se-jointed man leaned heavily against it. His trousers,
tucked into a pair of high-laced, large-eyed shoes, were belted at the
waist in a conspicuous roll. A faded gray shirt, rolled up at the
sleeves, disclosed a red undershirt and muscular arms. A well-shaped
head with grey streaked hair, and a smooth, imperturbable face was
shaded by a battered sombrero that was thrust back and turned squarely
up in front.

The superintendent's smile had nothing puzzling now.

"Hello, Zephyr. Got another Camp Bird?"

"Flying higher'n a Camp Bird this time."

"How's that?"

"Right up to the golden gates this time, sure. It's straight goods. St.
Peter ain't going to take no post-prandial siestas from now on. I'm
timbering my shots to keep from breaking the sky. Tell you what, I'm
jarring them mansions in heaven wuss'n a New York subway contractor them
Fifth Avenue palaces." Zephyr paused and glanced languidly at the
superintendent.

Firmstone chuckled.

"Go on," he said.

"I've gone as far as I can without flying. It's a lead from the golden
streets of the New Jerusalem. Followed it up to the foot of Bingham
Pass; caught it above the slide, then it took up the cliff, and
disappeared in the cerulean. Say, Goggles, how are you off for chuck?
I've been up against glory, and I'm down hungrier than a she-bear that's
skipped summer and hibernated two winters."

"Good! Guess Bennie will fix us up something. Can you wait a few
minutes?"

"I think I can. I've been practising on that for years. No telling when
such things will come in handy. You don't object to music, Goggles?"

"Not to music, no," Firmstone answered, with an amused glance at Zephyr.

Zephyr, unruffled, drew from his shirt a well-worn harmonica.

"Music hath charms," he remarked, brushing the instrument on the sleeve
of his shirt. "Referring to my savage breast, not yours."

He placed the harmonica to his lips, holding it in hollowed hands. His
oscillating breath jarred from the metal reeds the doleful strains of
_Home, Sweet Home_, muffled by the hollow of his hands into mournful
cadences.

At last Firmstone closed his desk.

"If your breast is sufficiently soothed, let's see what Bennie can do
for your stomach."

As they passed from the office Zephyr carefully replaced the harmonica
in his shirt.

"I'd rather be the author of that touching little song than the owner of
the Inferno. That's my new claim," he remarked, distantly.

Firmstone laughed.

"