sed shamelessly to a habit of smoking
his after-luncheon pipe on his back. There was a home-made divan in the
office quarters, with cushions and blanket coverings, and Ballard found
the tobacco-jar and a clean pipe; a long-stemmed "churchwarden," dear to
the heart of a lazy man.

"Now this is what I call solid comfort," said the playwright, stretching
his long legs luxuriously on the divan. "A man's den that is a den, and
not a bric-a-brac shop masquerading under the name, a good pipe, good
tobacco, and good company. You fellows have us world-people faded to a
shadow when it comes to the real thing. I've felt it in my bones all
along that I was missing the best part of this trip by not getting in
with you down here. But every time I've tried to break away, something
else has turned up."

Ballard was ready with his bucket of cold water.

"You haven't missed anything. There isn't much in a construction camp to
invite the literary mind, I should say." And he tried to make the saying
sound not too inhospitable.

"Oh, you're off wrong, there," argued the playwright, with cheerful
arrogance. "You probably haven't a sense of the literary values; a good
many people haven't--born blind on that side, you know. Now, Miss Van
Bryck has the seeing eye, to an educated finish. She tells me you have a
dramatic situation down here every little so-while. She told me that
story of yours about the stone smashing into your office in the middle
of the night. That's simply ripping good stuff--worlds of possibilities
in a thing like that, don't you know? By the way, this is the room,
isn't it? Does that patch in the ceiling cover the hole?"

Ballard admitted the fact, and strove manfully to throw the switch ahead
of the querist to the end that the talk might be shunted to some less
dangerous topic.

"Hang the tobacco!" snapped the guest irritably, retorting upon
Ballard's remark about the quality of his pet smoking mixture. "You and
Miss Craigmiles seem to be bitten with the same exasperating mania for
subject-changing. I'd like to hear that rock-throwing story at first
hands, if you don't mind."

Having no good reason for refusing point-blank, Ballard told the story,
carefully divesting it of all the little mystery thrills which he had
included for Miss Dosia's benefit.

"Um!" commented Wingfield, at the close of the bald narration. "It would
seem to have lost a good bit in the way of human interest since Miss Van
Bryck repeated it