It was a rather long story, and telling it took longer than the minute Mr. Barbour had requested.  To Galusha it was all a tangled and most uninteresting snarl of figures and stock quotations and references to “preferred” and “common” and “new issues” and “rights.”  He gathered that, somehow or other, he was to have more money, money which was coming to him because the “Tinplate crowd,” whoever they were, were to do something or other that people like Barbour called “cutting a melon.”

“You understand, Professor?” asked Mr. Barbour, concluding his explanation.

Galusha was at that moment endeavoring to fabricate a story of his own, one which he might tell Miss Phipps.  It must not be too discouraging, it must—­

“Eh?” he ejaculated, coming out of his daydream.  “Oh, yes—­yes, of course.”

“As near as I can figure, your share will be well over twelve thousand.  A pretty nice little windfall, I should say.  Now what shall I do with it?”

“Yes. . . .  Oh, I beg your pardon.  Dear me, I am afraid I was not attending as I should.”

“I say what shall I do with the check when it comes.  That was what I intended writing you to ask.  Do you wish me to reinvest the money, or shall I send the check to you?”

“Yes—­ah—­yes.  If you will be so kind.  You will excuse me, won’t you, but really I must hurry on.  Thank you very much, Mr. Barbour.”

“But I don’t quite understand which you wish me to do, Professor.  Of course, Thomas usually attends to all this—­your affairs, I mean—­but I am trying not to trouble him unless it is absolutely necessary.  Shall I send the check direct to you, is that it?”

“Yes—­yes, that will do very nicely.  Thank you, Mr. Barbour.  Good-morning.”

He hurried out before Barbour could say any more.  He cared nothing about Tinplate melons or checks; in fact, he forgot them both almost before he reached the street.  But Martha Phipps—­he had assured and reassured Martha Phipps that Cousin Gussie would help her out of her financial difficulties.  And Cousin Gussie had not as yet learned of those difficulties, nor, in all probability, would he be permitted ever to learn of them.

Galusha Bangs’ trip back to East Wellmouth was by no means a pleasure excursion.  What should he say to Martha?  How could he be truthful and yet continue to be encouraging?  If he had not been so unreasonably optimistic it would be easier, but he had never once admitted the possibility of failure.  And—­no, he would not admit it now.  Somehow and in some way Martha’s cares must be smoothed away.  That he determined.  But what should he say to her now?

He was still asking himself that question when he turned in at the Phipps’ gate.  And Fate so arranged matters that it was Primmie who heard the gate latch click and Primmie who came flying down the path to meet him.

“Mr. Bangs!  Oh, Mr. Bangs!” she cried, breathlessly.  “It’s all right, ain’t it?  It’s all right?”