ulsed by him. He frowned upon
society, and set the grinding heel of his disapproval on every attempt
to draw him out. Was there some dark mystery connected with his life?
This question the writer asked himself. He execrated humanity; and,
moody and alone, the writer has seen him sitting on a bench on the
lake front, turning with a sullen look and viewing with suppressed
rage the architectural grandeur towering at his back."

The article was written by Mr. Flummers. As the only reporter who
could write from contact with the murderer, his sentences were bloated
into strong significance. Fame reached down and snatched him up, and
the blue light of his flambeau played about him.

"Pessimist as he is"--Flummers was holding forth among the night
reporters at the central station--"Pessimist as he is, and a skeptic
though he may be, papa goes through this life with his eyes open. Idle
suggestion says, 'Shut your eyes, papa, and be happy,' but shrewdness
says, 'Watch that fellow going along there.' I don't claim any
particular credit for this; we are not to be vain of what nature has
done for us, nor censured for what she has denied. We are all
children, toddling about as an experiment, and wondering what we are
going to be. Some of us fall and weep over our bruises, and some of
us--some of us get there. He, he, he."

"Flummers, have they raised your salary yet?" some one asked.

"Oh, no, and that's why I am disgusted with the newspaper profession.
The country cries out, 'Who is the man?' There is a deep silence. The
country cries again, 'Does any one know this man?' And then papa
speaks. But what does he get? The razzle. A great scoop rewarded with
a razzle. My achievements are taken too much us a matter of course. I
don't assert myself enough. I am too modest. Say, I smell liquor.
Who's got a bottle? Somebody took a cork out of a bottle. Who was it?
Say, Will, have you got a bottle?"

"Thought you said that your doctor told you not to drink."

"He did; he said that I had intercostal rheumatism. He examined me
carefully, and when I asked him what he thought, he replied, 'Mr.
Flummers, you can't afford to drink.'"

"And did you tell him that you could afford it--that it didn't cost
you anything?"

"Oh, ho, ho, no! Say, send out and get a bottle. What are you fellows
playing there? Ten cents ante, all jack pots? It's a robbers' game."

* * * * *

In every community a stranger wearing bla