ruth's
abandonment of barber shops and clean shirts."

Next in order came the passenger who was nobody in particular.
Nameless to us, he travels the road from Paradise to Sunrise City.

But him you shall see, if the firelight be not too dim, as he responds
to the Judge's call.

A lean form, in rusty-brown clothing, sitting like a frog, his arms
wrapped about his legs, his chin resting upon his knees. Smooth,
oakum-coloured hair; long nose; mouth like a satyr's, with upturned,
tobacco-stained corners. An eye like a fish's; a red necktie with a
horseshoe pin. He began with a rasping chuckle that gradually formed
itself into words.

"Everybody wrong so far. What! a romance without any orange blossoms!
Ho, ho! My money on the lad with the butterfly tie and the certified
checks in his trouserings.

"Take 'em as they parted at the gate? All right. 'You never loved me,'
says Redruth, wildly, 'or you wouldn't speak to a man who can buy you
the ice-cream.' 'I hate him,' says she. 'I loathe his side-bar buggy;
I despise the elegant cream bonbons he sends me in gilt boxes covered
with real lace; I feel that I could stab him to the heart when he
presents me with a solid medallion locket with turquoises and pearls
running in a vine around the border. Away with him! 'Tis only you I
love.' 'Back to the cosey corner!' says Redruth. 'Was I bound and
lettered in East Aurora? Get platonic, if you please. No jack-pots for
mine. Go and hate your friend some more. For me the Nickerson girl on
Avenue B, and gum, and a trolley ride.'

"Around that night comes John W. Croesus. 'What! tears?' says he,
arranging his pearl pin. 'You have driven my lover away,' says little
Alice, sobbing: 'I hate the sight of you.' 'Marry me, then,' says John
W., lighting a Henry Clay. 'What!' she cries indignantly, 'marry you!
Never,' she says, 'until this blows over, and I can do some shopping,
and you see about the licence. There's a telephone next door if you
want to call up the county clerk.'"

The narrator paused to give vent to his cynical chuckle.

"Did they marry?" he continued. "Did the duck swallow the June-bug?
And then I take up the case of Old Boy Redruth. There's where you are
all wrong again, according to my theory. What turned him into a
hermit? One says laziness; one says remorse; one says booze. I say
women did it. How old is the old man now?" asked the speaker, turning
to Bildad Rose.

"I should say about sixty-five."

"All right.