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Honest, Ned, that miserable money has made more—But, never mind. It's too long a story to write. I'll tell you when I see you—if I ever do see you. There's still the possibility, you know, that Mr. Stanley G. Fulton is lost in darkest South America, and of course John Smith CAN go to work!

I believe I won't sign any name—I haven't got any name—that I feel really belongs to me now. Still I might—yes, I will sign it

"FRANKENSTEIN."

The first time Mr. Smith saw Frank Blaisdell, after Miss Maggie's news of the forty-thousand-dollar loss, he tried, somewhat awkwardly, to express his interest and sympathy. But Frank Blaisdell cut him short.

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"That's all right, and I thank you," he cried heartily. "And I know most folks would think losing forty thousand dollars was about as bad as it could be. Jane, now, is all worked up over it; can't sleep nights, and has gone back to turning down the gas and eating sour cream so's to save and help make it up. But me—I call it the best thing that ever happened."

"Well, really," laughed Mr. Smith; "I'm sure that's a very delightful way to look at it—if you can."

"Well, I can; and I'll tell you why. It's put me back where I belong—behind the counter of a grocery store. I've bought out the old stand. Oh, I had enough left for that, and more! Closed the deal last night. Gorry, but I was glad to feel the old floor under my feet again!"

"But I thought you—you were tired of work, and—wanted to enjoy yourself," stammered Mr. Smith.

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Frank Blaisdell laughed.

"Tired of work—wanted to enjoy myself, indeed! Yes, I know I did say something like that. But, let me tell you this, Mr. Smith. Talk about work!—I never worked so hard in my life as I have the last ten months trying to enjoy myself. How these folks can stand gadding 'round the country week in and week out, feeding their stomachs on a French dictionary instead of good United States meat and potatoes and squash, and spending their days traipsing off to see things they ain't a mite interested in, and their nights trying to get rested so they can go and see some more the next day, I don't understand."

Mr. Smith chuckled.

"I'm afraid these touring agencies wouldn't like to have you write their ads for them, Mr. Blaisdell!"

"Well, they hadn't better ask me to," smiled the other grimly. "But that ain't all. Since I come back I've been working even harder trying to enjoy myself here at home—knockin' silly little balls over a ten-acre lot in a game a healthy ten-year-old boy would scorn to play."

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"But how about your new car? Didn't you enjoy riding in that?" bantered

"Oh, yes, I enjoyed the riding well enough; but I didn't enjoy hunting for punctures, putting on new tires, or burrowing into the inside of the critter to find out why she didn't go! And that's what I was doing most of the time. I never did like machinery. It ain't in my line."

He paused a moment, then went on a little wistfully:—