es, which he then put in a pot to
boil, in their skins. From the wall he took a long stick with a crook
upon the end, and reaching out, hooked the crook round the leg and drew
the table toward him. Reaching up to one of the three shelves above
his bunk, he took down the necessary dishes and cutlery to set the
breakfast table for us three. While the potatoes were boiling he took
from another shelf--the one upon which he kept a few well-chosen
books--a photograph album and suggested that I look it over while he
broiled the venison steak and infused the tea.

When I opened the album and saw its contents, it not only further
excited my curiosity regarding the personal history of my host, but it
thrilled me with interest, for never before or since have I seen an
album that contained photographs of a finer-looking or more
distinguished lot of people. Its pages contained photographs of Lord
This, General That, Admiral What's-his-name, and also the Bishop of
I've-forgotten and many a Sir and Lady, too, as well as the beautiful
Countess of Can't-remember.

Breakfast was served. The potatoes were a treat, the steak was
excellent, the tea was good, and there we three sat and ate a hearty
meal, for not only did we relish the food, but the company, the wit,
and the laughter, too. But all the while my healthy, jovial, handsome
host remained in bed. I studied the blankets that covered his
legs--apparently there was nothing wrong with that part of him. I
could not fathom the mystery. It completely nonplussed me.

I glanced round the room; there were many photographs upon the walls,
among them Cambridge "eights" and "fours"; and sure enough, there he
was, rowing in those very crews; and in the football and tennis
pictures he also appeared as one of the best of them all. And how neat
and clean was his one-room house! Everything was in order. A water
keg behind the stove to keep the water from freezing. A big barrel by
the door in which to turn snow into water. A woodpile across the end
of the room--enough to outlast any blizzard. Then when I glanced at
him again, I noticed a crested signet ring upon his left little finger.
Breakfast over, smoking began, and as he washed the dishes, I wiped
them--but still I pondered. Then, at last, I grew brave. I would risk
it. I would ask him:

"Why do you stay in bed?"

First he responded with a burst of laughter, then with the question:

"Why, what's the use of getting up?" a