ack to her--back to Brooklyn for Christmas."

"A merry one to you," growled Cargan.

"Maybe," replied Mr. Peters. "Very likely, if she's feeling that way. I
hope so. I ain't giving up the hermit job altogether--I'll come back in
the summers, to my post-card business. There's money in it, if it's
handled right. But I've spent my last winter on that lonesome hill."

"As author to author," asked Magee, "how about your book?"

"There won't be any mention of that," the hermit predicted, "in
Brooklyn. I've packed it away. Maybe I can work on it summers, if she
doesn't come up here with me and insist on running my hermit business
for me. I hope she won't, it would sort of put a crimp in it--but if she
wants to I won't refuse. And maybe that book'll never get done.
Sometimes as I've sat in my shack at night and read, it's come to me
that all the greatest works since the world began have been those that
never got finished."

The Reuton train roared up to them through the gray morning, and paused
impatiently at Upper Asquewan Falls. Aboard it clambered the hermits,
amateur and professional. Mr. Magee, from the platform, waved good-by to
the agent standing forlorn in the station door. He watched the building
until it was only a blur in the dawn. A kindly feeling for it was in his
heart. After all, it had been in the waiting-room--

CHAPTER XX

THE ADMIRAL'S GAME

The village of Upper Asquewan Falls gave a correct imitation of snow
upon the desert's dusty face, and was no more. Bidding a reluctant
good-by to up-state romance, Mr. Magee entered the solitary day coach
which, with a smoker, made up the local to Reuton. He spent a few
moments adjusting Mrs. Norton to her new environment, and listened to
her voluble expressions of joy in the fact that her boarding-house
loomed ahead. Then he started for the smoker. On his way he paused at
the seat occupied by the ex-hermit of Baldpate, and fixed his eyes on
the pale blue necktie Mr. Peters had resurrected for his return to the
world of men.

"Pretty, ain't it?" remarked the hermit, seeing whither Mr. Magee's gaze
drifted. "She picked it. I didn't exactly like it when she first gave it
to me, but I see my mistake now. I'm wearing it home as a sort of a
white flag of truce. Or almost white. Do you know, Mr. Magee, I'm
somewhat nervous about what I'll say when I come into her presence
again--about my inaugural address, you might put it. What would be your
conversation on