“I must concede,” says he, “that Mr. Adams has not a winning personality.  Yet there are redeeming features.  He plays an excellent game of billiards, his taste in the matter of vintage wines is unerring, and in at least two rather vital scrimmages which I had with the regatta committee he was on my side.  And, while I feel that I have more than repaid any balance due—­ Well, I can’t utterly ignore him now.  But as for hunting him up this afternoon—­” Mr. Robert nods at the stacks of letters.

“Oh, all right,” says I.  “What’s his number?”

Mr. Robert writes it on a card.

“You may as well understand my position,” says he.  “I have already invested some twenty-five hundred dollars in Mr. Adams’ uncertain prospects.  I must stop somewhere.  Of course, if he’s ill or in desperate straits—­ Well, here is another hundred which you may offer or not, as you find best.  I am relying, you see, on your somewhat remarkable facility for rescuing truth from the bottom of the well or any other foolish hiding-place.”

“Meanin’, I expect,” says I, “that you’re after a sort of general report, eh?”

“Quite so,” says Mr. Robert.  “You see, it’s a business errand, in a way.  You go as a probing committee of one, with full powers.”

“It’s a tough assignment,” says I, “but I’ll do my best.”

For I’d seen enough of Ham Adams to know he wa’n’t the kind to open up easy.  One of these bull-necked husks, Mr. Adams is, with all the pleasin’ manners of a jail warden.  Honest, in all the times he’s been into the Corrugated general offices, I’ve never seen him give anyone but Mr. Robert so much as a nod.  Always marched in like he was goin’ to trample you under foot if you didn’t get out of his way, and he had a habit of scowlin’ over your head like he didn’t see you at all.

I expect that was his idea of keeping the lower classes in their place.  He was an income aristocrat, Ham was.  Always had been.  Phosphate mines down South somewheres, left to him by an aunt who had brought him up.  And with easy money comin’ in fresh and fresh every quarter, without havin’ to turn a hand to get it, you’d ’most think he could take life cheerful.  He don’t, though.  Hardly anything suits him.  He develops into the club grouch, starin’ slit-eyed at new members, and cultivatin’ the stony glare for the world in general.

And then, all of a sudden, his income dries up.  Stops absolutely.  Something about not bein’ able to ship any more phosphate to Germany.  Anyway, the quarterly stuff is all off.  I’d heard him takin’ on about it to Mr. Robert—­cussin’ out the State Department, the Kaiser, the Allies, anybody he could think of to lay the blame to.  Why didn’t someone do something?  It was a blessed outrage.  What was one to do?

Ham’s next idea seems to be who was one to do; and Mr. Robert, being handy, was tagged.  First off it was a loan; a good-sized one; then a note or so, and finally he gets down to a plain touch now and then, when Mr. Robert couldn’t dodge.