te of
the susceptibilities that could be used to give coloring to his work. He
knew this well enough, but he believed that there were depths of
unprofessional tenderness in his nature. He was good to his mother, and
he sent her money, and wrote to her in the little Indiana town where he
had left her when he came to Chicago. After he got that invitation from
the Bird of Prey, he explored his heart for some affection that he had
not felt for him before, and he found a wish that his employer should not
know it was he who had invented that nickname for him. He promptly avowed
this in the newspaper office which formed one of the eyries of the Bird
of Prey, and made the fellows promise not to give him away. He failed to
move their imagination when he brought up as a reason for softening
toward him that he was from Burnamy's own part of Indiana, and was a
benefactor of Tippecanoe University, from which Burnamy was graduated.
But they, relished the cynicism of his attempt; and they were glad of his
good luck, which he was getting square and not rhomboid, as most people
seem to get their luck. They liked him, and some of them liked him for
his clean young life as well as for his cleverness. His life was known to
be as clean as a girl's, and he looked like a girl with his sweet eyes,
though he had rather more chin than most girls.

The conductor came to reverse his seat, and Burnamy told him he guessed
he would ride back with him as far as the cars to the Hoboken Ferry, if
the conductor would put him off at the right place. It was nearly nine
o'clock, and he thought he might as well be going over to the ship, where
he had decided to pass the night. After he found her, and went on board,
he was glad he had not gone sooner. A queasy odor of drainage stole up
from the waters of the dock, and mixed with the rank, gross sweetness of
the bags of beet-root sugar from the freight-steamers; there was a coming
and going of carts and trucks on the wharf, and on the ship a rattling of
chains and a clucking of pulleys, with sudden outbreaks and then sudden
silences of trampling sea-boots. Burnamy looked into the dining-saloon
and the music-room, with the notion of trying for some naps there; then
he went to his state-room. His room-mate, whoever he was to be, had not
come; and he kicked off his shoes and threw off his coat and tumbled into
his berth.

He meant to rest awhile, and then get up and spend the night in receiving
impressions. He c