s that?" I gasps. "Say, couldn't you make it Madison Square
Garden? I could get rent out of that."

"Well, if you prefer," says he, without crackin' a smile.

"And this is Mr. Tutwater," says I. "He ought to be in on this. What'll
yours be, Tutty?"

Say, for a minute or so I couldn't make out whether the old party was
really off his chump or what. He's a well dressed, prosperous lookin'
gent, a good deal on the retired broker type, and I didn't know but he
might be some friend of Pyramid Gordon's who'd strayed in here to hand me
a josh before signin' on for a course of lessons.

Next thing we knew, though, he slumps down in my desk chair, leans back
comf'table, sighs sort of contented, smiles a batty, foolish smile at us,
and then closes his eyes. Another second and he's snorin' away as
peaceful as you please.

"Well, say!" says I to Tutwater. "What do you think of that, now? Does he
take this for a free lodgin' house, or Central Park? Looks like it was up
to me to ring for the wagon."

"Don't," says Tutwater. "The police handle these cases so stupidly. His
mind has been affected, possibly from some shock, and he is physically
exhausted."

"He's all in, sure enough," says I; "but I can't have him sawin' wood
here. Come, come, old scout," I hollers in his ear, "you'll have to camp
somewhere else for this act!" I might as well have shouted into the safe,
though. He never stirs.

"The thing to do," says Tutwater, "is to discover his name, if we can,
and then communicate with his friends or family."

"Maybe you're right, Tutwater," says I. "And there's a bunch of letters
in his inside pocket. Have a look."

"They all seem to be addressed to J. T. Fargo, Esq.," says Tutwater.

"What!" says I. "Say, you don't suppose our sleepin' friend here is old
Jerry Fargo, do you? Look at the tailor's label inside the pocket. Eh?
Jeremiah T. Fargo! Well, say, Tutty, that wa'n't such an idle dream of
his, about givin' me the garden. Guess he could if he wanted to. Why,
this old party owns more business blocks in this town than anybody I know
of except the Astors. And I was for havin' him carted off to the station!
Lemme see that 'phone directory."

A minute more and I had the Fargo house on the wire.

"Who are you?" says I. "Oh, Mr. Fargo's butler. Well, this is Shorty
McCabe, and I want to talk to some of the fam'ly about the old man. Sure,
old Jerry. He's here. Eh, his sister? She'll do. Yes, I'll hold the
wire."

I'd