eople
can't, you know." And there was another silence, broken by Mortimer,
whose entire hulk was tingling with a mixture of surprise and amusement
over his protege's developing ability to take care of himself. "Did you
say that Stephen Siward is in Westbury, Billy?"

"No; he's in town," replied Fleetwood. "I took his horses up to hunt
with. He isn't hunting, you know."

"I didn't know. Nobody ever sees him anywhere," said Mortimer. "I guess
his mother's death cut him up."

Fleetwood lifted his empty glass and gently shook the ice in it. "That,
and--the other business--is enough to cut any man up, isn't it?"

"You mean the action of the Lenox Club?" asked Plank seriously.

"Yes. He's resigned from this club, too, I hear. Somebody told me that
he has made a clean sweep of all his clubs. That's foolish. A man may be
an ass to join too many clubs but he's always a fool to resign from any
of 'em. You ask the weatherwise what resigning from a club forecasts.
It's the first ominous sign in a young man's career."

"What's the second sign?" asked O'Hara, with a yawn.

"Squadron talk; and you're full of it," retorted Fleetwood--"'I said to
the major,' and 'The captain told the chief trumpeter'--all that sort
of thing--and those Porto Rico spurs of yours, and the ewe-necked
glyptosaurus you block the bridle-path with every morning. You're an
awful nuisance, Tom, if anybody should ask me."

Under cover of a rapid-fire exchange of pleasantries between Fleetwood
and O'Hara, Plank turned to Mortimer, hesitating:

"I rather liked Siward when I met him at Shotover," he ventured. "I'm
very sorry he's down and out."

"He drinks," shrugged Mortimer, diluting his mineral water with Irish
whisky. "He can't let it alone; he's like all the Siwards. I could have
told you that the first time I ever saw him. We all told him to cut it
out, because he was sure to do some damfool thing if he didn't. He's
done it, and his clubs have cut him out. It's his own funeral. ... Well,
here's to you!"

"Cut who out?" asked Fleetwood, ignoring O'Hara's parting shot
concerning the decadence of the Fleetwood stables and their owner.

"Stephen Siward. I always said that he was sure, sooner or later, to
land in the family ditch. He has a right to, of course; the gutter is
public property."

"It's a damned sad thing," said Fleetwood slowly.

After a pause Plank said: "I think so, too. ... I don't know him very
well."

"You may know him better now