getting any farther away, and when she comes on with short Steps, and he
gets the remote Swish of the Real Silk, to say nothing of the Faint
Aroma of New-Mown Hay, and her Hesitating Manner seems to ask, "Have I
or have I not met a Friend?"--in a Case of that kind, the Victim is just
the same as Strapped to the Operating-Table. He has about One Chance in
a Million.

The timorous but trusting little Grass Widow sat beside the Business
Manager and told him her Hard-Luck Story in low, bird-like Notes. She
said she was the only Support of her Little Boy, who was attending a
Military School at Syracuse, N.Y. She turned the Liquid Orbs on him and
had him to the Bad. He thought he would tell her that already he had
more Books at Home than he could get on the Shelves, but when he tried
to Talk he only Yammered. She Kept on with her little Song, and Smiled
all the Time, and sat a little Closer, and he got so Dizzy he had to
lock his Legs under the Office Chair to keep from Sinking Away.

[Illustration: GRASS WIDOW]

When she had him in the Hypnotic State she pushed the Silver Pencil into
his Right Hand, and showed him where to sign his Name. He wrote it,
while the dim Sub-Consciousness told him that probably he was the
Softest Thing the Lady Robber had Stood Up that Season. Then she
recovered the Pencil, which he was confusedly trying to put into his
Vest Pocket, and missing it about Six Inches, and with a cheery Good By
she was gone.

He shook himself and took a Long Breath, and asked where he was. Then it
all came back to him and he felt Ornery, and called himself Names and
roasted the Office Boy in the Next Room, and made a Rule that hereafter
Nobody could get at him except by Card, and if any Blonde Sharks in
Expensive Costumes asked for him, to call up the Chief and ask for a
Squad.

[Illustration: THE OFFICE BOY]

He was so Wrothy at himself for being Held Up that he could not find any
Consolation except in the Fact that he had seen on the List of
Subscribers the name of nearly every well-known married Citizen above
the Age of 35. He was not the Only One. She had Corralled the Street.

When the Man came around to deliver the seven-pound copy of "Happy Hours
with the Poets," and he paid out his Six Silver Pieces for a queer
Volume that he would not have Read for Six an Hour, he hated himself
worse than ever. He thought some of giving the Book to the Office Boy,
by way of Revenge, but he hit upon a Better Use for it.