ed him with the naive wonder of an inexperienced
man. Having paid this tribute to his superior knowledge, he regained his
previous air of grave perception. "I reckon she ain't none of them. But
I'm keepin' you from your work. Good-by. My name's Bowers--Jim Bowers,
of Mendocino. If you're up my way, give me a call. And if you do write
to this yer 'White Violet,' and she's willin', send me her address."

He shook the editor's hand warmly--even in its literal significance
of imparting a good deal of his own earnest caloric to the editor's
fingers--and left the room. His footfall echoed along the passage and
died out, and with it, I fear, all impression of his visit from the
editor's mind, as he plunged again into the silent task before him.

Presently he was conscious of a melodious humming and a light leisurely
step at the entrance of the hall. They continued on in an easy harmony
and unaffected as the passage of a bird. Both were pleasant and both
familiar to the editor. They belonged to Jack Hamlin, by vocation a
gambler, by taste a musician, on his way from his apartments on
the upper floor, where he had just risen, to drop into his friend's
editorial room and glance over the exchanges, as was his habit before
breakfast.

The door opened lightly. The editor was conscious of a faint odor of
scented soap, a sensation of freshness and cleanliness, the impression
of a soft hand like a woman's on his shoulder and, like a woman's,
momentarily and playfully caressing, the passage of a graceful shadow
across his desk, and the next moment Jack Hamlin was ostentatiously
dusting a chair with an open newspaper preparatory to sitting down.

"You ought to ship that office-boy of yours, if he can't keep things
cleaner," he said, suspending his melody to eye grimly the dust which
Mr. Bowers had shaken from his departing feet.

The editor did not look up until he had finished revising a difficult
paragraph. By that time Mr. Hamlin had comfortably settled himself on
a cane sofa, and, possibly out of deference to his surroundings, had
subdued his song to a peculiarly low, soft, and heartbreaking whistle as
he unfolded a newspaper. Clean and faultless in his appearance, he had
the rare gift of being able to get up at two in the afternoon with
much of the dewy freshness and all of the moral superiority of an early
riser.

"You ought to have been here just now, Jack," said the editor.

"Not a row, old man, eh?" inquired Jack, with a