than the darkness warranted.

"Where would he hail from, would you think?" queried the elder. "Iowa,
maybe? Or Arkansas?"

"Search me," answered young Wickert. "But it was a small-town carpenter
built those honest-to-Gawd clothes. I'd say the corn-belt."

"Dressed up for the monthly meeting of the Farmers' Alliance, all but
the oil on his hair. He forgot that," chuckled the accountant.

"He's got a fine chance in Nuh Yawk--of buying a gold brick cheap,"
prophesied the worldly Wickert out of the depths of his metropolitan
experience. "Somebody ought to put him onto himself."

A voice from the darkened window above said, with composure, "That will
be all right. I'll apply to you for advice."

"Oh, Gee!" whispered young Wickert, in appeal to his companion. "How
long's he been there?"

Acute hearing, it appeared, was an attribute of the man above, for he
answered at once:

"Just put my head out for a breath of air when I heard your kind
expressions of solicitude. Why? Did I miss something that came earlier?"

Mr. Hainer melted unostentatiously into the darkness. While young
Wickert was debating whether his pride would allow him to follow this
prudent example, the subject of their over-frank discussion appeared at
his elbow. Evidently he was as light of foot as he was quick of ear.
Meditating briefly upon these physical qualities, young Wickert said, in
a deprecatory tone:

"We didn't mean to get fresh with you. It was just talk."

"Very interesting talk."

Wickert produced a suspiciously jeweled case. "Have a cigarette?"

"I have some of my own, thank you."

"Give you a light?"

The metropolitan worldling struck a match and held it up. This was on
the order of strategy. He wished to see Banneker's face. To his relief
it did not look angry or even stern. Rather, it appeared thoughtful.
Banneker was considering impartially the matter of his apparel.

"What is the matter with my clothes?" he asked.

"Why--well," began Wickert, unhappy and fumbling with his ideas; "Oh,
_they_'re all right."

"For a meeting of the Farmers' Alliance." Banneker was smiling
good-naturedly. "But for the East?"

"Well, if you really want to know," began Wickert doubtfully. "If you
won't get sore--" Banneker nodded his assurance. "Well, they're jay. No
style. No snap. Respectable, and that lets 'em out."

"They don't look as if they were made in New York or for New York?"

Young Mr. Wickert apportioned his voice equitably be