“That was just a high-powered fib.  Just a bit of diplomatic romance—­for Olivetta’s consumption.”

“Then where have you been?” demanded Mrs. De Peyster.

“Prospecting.  Prospecting to find out just how much that hundred thousand or two or three you’ve sunk in me is worth.  And I’ve found out.  It’s present value is not quite nine a week.”

“You mean?”

“I mean,” he said pleasantly, “I’ve been at work.”

“At work!”

Mrs. De Peyster slowly rose and looked down at him with staring, loose-fallen face.

“At work!” she gasped again.  “At work!”

“Yes, mother.  At work.”

“But—­but that skidding automobile?  Those hands?”

“Blisters, mother dear.  Most horrible blisters.”

“You’ve worked—­you’ve worked—­at what?”

“Well, you see, mother, if I could have knocked out a home run, say a job as a railroad president, when I stepped up to the plate in the first inning, I suppose I wouldn’t have backed away from the chance.  But I wanted to find my real value, so I wore cheap clothes and kept clear of my friends.  ‘What could I do?’ every one asked me.  You know my answer.  And their answer!  I thought only sub-way guards could say, ‘Step lively,’ like that.  Lordy, how I tramped!  But finally I met a kind gentleman who gave me a chance.”

“A gentleman?”

“About the size of your piano—­only he had a red mustache and a red shirt and I should say his complexion needed re-decorating.  Irish—­foreman on a water-main trench.”

“And you—­you took it?”

“Took it?  I grabbed it!”

“J—­a—­c—­k D—­e P—­e—­y—­s—­t—­e—­r!” his appalled mother slowly exclaimed—­so slowly that each letter seemed to shiver out by itself in horrified disjunction.  “Well, at any rate,” she declared with returning vigor, “I’m glad you have had enough of it to bring you to your senses and bring you home!”

“Oh, I’ve had enough all right.  My cubic contents of ache is—­well, you wouldn’t believe a man of my size could hold so much discomfort.  But that isn’t the only thing that brought me home.  It was—­er—­I might say, mother, that it was suggested to me.”

“Suggested?  I do not understand.”

“If you will permit the use of so inelegant an expression, I was ‘fired.’”

“Fired?”

“Yes.  The foreman intimated—­I won’t repeat his language, mother, but the muscles stood out on his profanity in regular knots—­he intimated, in a way that left no doubt as to his meaning, that I was not quite up to the nine per week standard.  I’ll be honest with you and admit that I didn’t lean against the pay-shed and weep.  I still wanted to work, but I decided that I didn’t want to start life at its pick-and-shovel end—­if I could help it.  So here I am, mother, asking you to give me a little real education—­say as a mining engineer, or something like that.”

Mrs. De Peyster was trembling with indignation.