f you know that Cecile person who works down to that big
plaster house at Morrison--Allison's place on the hill?" he inquired.

"Dexter Allison's?" Garry thought a moment. "Why, you must mean Miss
Allison's little French maid, don't you, Joe? Yes, I know who she is,
if she's the one. But what has she to do with it?"

Joe laid down his pencil and set himself to be frankly explanatory.

"Well, it's like this," he stated. "She and I, now--we've got more or
less acquainted in the last week or two, so to speak. And that ain't
bad progress when you figure out that she can't understand more'n a
dozen or two of all the words I speak to her, and as for me--well, when
she gets to talking back it just makes me dizzy, that's all. But we're
pretty good friends, when you consider that handicap. The thing that
really bothers me is that the only folks she seemed to have been real
neighborly with, back in Paree--that's the way you say it, ain't
it?--was mostly sculptors and painters and writers, and such lot. So
that would let me out of the running, right at the start, you see.

"I figured I didn't class at all, at first, because about the best
thing I can say for myself is that there ain't a man on the river who
ever rode white water better. I'm mostly a lumber jack, coming or
going, whichever way you take me, although I've punched cattle and
placer mined for variety. But to-night--to-night since you been
setting there quiet--I got to thinking, too. She's a real nice girl.
We get along fine together. And I kind of think we would, anyhow, even
if we could understand each other better. I got to thinking to-night
that maybe I'd better not quit cold, just yet. Now--I can't sculp, and
somehow I never was strong for them guys who sit straddle of a little
chair and paint cows and posies and things on a strip of muslin hooked
over a frame. But, say, I've seen lots of writers who didn't look a
whole lot more intelligent than me! I--I just got to thinking,
to-night, that I'd take a fall out of this literary thing!"

Steve always held it to his friend's credit that he did not laugh.
Indeed, Garry's soberness at that moment was almost woebegone.

"I see, Joe," he answered. "Not a bad idea. May I ask what your
story--your novel is to deal with?"

"Deal with? What do you mean?"

"Why, they always deal with some problem, Joe," Garry squared around.
"They always attack the rottenness of the rich, or sob over the
rottenness