t understand."

"The critics," replied Billy Magee, "could explain. My stuff is only for
low-brows. Lead on, Mr. Quimby."

Mr. Quimby stood for a moment in dazed silence. Then he turned, and the
yellow of his lantern fell on the dazzling snow ahead. Together the two
climbed Baldpate Mountain.

CHAPTER II

ENTER A LOVELORN HABERDASHER

Baldpate Inn did not stand tiptoe on the misty mountain-top. Instead it
clung with grim determination to the side of Baldpate, about half-way
up, much as a city man clings to the running board of an open
street-car. This was the comparison Mr. Magee made, and even as he made
it he knew that atmospheric conditions rendered it questionable. For an
open street-car suggests summer and the ball park; Baldpate Inn, as it
shouldered darkly into Mr. Magee's ken, suggested winter at its most
wintry.

About the great black shape that was the inn, like arms, stretched broad
verandas. Mr. Magee remarked upon them to his companion.

"Those porches and balconies and things," he said, "will come in handy
in cooling the fevered brow of genius."

"There ain't much fever in this locality," the practical Quimby assured
him, "especially not in winter."

Silenced, Mr. Magee followed the lantern of Quimby over the snow to the
broad steps, and up to the great front door. There Magee produced from
beneath his coat an impressive key. Mr. Quimby made as though to assist,
but was waved aside.

"This is a ceremony," Mr. Magee told him, "some day Sunday newspaper
stories will be written about it. Baldpate Inn opening its doors to the
great American novel!"

He placed the key in the lock, turned it, and the door swung open. The
coldest blast of air Mr. Magee had even encountered swept out from the
dark interior. He shuddered, and wrapped his coat closer. He seemed to
see the white trail from Dawson City, the sled dogs straggling on with
the dwindling provisions, the fat Eskimo guide begging for gum-drops by
his side.

"Whew," he cried, "we've discovered another Pole!"

"It's stale air," remarked Quimby.

"You mean the Polar atmosphere," replied Magee. "Yes, it is pretty
stale. Jack London and Doctor Cook have worked it to death."

"I mean," said Quimby, "this air has been in here alone too long. It's
as stale as last week's newspaper. We couldn't heat it with a million
fires. We'll have to let in some warm air from outside first."

"Warm air--humph," remarked Mr. Magee. "Well, live and lear