“I bet she turned you down hard, old boy,” murmured Mr. Sedgwick sympathetically.  “My own life has been very sad.  It has been blighted forever, several times.  Is she pretty?  I haven’t seen her, myself, and the reports of the men-folks and the young ladies don’t tally.  Funny thing, but scientific observation shows that when a girl says another girl is fine-looking—­Hully Gee!  And vice versa.  Eh?  What say?”

“Didn’t say anything.  You probably overheard me thinking.  If so, I beg your pardon.”

“I saw a fine old Western gentleman drive by here with old man Selden yesterday—­looked like a Westerner, anyhow; big sombrero, leather face, and all that.  I hope,” said Ferdie anxiously, “that it was not this venerable gentleman who put you on the blink.  He was a fine old relic; but he looked rather patriarchal for the role of Lochinvar.  Unless, of course, he has the money.”

“Yes, he’s a Western man, all right.  I met them on the Vesper Bridge,” replied Boland absently, ignoring the banter.  He got to his feet and spoke with dreamy animation.  “Ferdie, that chap made me feel homesick with just one look at him.  Best time I ever had was with that sort.  Younger men I was running with, of course.  Fine chaps; splendidly educated and perfect gentlemen when sober—­I quote from an uncredited quotation from a copy of an imitation of a celebrated plagiarist.  Would go back there and stay and stay, only for the lady mother.  She’s used to the city....  By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept.”

“Hi!” said Ferdie.  “Party yellin’ at you from the road.  Come out of your trance.”

Francis Charles looked up.  A farmer had stopped his team by the front gate.

“Mr. Boland!” he trumpeted through his hands.

Boland answered the hail and started for the gate, Ferdie following; the agriculturist flourished a letter, dropped it in the R.F.D. box, and drove on.

“Oh, la, la!  The thick plottens!” observed Ferdie.

Francis Charles tore open the letter, read it hastily, and turned with sparkling eyes to his friend.  His friend, for his part, sighed profoundly.

“Oh Francis, Francis!” he chided.

“Here, you howling idiot; read it!” said Francis.

The idiot took the letter and read: 

DEAR MR. BOLAND:  I need your help.  Mr. Johnson, a friend of Stanley’s—­his best friend—­is up here from Arizona upon business of the utmost importance, both to himself and Stanley.

I have only this moment had word that Mr. Johnson is in the most serious trouble.  To be plain, he is in Vesper Jail.  There has been foul play, part and parcel of a conspiracy directed against Stanley.  Please come at once.  I claim your promise.

Mary Selden

Ferdie handed it back.

“My friend’s friend is my friend?  And so on, ad infinitum, like fleas with little fleas to bite ’em—­that sort of thing—­what?  Does that let me in?  I seem to qualify in a small-flealike way.”