as "Er--What's-His-Name? Nellie Duluth's husband!" You have
known men of his stripe, I am sure; men who never get anywhere for the
good and sufficient reason that it isn't necessary. Men who stand
still. Men who do not even shine by reflected glory. Men whose names
you cannot remember. It might be Smith or Brown or Jones, or any of
the names you can't forget if you try, and yet it always escapes you.
You know the sort I mean.

Nellie Duluth's husband was a smallish young man, nice-looking, even
kind-looking, with an habitual expression of inquiry in his face, just
as if he never quite got used to seeing or being seen. The most expert
tailor haberdasher could not have provided him with apparel that
really belonged to him. Not that he was awkward or ill-favoured in the
matter of figure, but that he lacked individuality. He always seemed
to be a long way from home.

Sometimes you were sure that he affected a slight, straw-coloured
moustache; then, a moment afterward, if you turned your back, you were
not quite sure about it. As a matter of fact, he did possess such an
adornment. The trouble came in remembering it. Then, again, his eyes
were babyish blue and unseasoned; he was always looking into shop
windows, getting accustomed to the sights. Trolley cars and
automobiles were never-decreasing novelties to him, if you were to
judge by the startled way in which he gazed at them. His respect for
the crossing policeman, his courtesy to the street-car conductor, his
timidity in the presence of the corner newsboy, were only surpassed by
his deference to the waiter in the cheap restaurants he affected.

But, ah! You should have seen him in that little Western town! He was
a "devil of a fellow" out there! He knew the policemen by their first
names and had no respect for them; street-car conductors were
hail-fellows well met, and the newsboys wore spectacles and said "Yes,
sir," to him. As for the waiters, he knew them all by their Christian
name, which usually was Annie or Mamie or Katie.

On Broadway he was quite another person. He knew his Broadway from one
end to the other--that is to say, he knew that side of the "Great
White Way" which stares you in the face and rebukes you for staring
back--the outside of Broadway. He had been on and off Broadway for a
matter of five years and yet he had never recovered from the habit of
turning out for every pedestrian he met, giving the other man the
right of way instead of holding to