laugh. "You
don't want to hear me talk, mister. I'll get there, now I'm fed up."

"Do you want me to find work for you around here? I can."

"My jobs are a different kind, mister. I couldn't stay in yours."

Corrie brought his hand from his pocket.

"All right, as you like. Take this for good luck and we'll call
ourselves even. Square, is it?"

The man took the bill awkwardly, his embarrassment deepened.

"You're square, sure," he signified.

As his slouching, bulky figure went out the door opposite, it crossed
the small erect form of Jack Rupert, who entered.

"Us for home," Corrie greeted the arrival. "It is too bad to have
brought you over for nothing, Rupert, but--what's the matter?"

The mechanician's countenance was a study in disgust, as he contemplated
one of his polished tan boots, a high-heeled, ornate affair of the
latest design labelled "smart." Off the race course and outside of
hours, Rupert had one passion: clothes.

"I ain't registering any complaints if the rest are satisfied," he
acidly returned. "But stepping in a puddle of wringing rags that the
town board of health ought to condemn for making a noisy demonstration
ain't what I look forward to all day as a treat. As for going home, I'm
ready, myself. The trip we're missing will keep awhile this weather. The
water is mussed bad and the only time I ever was car-sick was on the
boat to Savannah."

"Did he spoil his pretty shoes?" Corrie teased, speculatively eyeing the
heap of wet, unsavory clothing. "Never mind, Briggs shall make them good
as new with his Transcendant Tan for Tasteful Tootsies; you haven't seen
that darky of mine shine boots. I don't know what to do with those
clothes, Gerard, so I think I won't do anything. Let's go home before we
starve. Rupert, don't you approve of charity?"

"I ain't fitted to say; nobody ever showed me any. I always got exactly
what I worked for, measure evened off and loose-packed. If I sneaked
into somebody's boat-garage without an invitation, I wouldn't get a bath
and breakfast and a greenback; I'd get ten dollars or ten days from the
first judge in the stand. And so would you."

Corrie paused, struck.

"I? Why?"

"You. Why? What's the answer? I don't know, but I know the type. You
keep your score-card and watch it happen; you'll find you get just what
you enter for. Nothing more _and_ nothing less."

"'Nothing more _and_ nothing less,'" Corrie repeated, unconsciously
exact. "Well," his danc