rotten politics. Wall
Street on a holiday is fascinating. No one about. Desolate. But full
of spirits."

Flint took a fresh cigar. "Last Sunday morning I walked in Central
Park. There were all manner of toy sailboats on the pond--big and
little--thirty of them at the least--tipping and running in the
breeze. Grown men sail them. They set them on a course, and then they
trot around the pond and wait for them. Presently I was curious. A man
upward of fifty had his boat out on the grass and was adjusting the
rigging.

"'That's quite a boat,' I began.

"'It's not a bad tub,' he answered.

"'Do you hire it from the park department?' I asked.

"'No!' with some scorn.

"'Where do you buy them?'

"'We don't buy them.'

"'Then how--?' I started.

"'We make 'em--nights.'

"He resumed his work. The boat was accurately and beautifully
turned--hollow inside--with a deck of glossy wood. The rudder was
controlled by finest tackle and hardware. Altogether, it was as
delicately wrought as a violin.

"'It's this way!'--its builder and skipper laid down his pipe--'There
are about thirty of us boys who are dippy about boats. We can't afford
real boats, so we make these little ones. Daytimes I am an interior
decorator. This is a thirty-six. Next winter--if my wife will stand
the muss (My God! How it litters up the dining-room!) I am going to
build a forty-two. All of the boys bring out a new boat each spring!'
The old fellow squinted at his mast and tightened a cord. Then he
continued. 'If you are interested, come around any Sunday morning
until the pond is frozen. And if you want to try your hand at a boat
this winter, just ask any of us boys and we will help you. Your first
boat or two will be sad--_Ju-das!_ But you will learn.'"

Flint was interrupted by Quill. "Isn't that rather a silly occupation
for grown men?"

"It's not an occupation," said Flint. "It's an avocation, and it isn't
silly. Any one of us would enjoy it, if he weren't so self-conscious.
And it's more picturesque than golf and takes more skill. And what
courtesy! These men form what is really a club--a club in its
primitive and true sense. And I was invited to be one of them."

Flannel Shirt broke in. "By George, that _was_ courtesy. If you had
happened on a polo player at his club--a man not known to you--he
wouldn't have invited you to come around and bring your pony for
instruction."

"It's not an exact comparison, is it, Old Flannel Shirt?"

"