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They both chuckled at the idea.

“By the way,” said Chub presently, “did we get any mail this evening?”

“I don’t think so,” said Roy; “but I didn’t look. Expecting a check?”

“Go to thunder! We ought to hear from Dick to-day or to-morrow. And Mr. Cole, too, about the boat.”

“That’s so. Maybe we’ll hear in the morning.”

“Light the gas and have a look around,” begged Chub. “Sometimes Mrs. Moore picks the letters up and puts them on the table, and we don’t find them for weeks and weeks.”

“If you’d keep the table picked up,” said Roy, severely, as he arose with a grunt and fumbled for matches, “such things wouldn’t occur.”

“Listen to him!” murmured Chub, apparently addressing the ceiling. “I’d like to know which of us is the neat little housekeeper! I’d like to know—”

The study was suddenly illuminated with a ghastly glow as Roy applied the match to the drop-light. Chub groaned and turned his face away.

“I give you notice, Roy, that next year we’re going to have a different shade on that thing. Green may be all very nice for the optic nerves, but it’s extremely offensive to my—my sensibilities. Besides, it doesn’t suit my complexion. I’ve mentioned that before. Now a red shade—”