Old Bryson rubbed his glasses and smiled. And when Old Bryson smiled, Gillian knew that he intended to be more offensive than ever.

"A thousand dollars," he said, "means much or little. One man may buy a happy home with it and laugh at Rockefeller.

Another could send his wife South with it and save her life.

A thousand dollars would buy pure milk for one hundred babies during June, July, and August and save fifty of their lives.

You could count upon a half hour's diversion with it at faro in one of the fortified art galleries.

It would furnish an education to an ambitious boy. I am told that a genuine Corot was secured for that amount in an auction room yesterday.

You could move to a New Hampshire town and live respectably two years on it.

You could rent Madison Square Garden for one evening with it, and lecture your audience, if you should have one, on the precariousness of the profession of heir presumptive." "People might like you, Old Bryson," said Gillian, always unruffled, "if you wouldn't moralize. I asked you to tell me what I could do with a thousand dollars." "You?" said Bryson, with a gentle laugh. "Why, Bobby Gillian, there's only one logical thing you could do.

You can go buy Miss Lotta Lauriere a diamond pendant with the money, and then take yourself off to Idaho and inflict your presence upon a ranch.

I advise a sheep ranch, as I have a particular dislike for sheep." "Thanks," said Gillian, rising, "I thought I could depend upon you, Old Bryson. You've hit on the very scheme.