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Every week-end they all came out to the Girard place at Tuxedo Park, where they fraternized a little self-consciously with the young and lovely Lola, and on Sunday mornings tactlessly defeated her father at golf. On the last tense week-end before the decision was to be made Cyrus Girard asked them to meet him in his study after dinner. On their respective merits as future partners in Cyrus Girard, Inc., he had been unable to decide, but his despair had evoked another plan, on which he intended to base his decision.

“Gentlemen,” he said, when they had convoked in his study at the appointed hour, “I have brought you here to tell you that you’re all fired.”

Immediately the three young men were on their feet, with shocked, reproachful expressions in their eyes.

“Temporarily,” he added, smiling good-humoredly. “So spare a decrepit old man your violence and sit down.”

They sat down, with short relieved smiles.

“I like you all,” he went on, “and I don’t know which one I like better than the others. In fact—this thing hasn’t come out right at all. So I’m going to extend the competition for two more weeks—but in an entirely different way.”

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