“She said that?” from Nick Baumgarten.

“Yes, she did, and she meant it.  Look at this.”

This was the letter.  It was quite short, and written in a clear, definite hand.

“Dear father:  This will be brought to you by Mr. G. Selden, of whom I have written to you.  Please be good to him.

“Affectionately,

“Betty.”

Each young man read it in turn.  None of them said anything just at first.  A kind of awe had descended upon them—­not in the least awe of Vanderpoel, who, with other multi-millionaires, were served up each week with cheerful neighbourly comment or equally neighbourly disrespect, in huge Sunday papers read throughout the land—­but awe of the unearthly luck which had fallen without warning to good old G. S., who lived like the rest of them in a hall bedroom on ten per, earned by tramping the streets for the Delkoff.

“That girl,” said G. Selden gravely, “that girl is a winner from Winnersville.  I take off my hat to her.  If it’s the scheme that some people’s got to have millions, and others have got to sell Delkoffs, that girl’s one of those that’s entitled to the millions.  It’s all right she should have ’em.  There’s no kick coming from me.”

Nick Baumgarten was the first to resume wholly normal condition of mind.

“Well, I guess after you’ve told us about her there’ll be no kick coming from any of us.  Of course there’s something about you that royal families cry for, and they won’t be happy till they get.  All of us boys knows that.  But what we want to find out is how you worked it so that they saw the kind of pearl-studded hairpin you were.”

“Worked it!” Selden answered.  “I didn’t work it.  I’ve got a good bit of nerve, but I never should have had enough to invent what happened—­just happened. I broke my leg falling off my bike, and fell right into a whole bunch of them—­earls and countesses and viscounts and Vanderpoels.  And it was Miss Vanderpoel who saw me first lying on the ground.  And I was in Stornham Court where Lady Anstruthers lives—­and she used to be Miss Rosalie Vanderpoel.”

“Boys,” said Bert Johnson, with friendly disgust, “he’s been up to his neck in ’em.”

“Cheer up.  The worst is yet to come,” chaffed Tom Wetherbee.

Never had such a dinner taken place at the corner table, or, in fact, at any other table at Shandy’s.  Sam brought beefsteaks, which were princely, mushrooms, and hashed brown potatoes in portions whose generosity reached the heart.  Sam was on good terms with Shandy’s carver, and had worked upon his nobler feelings.  Steins of lager beer were ventured upon.  There was hearty satisfying of fine hungers.  Two of the party had eaten nothing but one “Quick Lunch” throughout the day, one of them because he was short of time, the other for economy’s sake, because he was short of money.  The meal was a splendid thing.  The telling of the story could not be wholly checked by the eating of food.  It advanced between mouthfuls, questions being asked and details given in answers.  Shandy’s became more crowded, as the hour advanced.  People all over the room cast interested looks at the party at the corner table, enjoying itself so hugely.  Groups sitting at the tables nearest to it found themselves excited by the things they heard.