oin' to say. 'Dickey No. 2.'
Why, that's the one I have to wear to-day, an' to think the story's on
the back of it."

Truly was Dennis harassed.

He had been in many a pickle before, but never in one quite so
exasperating.

Tantalized, in the first place, by the uncertainty surrounding his
prospective employment, he was now confronted by a predicament which
threatened to jeopardize a vital adjunct to his personal appearance.

A native curiosity, to which this outrageous tale appealed so
strenuously, prompted him to detach bosom No. 2 regardless.

An equally characteristic thrift warned him against such an
inconsiderate procedure.

Finally his good judgment prevailed, and with desperate haste he
adjusted the remaining bosoms of the dickey to his waistcoat, plunged
into his coat, clapped his hat on his head and rushed from the room.

All that day Dennis continued to receive his instalments of that bitter
instruction in the ways of heedless employers and suspicious
subordinates which, eased by a native good humor, conclude in the
philosopher, or, unrelieved by this genial mollient, develop the cynic.

By evening he was compelled to admit, as he retraced his steps to The
Stag, that he had not advanced in any way.

As he was about to pass under one of the dripping extensions of the
elevated, a great splotch of grease detached itself from the ironwork
and struck, with unerring precision, directly in the center of dickey
No. 2.

"Ah!" exclaimed Dennis as he realized the nature of his mishap, "that
settles it; I'll know what the Sepoy said to-night." A remark which
proved conclusively that the philosophical element was still uppermost
in the mind of this young Irishman.

After a brief exchange of courtesies with his countryman behind the bar,
and a dinner so modest in the rear room as to arouse the suspicion and
encourage the displeasure of the waiter, Dennis hastened up the
stairway, divested himself of his upper garments, ripped off dickey
bosom No. 2, and began.

CHAPTER III

As the Sepoy proceeded, Raikes leaned forward in an attitude, the
discomfort and unbalance of which he seemed to be entirely unaware.

His only means of maintaining his rigid poise was in the arm which lay,
with tense unrest, upon the table.

From his hand, the fingers of which had released their clutch, the stone
had rolled and gleamed an unregarded invitation into the eyes of the
drawn face above it.

The sickly grin of a