to Paris.
He's a gay sort of boy. Said he didn't want any green lanes in his. He
wanted Boolyvard." He laughed again and pushed his cap farther back on
his forehead. "Said I wasn't much of a sport. I tell YOU, a chap that's
got to earn his fifteen per, and live on it, can't be TOO much of a
sport."

"Fifteen per?" Mount Dunstan repeated doubtfully.

His companion chuckled.

"I forgot I was talking to an Englishman. Fifteen dollars per
week--that's what 'fifteen per' means. That's what he told me he gets at
Lobenstien's brewery in New York. Fifteen per. Not much, is it?"

"How does he manage Continental travel on fifteen per?" Mount Dunstan
inquired.

"He's a typewriter and stenographer, and he dug up some extra jobs to do
at night. He's been working and saving two years to do this. We didn't
come over on one of the big liners with the Four Hundred, you can bet.
Took a cheap one, inside cabin, second class."

"By George!" said Mount Dunstan. "That was American."

The American eagle slightly flapped his wings. The young man pushed his
cap a trifle sideways this time, and flushed a little.

"Well, when an American wants anything he generally reaches out for it."

"Wasn't it rather--rash, considering the fifteen per?" Mount Dunstan
suggested. He was really beginning to enjoy himself.

"What's the use of making a dollar and sitting on it. I've not got
fifteen per--steady--and here I am."

Mount Dunstan knew his man, and looked at him with inquiring interest.
He was quite sure he would go on. This was a thing he had seen
before--an utter freedom from the insular grudging reserve, a sort of
occult perception of the presence of friendly sympathy, and an ingenuous
readiness to meet it half way. The youngster, having missed his
fellow-traveler, and probably feeling the lack of companionship in his
country rides, was in the mood for self-revelation.

"I'm selling for a big concern," he said, "and I've got a first-class
article to carry. Up to date, you know, and all that. It's the top notch
of typewriting machines, the Delkoff. Ever seen it? Here's my card,"
taking a card from an inside pocket and handing it to him. It was
inscribed:

J. BURRIDGE & SON,

DELKOFF TYPEWRITER CO.

BROADWAY, NEW YORK. G. SELDEN.

"That's my name," he said, pointing to the inscription in the corner.
"I'm G. Selden, the junior assistant of Mr. Jones."

At the sight of the insignia of his trade, his holiday air dropped from
him,