g of Miriam Finch, to whom
Eugene had introduced both him and MacHugh.

"Nothing like that, surely," inquired MacHugh, looking over at Eugene to
see if it possibly could be so.

"It's all true, fellers," replied Eugene, "--as God is my judge. I'm
going to leave you soon."

"You're not really talking seriously, are you, Witla?" inquired Joseph
soberly.

"I am, Joe," said Eugene quietly. He was studying the perspective of his
sixteenth New York view,--three engines coming abreast into a great yard
of cars. The smoke, the haze, the dingy reds and blues and yellows and
greens of kicked about box cars were showing with beauty--the vigor and
beauty of raw reality.

"Soon?" asked MacHugh, equally quietly. He was feeling that touch of
pensiveness which comes with a sense of vanishing pleasures.

"I think some time in October, very likely," replied Eugene.

"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry to hear that," put in Smite.

He laid down his brush and strolled over to the window. MacHugh, less
expressive in extremes, worked on medatively.

"When'd you reach that conclusion, Witla?" he asked after a time.

"Oh, I've been thinking it over for a long time, Peter," he returned. "I
should really have married before if I could have afforded it. I know
how things are here or I wouldn't have sprung this so suddenly. I'll
hold up my end on the rent here until you get someone else."

"To hell with the rent," said Smite. "We don't want anyone else, do we,
Peter? We didn't have anyone else before."

Smite was rubbing his square chin and contemplating his partner as if
they were facing a catastrophe.

"There's no use talking about that," said Peter. "You know we don't care
about the rent. Do you mind telling us who you're going to marry? Do we
know her?"

"You don't," returned Eugene. "She's out in Wisconsin. It's the one who
writes the letters. Angela Blue is her name."

"Well, here's to Angela Blue, by God, say I," said Smite, recovering his
spirits and picking up his paint brush from his board to hold aloft.
"Here's to Mrs. Eugene Witla, and may she never reef a sail to a storm
or foul an anchor, as they say up Nova Scotia way."

"Right oh," added MacHugh, catching the spirit of Smite's generous
attitude. "Them's my sentiments. When d'you expect to get married
really, Eugene?"

"Oh I haven't fixed the time exactly. About November first, I should
say. I hope you won't say anything about it though, either of you. I
don't want to go