he
retreated to read his favorite fiction, red-blooded and exciting
stories, without exception. It was there he lived a life apart, a life
in a strange and desirable environment. For Martin always identified
himself with the sprightly hero of the evening's tale. He, Martin
Blake, suffered, despaired, triumphed, and galloped off with the
heroine. And when the story's end was reached, he returned to the drab
reality of his existence with revolt in his soul.

"You worm, you well-fed, white-faced office grub!" he told himself.
"Why don't you do something? Why don't you get out of the rut? You
have no responsibilities; you are foot loose! Then why don't you get
out there, where adventure is, where things happen!"

But then would come the rub. Where was "out there," and how reached by
a pen-driving clerk?

After supper, Martin carried his magazine into the private parlor and
ensconced himself before the grate fire. He read a yarn of ships and
mutinies and treasure trove--hot stuff!

But there was a fly in the ointment of Martin's content. Of late, his
sanctuary was not always inviolate. On the occasion of the past
Christmas, an absent and fiendish-minded nephew had presented Mrs.
Meagher with a phonograph. This instrument of torture Mrs. Meagher
installed in the little parlor, and at frequent intervals she sat
herself down before it and indulged in a jamboree of musical noise.

But this night Martin hoped for quiet. Mrs. Meagher had seemed busily
engaged recounting rheumatic symptoms to Mary, the cook, and Martin
knew from bitter experience that the recital usually occupied an hour
and a half. Then, there was a good chance the matron would betake her
buxom person bedward without visiting the parlor.

Luck smiled. Martin planned to read until nine o'clock before leaving
the house to carry out the mission of his employer. He had no mind to
leave sooner, for a keen, April wind ruled outdoors San Francisco that
night.

He did read until eight o'clock, and then a rustle heralded the
approach of the storm and diverted his attention from the printed page.
Mrs. Meagher sailed into the room, her ample figure clothed in her best
black silk house gown. Martin's spirits sank to zero--she always
donned this funeral drapery before operating the infernal contraption
in the corner.

Mrs. Meagher dropped into her rocking-chair and groaned tentatively.
Martin read desperately. He knew as long as he kept his eyes upo