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of letters from the desk, skimming through them hopefully. He had reason to expect a check from home; that is to say, he had written beseeching one in a manner so fervent that he assured himself it could not fail of results. He read aloud, "Mr. Jock Hamill, Mr. Jock Hamill, Mr. Laurence Allen—from Sis, that won't help the poor and needy—Mr. Jock Hamill——"

He held this last missive off and surveyed it with truculence. It was unstamped, and bore no address. Just his roommate's name. The envelope was rimmed in black, and its flap had a black monogram—E B H in letters that caught hold of one another's toes like acrobats hanging from a trapeze.

"That dumb dame!" Bones grunted. "Why the devil won't she let him alone?" He brought the envelope to his nose and inhaled disgustedly. "All stink-o with perfume——"

He gave his own letter the cursory perusal young men invariably accord the communications of young ladies to whom they are related. Even Peg's declaration that she was contemplating matrimony failed to win from him more than a tolerant smile. Peg was always contemplating matrimony—merely contemplating. She had been engaged so many times during the course of her kaleidoscopic career that any such announcement had become as the celebrated cry of "Wolf! Wolf!"—and was so accepted by her family. "Of course," she wrote now, "you're saying, 'What, again?' and thinking this is just another laugh. But I'm serious. I really think it's going to take, this time. You don't know the victim, but he's Johnny Havens of New York and I learned about fiancés from him" . . .

Bones tossed the scribbled sheets onto his chiffonier and began to disrobe. He wondered where Jock was.