thee he's fondly dreamin'.' Somethin's busted the spell
an' I'll bet a cooky it was ready cash." He menaced Mr. McGuffey
with a rigid index finger. "Bart," he demanded, "did you loan
Scraggsy some money?"

The honest McGuffey hung his head. "A little bit," he replied
childishly.

"What d'ye call a little bit?"

"Three hundred dollars, Gib."

"Secured?"

"He gimme his note at eight per cent. The savin's bank only pays
four."

"Is the note secured by endorsement or collateral?"

"No."

"Hum-m-m! Strange you didn't say nothin' to me about this till I
had to pry it out o' you, Bart. How about you?"

"Well, Scraggsy was feelin' so dog-goned blue----"

"The truth," Mr. Gibney insisted firmly, "the truth, Bart."

"Well, Scraggsy asked me not to say anythin' to you about it."

"Sure. He knew I'd kill the deal. He knew better'n to try to nick
me for three hundred bucks on his danged, worthless note. Bart,
why'd you do it?"

"Oh, hell, Gib, be a good feller," poor McGuffey pleaded. "Don't
be too hard on ol' Scraggsy."

"We're discussin' _you_, Bart. 'Pears to me you've sort o' lost
confidence in your old shipmate, ain't you? 'Pears that way to me
when you act sneaky like."

McGuffey bridled. "I ain't a sneak."

"A rose by any other name'd be just as sweet," Mr. Gibney quoted.
"You poor, misguided simp. If you ever see that three hundred
dollars again you'll be a lot older'n you are now. However, that
ain't none o' my business. The fact remains, Bart, that you
conspired with Scraggsy to keep things away from me, which shows
you ain't the man I thought you were, so from now on you go your
way an' I'll go mine."

"I got a right to do as I blasted please with my own money,"
McGuffey defended hotly. "I ain't no child to be lectured to."

"Considerin' the fact that you wouldn't have had the money to
lend if it hadn't been for me, I allow I'm insulted when you use
the said money to give aid an' comfort to my enemy. I'm through."

McGuffey, smothered in guilt, felt nevertheless that he had to
stand by his guns, so to speak. "Stay through, if you feel like
it," he retorted. "Where d'ye get that chatter? Ain't I free,
white, an' twenty-one year old?"

Mr. Gibney was really hurt. "You poor boob," he murmured. "It's
the old game o' settin' a beggar on horseback an' seein' him ride
to the devil, or slippin' a gold ring in a pig's nose. An' I
figured you was my friend!"

"Well, ain't I?"

"Fooey! Fooey! Don't