“‘Brother bushrangers,’ says Bill Bassett, ’never yet, in trouble, did I desert a pal.  Hard by, in yon wood, I seem to see unfurnished lodgings.  Let us go there and wait till dark.’

“There was an old, deserted cabin in the grove, and we three took possession of it.  After dark Bill Bassett tells us to wait, and goes out for half an hour.  He comes back with a armful of bread and spareribs and pies.

“’Panhandled ’em at a farmhouse on Washita Avenue,’ says he.  ’Eat, drink and be leary.’

“The full moon was coming up bright, so we sat on the floor of the cabin and ate in the light of it.  And this Bill Bassett begins to brag.

“‘Sometimes,’ says he, with his mouth full of country produce, ’I lose all patience with you people that think you are higher up in the profession than I am.  Now, what could either of you have done in the present emergency to set us on our feet again?  Could you do it, Ricksy?’

“‘I must confess, Mr. Bassett,’ says Ricks, speaking nearly inaudible out of a slice of pie, ’that at this immediate juncture I could not, perhaps, promote an enterprise to relieve the situation.  Large operations, such as I direct, naturally require careful preparation in advance.  I—­’

“‘I know, Ricksy,’ breaks in Bill Bassett.  ’You needn’t finish.  You need $500 to make the first payment on a blond typewriter, and four roomsful of quartered oak furniture.  And you need $500 more for advertising contracts.  And you need two weeks’ time for the fish to begin to bite.  Your line of relief would be about as useful in an emergency as advocating municipal ownership to cure a man suffocated by eighty-cent gas.  And your graft ain’t much swifter, Brother Peters,’ he winds up.

“‘Oh,’ says I, ’I haven’t seen you turn anything into gold with your wand yet, Mr. Good Fairy.  ’Most anybody could rub the magic ring for a little left-over victuals.’

“‘That was only getting the pumpkin ready,’ says Bassett, braggy and cheerful.  ’The coach and six’ll drive up to the door before you know it, Miss Cinderella.  Maybe you’ve got some scheme under your sleeve-holders that will give us a start.’

“‘Son,’ says I, ’I’m fifteen years older than you are, and young enough yet to take out an endowment policy.  I’ve been broke before.  We can see the lights of that town not half a mile away.  I learned under Montague Silver, the greatest street man that ever spoke from a wagon.  There are hundreds of men walking those streets this moment with grease spots on their clothes.  Give me a gasoline lamp, a dry-goods box, and a two-dollar bar of white castile soap, cut into little—­’

“‘Where’s your two dollars?’ snickered Bill Bassett into my discourse.  There was no use arguing with that burglar.

“‘No,’ he goes on; ’you’re both babes-in-the-wood.  Finance has closed the mahogany desk, and trade has put the shutters up.  Both of you look to labor to start the wheels going.  All right.  You admit it.  To-night I’ll show you what Bill Bassett can do.’