p! No, thank you! I _see_ myself doin' it or any other of the
pussy-catisms you've been tryin' to unload on me. And you drop your 'g's'
just as bad as I do. No, you'll have to switch off, doc; and after
to-night you can go your way and I'll go mine, for there's nothin' doin'
here for you except this little roll of bills. Good night, bud. That's all
the trumps in the game!"

But the bills--which were the trumps for Jerrold--amounted to fifty
dollars more than he had been promised for the whole course of lessons. So
he had not done badly after all. And leaving Lucky Star City, which had no
oil nor milk of human kindness for him, he drifted on somewhere else, as
he will continue to drift until he stumbles into an ignominious grave.

But Nick was angry and thwarted--angry with himself because he had been a
fool, and thwarted because he remained as before, handicapped by his own
ignorance. In spite of Jerrold's boasts, Nick's instinct had told him
after the first words exchanged that the man was not only a cad, but a
rank pretender. Still, in his desire for social knowledge, he had refused
at first to listen to the voice of instinct and had been punished for
obtuseness. The very thought of the little drawling outsider who had
delighted in his sobriquet of "the Dook" made Hilliard feel sick, and he
opened wide all the windows and doors when the contemptible creature went
out of the house. "Wanted to turn me into a dry-goods clerk, did he?" Nick
grumbled. And the episode was closed.

One afternoon, not many days after the expulsion of Montagu Jerrold, Nick
kept a long-made promise, by going to call on the wife of the Presbyterian
minister, the only professional purveyor of religion who had yet settled
in Lucky Star City. Mrs. Kenealy was out, but was coming back soon, and
Nick was urged by her small daughter to wait. This he consented to do, and
found the school-teacher also waiting in the pleasant little
"living-room."

The young man and woman were introduced by the child, who, then relieved
of responsibility, left them to each other's mercy, and flew to a friend
with whom she had been playing dolls on the back porch.

"I don't suppose you remember me," said Miss Sara Wilkins rather
wistfully. "But I remember you very well."

"So do I you," Nick was glad to reply with truth; and his heart warmed to
the wisp of a woman to whom Miss Dene had been catty and Mrs. May kind.
"It was at Santa Barbara."

"Why, you _do_ remembe