treasures of your
Riverside home. You are tired of being a bachelor--"

Stafford laughed--a resounding, wholesome laugh, that fairly shook the
room.

"You've guessed it, Fred, you've guessed it. You're a mind-reader. I
confess I'm tired of bumming. You and Stanton and the rest of the boys
are a jolly crowd. You've given me many a good time, but, I tell you,
old man, I'm tired of it all. I want to cut away and settle down. If
the right girl comes along, I'll marry her--"

Hadley was silent for a few moments, and, sitting lazily back in the
comfortable, deep-seated armchair, contented himself with puffing his
cigar vigorously and emitting a prodigious quantity of smoke. Finally
he said:

"All right, Bob--you know best what you want. Try matrimony, if you've
a mind to, but remember this--don't forget I gave you good warning.
Marriage isn't what it's cracked up to be, by a long shot. The girl
you're courting will seem to you a very different person after
marriage. She'll be an old-man-of-the-sea hanging around your neck
whom you can't shake off. Your trouble will only begin when you take
to yourself a wife." Rising and picking up his hat and gloves, he
added: "Now I must be going. I have an appointment at the office at
11:30. What are you going to do? Coming down town with me?"

Stafford pointed to the mass of papers and letters piled up on his
desk. Shaking his head he replied:

"No--I can't go out yet. I must answer all these letters." Helplessly
he added: "I don't know how I'm going to tackle them. I've an awful
headache."

"Why not get a stenographer?"

"A stenographer? That's not a bad idea. Where can I get one?"

"Why, downstairs. There are two attached to the hotel. They attend to
the telephone switchboard and do typewriting as well. One is a girl
with red hair and a squint; the other is dark and rather pretty--"

"Very well," smiled Stafford. "Send me up the pretty one. I couldn't
stand the red-haired girl just now. I've got an important deal on
hand. She might queer my luck. Do that for me, old chap. Tell her as
you go out, and don't forget--the pretty one."

"Right you are!" laughed Hadley. "I'll see you to-night at dinner. Ta
ta!" He was going out when he turned round at the door. "Say--don't
forget your virtuous resolution. Don't make love to the pretty
typewriter."

The door slammed and Stafford was alone.

For some time after his friend disappeared, the railroad man sat idly
turning over the