t of put his foot in his mouth by remarkin':

"So you are Private Ben Riggs, are you?"

"I was--once," says he. "Now I'm just Sand-Lot Riggs. Who are you?"

"Oh, pardon me," puts in Mr. Robert. "I thought you would know. This is
Mr. Hallam Bean, the celebrated founder of the Revertist school of art."

"Oh, yes!" said Riggs. "The one who painted the corset picture ad."

"Soap picture," I corrects hasty, "featurin' the Countess Zecchi."

"That's so, it was soap," admits Riggs. "And I was noticin' in the
mornin' paper how the Countess had decided to drop them suits."

"What?" says Hallam, starin' at him. "Where was that? On the front
page?"

"No," says Riggs. "It was a little item on the inside mixed up with the
obituary notes. That's always the way. They start you on the front page,
and then----" Private Ben shrugs his shoulders. But he proceeds to add
hasty, with a shrewd squint at Hallam: "Course, it's different with you.
Say, how about buyin' the estate here? I'd be willin' to let it go
cheap."

"No, thank you," says F. Hallam, crisp.

"Part of it then," insists Riggs. "I'd been meanin' to write you about
it. I generally do write 'em while--while they're on the front."

"No," says Hallam, and edges toward the door.

He seemed to get the idea. Before he starts back for town that night he
asks Mr. Robert if he could say a word for him at the advertisin'
agency, as he thought it might be just as well if he hung onto the job.
It wasn't such a poor thought, for Hallam fades out of public view a
good deal quicker than he came in.

"Maybe it wasn't Fame that rung him up, after all," I suggests to Mr.
Robert.

He nods. "It might have been her step-sister, Notoriety," says he.

"Just what's the difference?" says I.

Mr. Robert rubs his chin. "Some old boy whose name I've forgotten, put
it very well once," says he. "Let's see, he said that Fame was the
perfume distilled from the perfect flowering of a wise and good life;
while Notoriety was--er----"

"Check!" says I. "It's what you get when you fry onions, eh?"

Mr. Robert grins. "Some day, Torchy," says he, "I think I shall ask you
to translate Emerson's Essays for me."

It's all josh, all right. But that's what you get when you're a private
sec. de luxe.

CHAPTER III

THE GUMMIDGES GET A BREAK

This news about how the Gummidges had come back is 'phoned in by Vee
here the other afternoon. She's some excited over it, as she always is
when she