" he shouted.

"James!" reproved his uncle.

There entered a young man in a brilliantly checked suit. The vamps of his shoes were patent leather, while the uppers were of a particularly insinuating shade of tan. His hat was of green velours, with a bow behind, and his vividly striped tie rested on a pleated shirt which was several months ahead of the fashions. He was smoking a fragrant cigar.

"McHenry?" he asked of the company.

"Right here!" said Pepper. "Have a seat. What can I do for you?"

"I'm from the Herald," vouchsafed the newcomer.

"If you'll allow me the suggestion," interrupted Mr. Prince, bridling, "none of these gentlemen believe in the use of tobacco—from moral, economic, or hygienic grounds—"

"Well, I do—are you the McHenry who runs the Prohibition Club out here?"

"Certainly I am," admitted Pepper engagingly. "Can I give you a story?"

"That's what I came for," said the reporter, staring unabashed at the remarkable assortment of costumes which confronted him.

"Well, we're all organized—officers elected—all ready for business."

"Fine!" The man who claimed to be from the Herald produced sheets of copy paper, and a stubby fountain pen. "Let her slide. Any big athletes in the crowd?"

"Oh, yes—I'll give you the list. I'm president, of course. The vice president is John Phillips—"

"On the football team?"

"Oh, hold on there!" said Phillips, suddenly waking to the sound of his own name.

"Yes, he's the one. I'll give you a list of his clubs later. The secretary is Robert A. Spinden—"

"Sure—crew man, isn't he?"

"Wait a minute," begged Spinden, not noticing that part of his whiskers had loosened. "He isn't—oh, I know him well!"

"Crew," insisted McHenry, "class baseball team last spring, and in the musical clubs. His father is Spinden, of the Flour Trust."

"Go ahead—anybody else?" Pepper glanced at the four men, who were looking very serious and uneasy; and at his uncle, who nodded proudly at each name. Pepper knew exactly what he was thinking—how delightful it was that men socially and athletically prominent in such a great university should be so deeply concerned with moral issues.

"The treasurer," said Pepper very distinctly, "is Theodore P. Sewall—"

"That the Sewall who was mixed up in the theater riot last year?"

"Oh, don't!" said Sewall miserably.

"He's the one. And the chairman of the executive committee is Roger Ward. That ought to be a good bit, because Ward's family are in the distilling business in Louisville."

"Peach of a story," agreed the reporter, scribbling rapidly. "Next?"

"That's all the officers. Now I'll go ahead with the constitution—"

"Just a moment, please," the reformer broke in. "If it would add weight to your report, sir, you might add that Frederic G. Prince—this young man's uncle—of the New York Anti-Cigarette League, has donated the club the sum of five hundred dollars with which to promote the admirable work—"

"What!" exclaimed Phillips, sitting bolt upright.

"Five hundred—"

"To be used," said Mr. Prince graciously, "precisely and unequivocally as my nephew shall determine. I trust his judgment absolutely."

"Just one more thing," added Pepper, "would you mind holding the story up for a day or two? There's a lot I'd like to get into it—plans that aren't quite settled, and it occurred to me that it might run better as a Sunday feature—photographs, you know—I'll get pictures of the officers, if you like—' and a lot of drip about how Harvard has changed since the disgusting days when men smoked horrid cigarettes, and drank rum in their tea."

The reporter looked at him, and allowed his eyes to twinkle slightly. He was an acute young man, and he was already fairly well acquainted with the situation.

"Yes," said Pepper, "and to clear up any uncertainty, I'll present you to the gentlemen now. Mr. Reporter, this is Mr. Ward on your right—"

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Ward."

"Mr. Sewall—"

"Sewall, Sewall?" repeated the reformer. "I thought you said Hamilton."

"Excuse me," said Spinden, leaping to his feet. "I—I have an appointment. I'll see you again, Mr. Prince, I hope—"

"I've got to go, too—"

"I'm late now—"

"If you'll wait one second," pleaded the reporter, "I forgot all about him—I've got a photographer out in the hall with a flash-light camera. It won't take half a second—"

"I'm fearfully late," stammered Spinden.

McHenry stood in the doorway, and folded his arms.

"The vestry meeting isn't for half an hour," he declared solemnly. "I know, because I was invited myself. There's plenty of time. Bring on your flash light!"

The clock struck two. John Phillips, who had argued loudest and said least, yawned whole-heartedly, and reverted to the original and vital query: "Well, what are we going to do about it?"

"Don't ask me," retorted Spinden aggrievedly.

"Why not? You got us into the mess, didn't you?"

"I can see my dad reading that dope in the papers," said Ward, whose face was pathetic. "It's a fine advertisement for him, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Sewall, "and maybe you'd like to know that after our young theater party last year—although I'll swear I didn't throw a single lemon—my own paternal ancestor on my father's side said that if I got my name in print like that again, I could quit this gilded life, and begin to draw six dollars a week in his office. That's a pretty picture, isn't it? What are you going to do about it, Monk?"

