that. Think of your five-cent-cigar man. What would he have? Why, sandwiches. You know, nice thick ones, mostly bread. No. Wait a bit. I know. A club sandwich. Two club sandwiches, and a bottle of domestic lager. Two things I hate—eternally. We must equip ourselves, Harding. We must mortify the flesh. We must readjust our focus, and outrage all our more delicate susceptibilities. We must reduce ourselves to the requirements of the five-cent-cigar man, and turn a happy, smiling world into a dark and drear struggle for existence. See to it, good Harding, see to it."
The man withdrew, puzzled. Used as he was to Gordon's vagaries, the thought of his master dining off two hideous club sandwiches and a bottle of domestic lager made his staunch stomach positively turn.
His perfect training, however, permitted of no verbal protest. And he waited on the diner with as much care for punctilio as though a formal banquet were in progress. Then came another violent shock to his feelings. Gordon leaned back in his chair with a sigh of amused contentment.
"Do you think you could get me a—five-cent cigar, Harding?" he demanded. "Say, I enjoyed that food. That unique combination of chicken, hot bacon and—and something pickly—why, it's great. And as for domestic lager—it's got wine beaten a mile. Guess I'm mighty anxious to explore a—five-cent cigar."
Harding cleared his throat.
"I'll do my best, sir. It may be difficult, but I'll do my best. I'll consult the clerk downstairs. He smokes very bad cigars, sir."
"Good. You get busy. I'll be around in my den."
"Yes, sir," Harding hesitated. Then with an unusual diffidence, "Coffee, sir? A little of the '48 brandy, sir?"
Gordon stared.
"Can I believe my ears? Spoil a dinner like that with—'48 brandy? I'm astonished, Harding. That focus, man; that five-cent-cigar focus!"
Gordon hurried off into his den with a laugh. Harding gazed after him with puzzled, respectful eyes.
Once in the privacy of his den, half office, half library, and wholly a room of comfort, Gordon forgot his laugh. His mind was quite made up, and he knew that a long evening's work lay before him.
He picked up the receiver of his private 'phone to his father's office and sat down at the desk.
"Hello! Hello! Ah! That you, Harker? Splendid. Guess I'm glad I caught you. Working late, eh? Sure. It's the way in er—big finance. Yes. Got to lie awake at nights to do the other feller. Say. No. Oh, no, that's not what I rang you up for. It's about—finance. Ha, ha! It's a check for me. Did the governor leave me one? Good. Five thousand dollars, isn't it? Well, say, don't place it to my credit. Get cash for it to-morrow, and send it along to—— Let me see. Yes, I know. You send along a bright clerk with it. He can meet me at the Pennsylvania Depot to-morrow, at noon—sharp. Yes. In the waiting-room. Get that? Good. So long."
"That's that," he muttered, as he replaced the receiver. "Now for Charlie Spiers."
He turned to the ordinary 'phone, picked up the receiver, gave the operator the number, and waited.
"Hello! Hello, hello, hello! That you, Charlie? Bully. I wasn't sure getting you. Guess my luck's right in. How are you? Goo—— No, better not come around to-night. Fact is, I'm up to my back teeth packing and things. I've got to be away awhile. Business—important." He laughed. "Don't get funny. It's not play. No. Eh? What's that? A lady? Quit it. If there's a thing I can't stand just about now it's a suggestion of immorality. I mean that. The word 'immoral' 's about enough to set me chasing Broadway barking and foaming at the mouth. I said I'm going away on business, and it's so important that not even my mother knows where I'm going. Yes. Ah, I'm glad you feel that way. It's serious. Now, listen to me; it's up to you to do me a kindness. I'm going to write the mater now and again. But I can't mail direct, or she'll know where I am, see? Well, I can send her mail under cover to you, and you can mail it on to her. Get me? Now, that way, you'll know just where I am. That's so. Well, you've got to swear right along over the wire you won't tell a soul. Not the governor, or the mater, or Gracie, or—or anybody. No, I don't need you to cuss like a railroader about it. Just swear properly. That's it. That's fine. On your soul and honor. Fine. I'm glad you added the 'honor' racket, it makes things plumb sure. Oh, yes, your soul's all right in its way. But—— Good-by, boy. I'll see you six months from to-day. No. Too busy. So long."
Gordon hung up the receiver and turned back to his desk with a sigh. He opened a drawer and took out his check-book, and gave himself up to a few minutes of figures. There was not a great deal of money to his credit at the bank, but it was sufficient for his purposes. He wrote and signed three checks. Then he tore the remaining blanks up and flung them into the waste-basket.
After that he turned his attention to a systematic examination of his papers. It was a long, and not uninteresting process, but one that took a vast amount of patience. He tore up letter after letter, photographs, bills, every sort of document which a bachelor seems always to accumulate when troubled by the disease of youth.
In the midst of his labors he came across his father's private code for cable and telegraph. It brought back to him the memory of his position as one of his father's secretaries. He smiled as he glanced through it. It must be sent back to the office. He would hand it to the clerk who brought him his money in the morning. So he placed it carefully in the inside pocket of his coat and continued his labors.
Half an hour later Harding appeared.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said. "I had some difficulty, but"—he held up an oily-looking cigar with a flaming label about its middle, between his finger and thumb—"I succeeded in obtaining one. I had to take three surface cars, and finally had to go to Fourth Avenue. It was a lower place than I expected, sir, seeing that it was a five-cent cigar."
"That means it cost me twenty cents, Harding—unless you were able to transfer."
Gordon eyed the man's expressionless face quizzically.
"I'm sorry, sir. But I forgot about the transfer tickets."
Gordon sighed with pretended regret.
"I'm sure guessing it's—bad finance. We ought to do better."
"I could have saved the fares if I'd taken your car, sir," said Harding, with a flicker of the eyelids.
"Splendid, gasoline at thirteen cents, and the price of tires going up."
Gordon drummed on the desk with his fingers and became thoughtful. He had a painful duty yet to perform.
"Harding," he said at last, with a genuine sigh, his eyes painfully serious. "We've got to go different ways. You've—got to quit."
The valet's face never moved a muscle.
"Yes, sir."
"Right away."
"Yes, sir."
Then the man cleared his throat, and laid the oily-looking cigar on the desk.
"I trust, sir, I've given satisfaction?"
"Satisfaction?" Gordon's tone expressed the most cordial appreciation. "Satisfaction don't express it. I couldn't have kept up the farce of existence without you. You are the best fellow in the world. Guess it's I who haven't given satisfaction."
"Yes,
