he didn't approve of Jane.

"But you haven't seen her," Tommy protested.

"I know the type."

On Sunday morning Tommy brought him a baked-bean sandwich. "It isn't as
fresh as it might be. But you can see what she's giving us."

There were months of O-liver's life which had been spent with a
grandmother in Boston. His grandmother had made brown bread and she had
baked beans. And now as he ate his sandwich there was the savor of all
the gastronomic memories of a healthy and happy childhood.

"It's delicious," he said, "but she'd better not mix with that crowd."

"She doesn't mix," said Tommy.

"She'll have to." O-liver had in mind a red-haired woman, raw-boned,
with come-hither eyes. Her kind was not uncommon. Tommy's infatuation
would of course elevate her to a pedestal.

"She's going to make a hundred sandwiches next week," Tommy vouchsafed.

O-liver's mind could scarcely compass one hundred sandwiches. "She'd
better stick to her leeks and lettuce."

He rode away the next Saturday night. It was his protest against the
interest roused in the community by this Jane who sold sandwiches. He
heard of her everywhere. Some of the men were respectful and some were
not. It depended largely on the nature of the particular male.

O-liver rode Mary Pick and wore his straw helmet. His way led down into
the valley and up again and down, until at last he came to the sea. Then
he followed the water's edge, letting Mary Pick dance now and then on
the hard beach, with the waves curling up like cream, and beyond the
waves a stretch of pale azure to the horizon.

He reached finally a fantastic settlement. Against the sky towered walls
which might have inclosed an ancient city--walls built of cloth and wood
instead of stone. Beyond these walls were thatched cottages which had no
occupants; a quaint church which had no congregation; a Greek temple
which had no vestals, no sacred fire, no altar; hedges which had no
roots. O-liver weighing the hollowness of it all had thought whimsically
of an old nursery rime:

The first sent a goose without a bone;
The second sent a cherry without a stone;
The third sent a blanket without a thread;
The fourth sent a book that no man could read.

At the end of the settlement was a vast studio lighted by a glass roof.
Entering, O-liver was transported at once to the dance hall on the
Barbary Coast--a great room with a bar at one end, the musicians on a
platform at the other, a