rrow. This is an exhibition of the difficulty of telling
anything exactly. There are so many subsidiary considerations that
beg for explanation. Please be patient, Pete, and to-morrow we will
explain that tie in detail.

II

It was a bright and transparent cold morning in Gloversville, N.Y.,
November, 1919, and passing out of the Kingsborough Hotel we set off
to have a look at the town. And if we must be honest, we were in
passable good humour. To tell the truth, as Gloversville began its
daily tasks in that clear lusty air and in a white dazzling
sunshine, we believed, simpleton that we were, that we were on the
road toward making our fortune. Now, we will have to be brief in
explanation of the reason why we felt so, for it is a matter not
easy to discuss with the requisite delicacy. Shortly, we were on the
road--"trouping," they call it in the odd and glorious world of the
theatre--with a little play in which we were partially incriminated,
on a try-out voyage of one-night stands. The night before, the
company had played Johnstown (a few miles from Gloversville), and if
we do have to say it, the good-natured citizens of that admirable
town had given them an enthusiastic reception. So friendly indeed
had been our houses on the road and so genially did the company
manager smile upon us that any secret doubts and qualms we had
entertained were now set at rest. Lo! had not the company manager
himself condescended to share a two-room suite with us in the
Kingsborough Hotel that night? And we, a novice in this large and
exhilarating tract of life, thought to ourself that this was the
ultimate honour that could be conferred upon a lowly co-author. Yes,
we said to ourself, as we beamed upon the excellent town of
Gloversville, admiring the Carnegie Library and the shops and the
numerous motor cars and the bright shop windows and munching some
very fine doughnuts we had seen in a bakery. Yes, we repeated, this
is the beginning of fame and fortune. Ah! Pete Corcoran may scoff,
but that was a bright and golden morning, and we would not have
missed it. We did not know then the prompt and painful end destined
for that innocent piece when it reached the Alba Via Maxima. All we
knew was that Saratoga and Newburgh and Johnstown had taken us to
their bosoms.

At this moment, and our thoughts running thus, we happened to pass
by the window of a very alluring haberdasher's shop. In that window
we saw displayed a number of very bri