"That's just what he said. I said I'd rather have an explanation than a reference, under the circumstances."
"Um! What did he say to that?"
"Said I'd better take what he was willing to give."
Mr. Bramble drew up a chair and sat down. He was a small, sharp-featured man of sixty, bookish from head to foot.
"Well, well," he mused sympathetically. "Too bad, too bad, my boy. Still, you ought to thank goodness it comes at a time when the streets are in the shape they're in now. Almost impossible to get about with an automobile in all this snow, isn't it? Rather a good time to be discharged, I should say."
"Oh, I say, that is optimism. 'Pon my soul, I believe you'd find something cheerful about going to hell," broke in Trotter, grinning.
"Best way I know of to escape blizzards and snow-drifts," said Mr. Bramble, brightly.
The front door opened. A cold wind blew the length of the book-littered room.
"This Bramble's?" piped a thin voice.
"Yes. Come in and shut the door."
An even smaller and older man than himself obeyed the command. He wore the cap of a district messenger boy.
"Mr. J. Bramble here?" he quaked, advancing.
"Yes. What is it? A telegram?" demanded the owner of the shop, in some excitement.
"I should say not. Wires down everywheres. Gee, that fire looks good. I gotta letter for you, Mr. Bramble." He drew off his red mittens and produced