"You fellows make me sick!" blurted Spinden aggressively. "Weren't you there, too? Don't blame it on me! How in thunder did I know that Pep was telephoning a real reporter to come out and make hash of our reputations? I told you he's clever!"

"What gets me," added Ward, "is how he's going to keep it up?"

"Don't worry about that part of it," advised Sewall. "You just keep busy thinking how we're going to live it down!"

"As a last resort—I've heard that you can bribe newspaper men—"

"Yes—when they've got a chance at a comic feature like this! Where were you when you heard it?"

"Well—we could try—"

"All right," said Phillips briskly. "How much has anybody got on tap?"

The conspirators shook their heads in unison.

"I'm overdrawn four dollars now—"

"I've got thirty to last for six weeks."

"And I," said Ward, "had to write home last week for enough to get my shoes shined. I stand a fat chance to draw another wad before Christmas."

"I suppose two or three hundred would look pretty big to that newspaper chap," mused Phillips. "And there's a little leeway, too—we mustn't forget that—Pep told him to hold it for Sunday."

Spinden relighted his pipe, and essayed to smile cynically at the same time.

"Two or three hundred—chicken feed!" he scoffed. "He wouldn't smell of anything less than five!"

"I suppose we might go to Pepper," said Sewall timidly.

"To borrow his five—the five his uncle gave him?"

They all showed faint signs of appreciation, but even a good joke was powerless to remove their pall of apprehension. "No—to explain it to him—and tell him to call it off, like a good fellow."

"Fine! The same way we called it off—like good fellows!" "The only trouble with the whole business," insisted Spinden, "is that the fat-headed brute couldn't see when we were square! I was perfectly willing to to let bygones be bygones—"

"Dear man," said Phillips, "I know Pep McHenry like a book! He'd have called it off fast enough if we hadn't butted in on his uncle that way! What bothers me is that Pep has a disgusting habit of turning a little joke like this to his own advantage, at the same time that he's rubbing it in on the other fellow. I tell you, Pep's about as safe as a buzz saw to monkey with!"

"There's one thing we can do," said Spinden suddenly. "By gosh, we're a lot of silly idiots not to think of it before! Why, we can simply sit down and write to the Herald and deny the whole business—before they print it."

"Then how about Pep's uncle? You've got to remember that both he and the reporter got our real names—and heard us shooting off all that rot about the cause, and that sort of thing."

"Pep's uncle won't stay here forever, thank Heaven!" said Phillips piously. "We don't need to consider him at all. No—I think this affair is right up to Monk, because in the first place he went to the State headquarters, and in the second place he got us into Pep's room to-night. All I did was to raise that noble mob of Romans, and, if I do say it myself, that was the only part of the show that got anywhere. Did you hear those boys yell for a speech?"

"I absolutely refuse to accept the responsibility!" flashed Spinden. "Apparently you've forgotten how you howled, and said what a fine scheme it was when I first told you! We're all in it together!"

"Well, it's too late to do any more to-night, anyway—I move we all go to bed. We'll see Pep in the morning. Gee! I feel like a licked postage stamp!"

"Somebody in the house feels happy, anyway," said Sewall, as they went quietly out into the dark hall. Seemingly from a great distance, the strains of familiar music came to them, the music of a stringed instrument, and the sound of a joyful voice, singing hesitantly but firmly: "You Can't Keep a Good Man Down." The conspirators halted, and glared at each other through the darkness.

"For the love of Mike!" whispered Phillips, who knew what he was talking about. "We've got to look out for ourselves! It's Pepper!"

On the following morning Roger Ward dropped casually into Pepper McHenry's room, and invited him home for a week-end. Twenty minutes later Monk Spinden lounged into the McHenry study, and suggested a theater party that night—at Spinden's expense. Shortly before noontime, John Phillips, who scorned subterfuge, came stalking along with the announcement that much as he hated to do it, he would be compelled to chastise his little friend unless he kept the story out of the Herald; and, immediately after his one-o'clock lecture, Ted Sewall breezed in with the information that his sisters were planning a wonderful house party for Christmas, and claimed that it would be a hopeless failure and a sepulchral frost without McHenry.

To all of these overtures Pepper grinned modestly, but only to Sewall did he volunteer any consolation.

"Ted," he commented, "your little playmate is a very great man."

"You bet he is," said Sewall feelingly.

"I've got some bully flash lights here—maybe you'd care to see them."

"You bet I would," said Sewall, even more feelingly. "But—on second thought—let's wait until this evening. You get the crowd around here—don't be scared, Ted, my uncle was called back to New York very unexpectedly—and we'll have it out."

"You bet I will," said Sewall, and this time he spoke most feelingly of all.

It was hardly long enough after dinner to conform to the books of etiquette when the four jesters came upon McHenry, and found him playing his banjo. They didn't reprove him—not one of them ventured to request that he cease—they merely sat down, and asked where he had put his cigarettes.

"There aren't any," said Pepper, missing a bar of "Silverheels" by the response.

"What? Nothing to smoke?"

"Your little playmate is a moral man," he told them. "Anybody have some chewing gum?"

"No, thanks—"

"You'd better," maintained McHenry solemnly. "It's good for the nerves."

