to read every story in his carpet bag, if it took him all night. He
commenced with the series of detective or mystery stories. He had read
them over before and was able to bring out their strong points
oratorically, for, as it has been said before, he was a fine speaker.

Quincy eyed Ernst over the corner of the manuscript he was reading, but
the latter understood his business. Occasionally he was betrayed into a
nod of approval and several times shook his head in a negative way, but
he uttered no word of commendation or disapproval.

After several of the stories had been read, Ernst called a halt, and
going to a cupboard brought out some crackers, cake, and a decanter of
wine, with glasses, which he put upon a table, and placed within
comfortable reach of both reader and listener. Then he said, "Go ahead,"
munched a cracker, sipped his wine, and then lighted a fresh cigar.

When the series was finished, Leopold said, "Now we will have some tea.
I do a good deal of my reading at home, and I don't like to go out again
after I have crawled up four flights of stairs, so my landlady sends me
up a light supper at just about this hour. There is the maid now," as a
light knock was heard on the door.

Leopold opened it, and the domestic brought in a tray with a pot of tea
and the ingredients of a light repast, which she placed upon another
table near a window.

"There is always enough for two," said Leopold. "Reading is mighty
tiresome work, and listening is too, and a cup of good strong tea will
brighten us both up immensely. You can come back for the tray in
fifteen minutes, Jennie," said Ernest.

The supper was finished, the tray removed, and the critic sat in
judgment once more upon the words that fell from the reader's lips.
Leopold's face lighted up during the reading of "Her Native Land." He
started to speak, and the word "That's--" escaped him, but he recovered
himself and said no more, though he listened intently.

Quincy took a glass of wine and a cracker before starting upon the story
which had been dictated to him. Leopold gave no sign of falling asleep,
but patted his hands lightly together at certain points in the story,
whether contemplatively or approvingly Quincy could not determine. As he
read the closing lines of the last manuscript the cuckoo clock struck
twelve, midnight.

"You are a mighty good reader, Quincy," said Leopold, "and barring
fifteen minutes for refreshments, you have been at it ten hou