ont fender.

"I say," the man in the car addressed him bluntly, "weren't you in a red
roadster back at Third and Market about fifteen or twenty minutes ago?"

"I was," Thompson admitted.

Was he to be arrested forthwith on a charge of assault and battery?
Policemen were plentiful enough in that quarter. All one had to do was
crook his finger. People could not be expected to take kindly to having
their chauffeur mauled and disabled like that. But Thompson stood his
ground indifferently.

"Well, I must say," the young man drawled, producing a cigarette case as
he spoke, "you squashed Pebbles with neatness and despatch, and Pebbles
was supposed to be some scrapper, too. What do you weigh?"

Thompson laughed outright. He had expected a complaint, perhaps
prosecution. He was handed a compliment.

"I don't know," he smiled. "About a hundred and eighty-five, I think."

"You must be pretty fit to handle a man like that," the other observed.
"The beggar had it coming, all right. He gets an overnight jag, and is
surly all the next day. I was going to apologize to the lady, but you
were too quick for me. By the way, are you a working-man--or a
capitalist in disguise?"

Before Thompson quite decided how he should answer this astonishingly
personal inquiry, the young man's companion strode out of the lobby and
entered the car. At least he had his hand on the open door and one foot
on the running board. And there he halted and turned about at something
his son said--Thompson assumed they were father and son. The likeness of
feature was too well-defined to permit of any lesser relation.

The older man took his foot off the running board, and made a deliberate
survey of Thompson.

"Just a second, Fred," he muttered, and took a step toward Thompson. His
eyes traveled swiftly from Thompson's face down over the suitcase and
blanket roll, and came back to that deliberate matching of glances.

"Do you happen to be looking for a position that requires energy,
ability, and a fair command of the English language?" he demanded
abruptly.

"Yes," Thompson answered briefly.

He wondered what was coming. Were they going to offer him the
chauffeur's job? Did they require a bruiser to drive the gray car?

"Know anything about motors?"

"Not the first principles, even." Thompson declared himself frankly. He
did possess a little such knowledge, but held a little knowledge to be a
dangerous admission.

"So much the better," the stout