“Well, I didn’t, that’s all,” says Mortimer; “so what’s the use?”

“I shall worry about you all the time,” insists Mother.  “And you are so careless about writing!  How am I to know that you are not ill, or in trouble?  Now promise me, if you should break down under the strain, that you will cable me at once.”

“Oh, sure!” says Mortimer.  “But time’s up, Mother.  I must be getting back.  Good-by.”

I had to turn my shoulder on the final break-away, and I thought the whole push had cleared out, when I hears a rustle at the gate, and here’s Mother once more, with her eyes fixed investigatin’ on me.

“Boy,” says she, “are you employed here regularly?”

“I’m one of the fixtures, Ma’am,” says I.

“Very well,” says she.  “I am glad to hear it.  And you have rather an intelligent appearance.”

“Mostly bluff, though,” says I.  “You mustn’t bank too much on looks.”

“Ah, but I can tell!” says she, noddin’ her head and squintin’ shrewd.  “You have a kind face too.”

“Ye-e-es?” says I.  “But what’s this cue for?”

“I will tell you, Boy,” says she, comin’ up confidential.  “You see, I must trust someone in this matter.  And you will be right here, where you can see him every day, won’t you—­my son Mortimer, I mean?”

“I expect I’ll have to,” says I, “if he sticks.”

“Then you must do this for me,” she goes on.  “Keep close to him.  Make yourself his friend.”

“Me?” says I.  “Well, there might be some trouble about that.”

“I understand,” says she.  “It will be difficult, under the circumstances.  And Mortimer has such a proud, reserved nature!  He has always been that way.  But now that he is thrown upon his own resources, and if you could once gain his confidence, he might allow you to—­well, you’ll try, won’t you?  And then I shall depend upon you to send word to me once every week as to how he looks, if he seems happy, how he is getting on in business, and so on.  Come, do you promise?”

“Is this a case of philanthropy, or what?” says I.

“Oh, I shall see that you are well repaid,” says she.

“That listens well,” says I; “but it’s kind of vague.  Any figures, now?”

“Why—­er—­yes,” says she, hesitatin’.  “Suppose I should send you, say, five dollars for every satisfactory report?”

“Then I’m on the job,” says I.

And in two minutes more she’s left me the address of her London bankers, patted me condescendin’ on the shoulder, and has flitted.  So here I am with a brand new side line,—­an assignment to be friendly at so much per.  Can you beat that?

It wa’n’t until afterwards, either, when I’m busy throwin’ on the screen pictures of how that extra five’ll fat up the Saturday pay envelope, that I remembers the exact wordin’ of the contract.  Five for every satisfactory report.  Gee! that’s different!  Then here’s where I got to see that Mortimer behaves, or else I lose out.  And I don’t waste any time plannin’ the campaign.  I tackles him as he strolls out thirty seconds ahead of the twelve o’clock whistle.