The four all took chewing gum, and chewed.

"Now, then—I suppose what you really want is for me to use my influence with the press?"

"Hang it all, Pep," said Spinden aggrievedly, "we didn't know you'd take it so hard, or—"

"Or you wouldn't have done it? Exactly. Well, here's the answer—I've sworn off!"

"No!" they chorused, aghast.

"Wrong. I have. I've cut everything out absolutely. I never cared much for the stuff, anyway. You gave me a darned good excuse, and so I've quit until the first of June." He whistled a bar from an opera, and tried to play it—with woeful results. "First off, Monk, I want you to go in to the State headquarters, and tell 'em it was a mistake about the Prohibition Club. Crawl like a worm! Like two worms if you have to. Do you care to do that?"

"I'm crazy about it! Sure I will! Honestly—have you sworn off?"

"I certainly have—why not? And you people agree—of course—to let the whole business drop, don't you?"

"Good Lord, Pep! Couldn't you trust us that much?"

"Indubitably—indubitably! I don't imagine anybody cares to buy any of these flash lights—"

"What's the price?" demanded Ward eagerly, and Pepper burst out laughing.

"My innocent young friends," he said, "you've done a lot more than you realize for me. If you'll absolutely swear not to try to get funny any more, I'll let you into some good news."

"I'll swear anything!"

"You've got us, Pep—have a heart!"

"Anything on earth—if you can call off the Herald!"

"I'll go in there myself," promised Phillips, "and make 'em print a retraction—if they will."

"Where are the flash lights?"

Pepper laid his banjo tenderly on his desk, and dug into a drawer. Instead of the proofs they expected, he brought forth two or three letters, and two telegrams.

"By 'flash lights,'" he explained kindly, "I meant flash lights on a great career—mine, if you have to be personal. I didn't mean pictures. Let me say right now that as soon as I saw that stuff in the Herald the other morning I—er—took steps to make it count. I couldn't explain to everybody very well, and, as I say, I never cared a lot for high life, so—here's the first flash light. I won't tell you who it's from, but I'll admit in strict confidence that it's from a—young lady. Omitting the first few words:

"Omitting the rest of it," repeated McHenry, "that'll give you an idea of what it's about. That's from the one and only—for the present. Then we have the following message from my father:

"And again," continued Pepper, ignoring the remarkable expressions on the faces of his friends, "and again we have a letter somewhat as follows:

"Then, finally," said McHenry, turning to the last telegram, "we get this cheerful little word from my mother:

"There's only one more piece of news," said the young politician, regarding his stricken friends with deep commiseration. "My doctor says that one reason I never got any fatter was because I used to kill my appetite by smoking too much. He swears I'll get up to a hundred and fifty if I cut it out for the rest of the year."

"Allowance—runabout—" gasped Spinden.

"And we're square?" hesitated Ward.

McHenry grinned.

"If you want to call it that, Roger."

"But—how about that reporter? How can we keep that story out of the Sunday papers?"

"Children," stated McHenry, breathing hard, "when you rambled in here disguised like a side show, I couldn't let you have it all to yourselves—I just couldn't! So I telephoned to a cheap photographer I know—"

"You mean—that man—"

"Surely I do. I simply told him what to do when he got here—what to say, and how to act. He's an honest-to-goodness photographer, all right, but he's no more a reporter than you are."

"And—there won't be anything printed?"

"We're square, Pep—you'll let it drop?"

"Holy mackerel, boys! There isn't anything to drop!"

The conspirators, actuated by a timely impulse, crowded around McHenry, and wrung his hand. Each one of them had the same prevailing thought in his mind—let McHenry alone! It was Phillips, the ever practical, who first recalled Mr. Prince, and his unconditional bequest.

"But, Pep—about your uncle—"

"Simplest thing in the world—I'll write him that the club disbanded from lack of support, but I'm still true to the cause—for a consideration. It'll be perfectly all right."

"No—I meant the five hundred."

"Why," said McHenry, the clever, as he picked up his beloved banjo and set about tuning it, "he said to use it for the propagation of virtue. I thought Monk had better take it in town with him when he goes—I've indorsed it over to the State Prohibition committee!" He swept his hands across the strings. Overhead there was the echo of angry footsteps. The man above had seized his baseball bat, and scraped it quickly but decisively over the radiator coils. "Shut up!" roared Phillips.

"Cut it out!" yelled Sewall.

"Quit that, or we'll come up and slay you!" bellowed Spinden.

The noise ceased abruptly. Ward addressed the complacent McHenry with uncommon deference.

"Go ahead, Pep," he said, voicing the sentiment of the assembled company. "You're improving a lot. What's that you're playing—'Dill Pickles'?"

"No," said McHenry pityingly. "It's 'Annie Laurie.'" At the same time, he was a very forgiving man. He played his entire repertoire through for them twice. And when, somewhere about the middle of the performance, a dozen Cambridge gamins, remembering their instructions of the night before, came under McHenry's window and cried for a speech on Prohibition, Phillips and Spinden and Sewall and Ward arose en masse, and deliberately and accurately threw cold water on them.