istener (who is always
welcome) that both had enjoyed a successful season on the road,
although closing somewhat prematurely on account of miserable booking,
and that both had received splendid "notices" in every town visited.

These two loiterers serve a single purpose in this tale--they draw
your attention to the principal character, to the person who plays the
title role, so to speak, and then, having done so, sink back into an
oblivion from which it is quite unnecessary to retrieve them.

The younger of the two players was in the act of lighting a
cigarette, considerately tendered by the older, when his gaze fell
upon the figure of the approaching hero. He hesitated for a moment,
squinting his eyes reflectively as if to make sure of both vision and
memory before committing himself to the declaration that was to
follow.

"See that fellow there? The little chap with his hands in his
pockets?"

The other permitted a vague, indifferent glance to enter the throng of
pedestrians, plainly showing that he did not see the person indicated.
(Please note this proof of the person's qualifications as a hero.)

"The fellow in front of Browne's," added the first speaker, so eagerly
that his friend tried once more and succeeded.

"What of him?" he demanded, unimpressed.

"That is What's-His-Name, Nellie Duluth's husband."

The friend's stare was prolonged and incredulous.

"That?"

"Yes. That's the fair Nellie's anchor. Isn't he a wonder?"

The object of these remarks passed slowly in front of them and soon
was lost in the crowd. Now that we know who he is we will say thank
you to the obliging Thespian and be off up Broadway in his wake, not
precisely in the capacity of spies and eavesdroppers, but as
acquaintances who would know him better.

He was not an imposing figure. You would not have looked twice at him.
You could not have remembered looking once at him, for that matter. He
was the type of man who ambles through life without being noticed,
even by those amiably inclined persons who make it their business to
see everything that is going on, no matter how trivial it is.

Somewhere in this wide and unfeeling world the husband of Nellie
Duluth had an identity of his own, but New York was not the place.
Back in the little Western town from which he came he had a name and a
personality all his own, but it was a far cry from Broadway and its
environments. For a matter of four or five years he had been known
simply