the air. Is it anything
you can speak of in public?"

"Why," says he, "I--I've said very little about it, as a matter of fact,
but--but I am doing a little research work in--in anthropology."

"Good night!" says I. "Mixin' things up that's liable to blow the roof
off, ain't it?"

"Why, no," says he, starin' at me puzzled. "It's merely studying racial
characteristics, making comparisons, and so on. Incidentally, I--I'm
writing a book, I suppose."

"Oh!" says I. "Authoring? Well, there's no law against it, and ink is
cheap. Go to it, Eggy! Top floor, first door to your left."

And that seems to be the finish of the Ham incident. All was peaceful in
the light shaft,--no squeaky high C's, no tump-tump-tump on the piano:
just the faint tinkle of a typewriter bell now and then to remind us
that Eggy was still there. Once in awhile I'd pass him on the stairs,
and he'd nod bashful but friendly and then scuttle by like a rabbit.

"Must be a hot book he's writin'!" thinks I, and forgets his existence
until the next time.

The summer moseys along, me bein' busy with this and that, goin' and
comin' back, until here the other day when things is dullest Pinckney
calls up from the club and announces that he's got a new customer for
me, someone very special.

"Visitin' royalty, or what?" says I.

"Winthrop Hubbard," says he impressive.

"The guy that invented squash pie?" says I.

"No, no!" peeves Pinckney. "The son of Joshua Q. Hubbard, you know."

"I get you," says I. "The Boston cotton mill plute that come so near
bitin' a chunk out of the new tariff bill. But I thought he was
entertainin' the French Ambassador or someone at his Newport place?"

Well, he was; but this is only a flyin' trip. Seems Son Winthrop had
fin'ly been persuaded to begin his business career by bein' made first
vice president of the General Sales Company, that handled the export end
of the trust's affairs. So, right in the height of his season, he's had
to scratch his Horse Show entries, drop polo practice, and move into a
measly six-room suite in one of them new Fifth-ave. hotels, with three
hours of soul-wearin' officework ahead of him five days out of seven.
He'd been at the grind a month now, and Mother had worried so about his
health that Joshua Q. himself had come down to observe the awful
results. Meanwhile Josh had been listenin' to Pinckney boostin' the
Physical Culture Studio as the great restorer, and he'd been about
persuaded that S