ese various occupations.

"Don't let me detain you, my dear boy," I told him. "I--I just wanted to
say that I haven't the least idea whether--whether that young creature
in the other room has a cent to bless herself with. It seems to me--I
think that she should have every care, and I shall be glad if you will
consider me responsible--er--within the limits of a moderate income."

"Thanks," he said, "that's very kind of you."

His eyes strayed on my desk, and he pounced upon a copy of "The City's
Wrath."

"Tell you what," he said, "that's a tip-top book. I borrowed my mother's
copy and read it all night. The fellow who wrote it knows something
about the slender connection between body and soul, in this big city.
He's looked pretty deep into people's lives."

No compliments I ever received, with the exception of Frieda's, gave me
greater pleasure than the appreciation of this honest, strong lad.

"Will you kindly give me your full name?" I asked him.

"Thomas Lawrence Porter," he answered.

I took the volume and wrote it down on the first page, adding kindest
regards and my signature, and handed it to him, whereat he stared at me.

"D'ye mean to say you're the chap who wrote that book," he said, and
wrung my hand, painfully. "I'm proud to meet you. If you don't mind, I'd
like to come in some time and--and chat about things with you, any
evening when you're not busy. You know an awful lot about--about
people."

"My good friend," I told him, "don't permit youthful enthusiasm to run
away with you. But I shall be delighted to have you drop in. And now,
since your time is so limited, you had better go and see your patient."

He tucked his book under his arm and went down the hallway. After
remaining in the room for perhaps a quarter of an hour, he came out
again, cheerfully.

"Doing exceedingly well," he called to me. "By-by; see you again very
soon, I hope."

He vanished down the stairs, and I took up my book again, holding it in
one hand while I went to the windows, intending to draw down a blind
against the sunlight that was streaming in. The heat was entering in
gusts and, for a second, a sparrow sat on my window ledge with head
drooping, as if it were about to succumb. Then I drew down the blinds
and immediately let them up again, reflecting that in the room opposite
mine they were lowered for the sake of darkness and air and that my
action would lessen the latter. So I sponged off my cranium and panted.
It