Fresh Air Fund.

"I never yet found anything I couldn't end, when I tried," Thayer
returned coolly.

Bobby eyed him askance.

"Ever tackled Mrs. Lloyd Avalons's idiocy?" he queried.

"She is not the only one."

"No; worse luck! But what makes you do it?"

"I approve the charity, and I happened to have a free night. Moreover,
it will give Arlt a chance to accompany."

"But she won't pay him."

"No, but I generally manage to pay my own accompanist."

"Do you think he will gain from such a thing?"

Crossing his knees comfortably, Thayer lighted the pipe he had been
filling, and took a tentative puff or two.

"I don't know," he said dubiously. "He ought to, but I can't seem to
discover the way to get on in this precious country of ours. Arlt is a
musician to the tips of his fingers; I have yet to hear a pianist in the
city to compare with him. And still, nobody manifests the least interest
in him."

Bobby contemplated the tip of his own cigar, bending his brows and
frowning as much from his optical angle as from his mental one.

"He lacks the two P's," he said slowly; "pull and personality."

Impatiently Thayer uncrossed his knees and crossed them in the reverse
position.

"Do you mean that nothing else counts here?" he demanded.

"Precious little. A fellow has got to have good lungs for blowing his
own horn, else he is drowned in the general chorus. That's the worst of
music as a profession; personality is everything. You must be perfect or
peculiar. The latter alternative is the greater help. If Arlt would grow
a head of hair, or wear a dinner napkin instead of a necktie, it would
improve his chances wonderfully."

"But, if the right people would take him up?" Thayer suggested.

"They won't; or, if they do, they'll drop him as a monkey drops a hot
chestnut. Arlt plays like an artist; but he blushes, and he forgets to
keep his cuffs in sight. He is as unworldly as he is conventional.
Society doesn't care to fuss with him."

Thayer looked grave.

"I am having my own share of good times, Dane. It seems as if I ought to
be able--"

Bobby interrupted him.

"You can't. No man can hoist his brother into success. It is bound to be
every man for himself. You can work over Arlt till the crack of doom,
and that's all the good it will do him. People will say 'How noble of
Mr. Thayer!' and they will burn moral tapers about your feet; and
meanwhile they'll leave Arlt sitting on the floor alone in the dark.