e opened a fresh newspaper and ran his eyes over the first page with the
trained glance of an expert exchange reader.

"The Minneapolis papers are usually worthless for my purposes, and yet
occasionally they print something I wouldn't miss. I'm the best friend
the 'buy your home paper' man has," he ran on musingly, skimming the page
and ignoring Deering, who continued to stare in stupefied amazement from
the doorway. "Ah!"

The scissors flashed and the unknown added another item to his
collection.

"That's all," he remarked with a sigh. He dropped his feet to the floor,
rose, and lazily stretched himself.

Tall, compactly built, a face weather-beaten where the flesh showed above
a close-clipped brownish beard, and hair, slightly gray, brushed back
smoothly from a broad forehead--these items Deering noted swiftly as he
dragged himself across the threshold.

"Really, a day like this would put soul into a gargoyle," the stranger
remarked, brushing the paper-shavings from his trousers. "Motored up from
Jersey and had a grand time all the way. I walk, mostly, but commandeer a
machine for long skips. To learn how to live, my dear boy, that's the
great business! Not sure I've caught the trick, but I'm working at it,
with such feeble talents as the gods have bestowed."

He filled a pipe deftly from a canvas bag, and drew the strings together
with white, even teeth.

This cool, lounging stranger was playing a trick of some kind; Deering
was confident of this and furious at his utter inability to cope with
him. He clung to the back of a chair, trembling with anger.

"My name," the visitor continued, tossing his match into an ash-tray, "is
Hood--R. Hood. The lone initial might suggest Robert or Roderigo, but if
your nursery library was properly stocked you will recall a gentleman
named Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest. I don't pretend to be a
descendant--far from it; adopted the name out of sheer admiration for one
of the grandest figures in all literature. Robin Hood, Don Quixote, and
George Borrow are rubricated saints in my calendar. By the expression on
your face I see that you don't make me out, and I can't blame you for
thinking me insane; but, my dear boy, such an assumption does me a cruel
wrong. Briefly, I'm a hobo with a weakness for good society, and yet a
friend of the under dog. I confess to a passion for grand opera and
lobster in all its forms. Do you grasp the idea?"

Deering did not grasp it. The man had pr