course," replied Magee less blithely. His ardor was somewhat
dampened--a paradox--by the failure of the spigot to gush forth a
response. "There's nothing I'd enjoy more than carrying eight pails of
water up-stairs every morning to get up an appetite for--what? Oh, well,
the Lord will provide. If we propose to heat up the great American
outdoors, Quimby, I think it's time we had a fire."

Mr. Quimby went out without comment, and left Magee to light his first
candle in the dark. For a time he occupied himself with lighting a few
of the forty, and distributing them about the room. Soon Quimby came
back with kindling and logs, and subsequently a noisy fire roared in the
grate. Again Quimby retired, and returned with a generous armful of
bedding, which he threw upon the brass bed in the inner room. Then he
slowly closed and locked the windows, after which he came and looked
down with good-natured contempt at Mr. Magee, who sat in a chair before
the fire.

"I wouldn't wander round none," he advised. "You might fall down
something--or something. I been living in these parts, off and on, for
sixty years and more, and nothing like this ever came under my
observation before. Howsomever, I guess it's all right if Mr. Bentley
says so. I'll come up in the morning and see you down to the train."

"What train?" inquired Mr. Magee.

"Your train back to New York City," replied Mr. Quimby. "Don't try to
start back in the night. There ain't no train till morning."

"Ah, Quimby," laughed Mr. Magee, "you taunt me. You think I won't stick
it out. But I'll show you. I tell you, I'm hungry for solitude."

"That's all right," Mr. Quimby responded, "you can't make three square
meals a day off solitude."

"I'm desperate," said Magee. "Henry Cabot Lodge must come to me, I say,
with tears in his eyes. Ever see the senator that way? No? It isn't
going to be an easy job. I must put it over. I must go deep into the
hearts of men, up here, and write what I find. No more shots in the
night. Just the adventure of soul and soul. Do you see? By the way,
here's twenty dollars, your first week's pay as caretaker of a New York
Quixote."

"What's that?" asked Quimby.

"Quixote," explained Mr. Magee, "was a Spanish lad who was a little
confused in his mind, and went about the country putting up at summer
resorts in mid-winter."

"I'd expect it of a Spaniard," Quimby said. "Be careful of that fire.
I'll be up in the morning." He stowed away the bill