The Tenderfoots

WHEN Bromley came in at half-past eleven, glowing from his brisk walk in the cool night air from the Demming house in upper Fourteenth Street, he found that Philip had not yet gone to bed; was sitting with his hands locked over a knee and an extinct pipe between his teeth, his face the face of a man frowningly at odds with himself and his world.

"Heavens, Phil! " was the play-boy's greeting, "You look as if you had lost every friend you ever had and never expected to find another. What's gnawing you now?"