wn his proofs. "Come along in,
Cutty."

The great war correspondent came in and sat down, sighing gratefully.

Cutty was a nickname; he carried and smoked--everywhere they
would permit him--the worst-looking and the worst-smelling pipe in
Christendom. You may not realize it, but a nickname is a round-about
Anglo-Saxon way of telling a fellow you love him. He was Cutty, but
only among his dear intimates, mind you; to the world at large, to
presidents, kings, ambassadors, generals, and capitalists he is known by
another name. You will find it on the roster of the Royal Geographical;
on the title page of several unique books on travel, jewels, and drums;
in magazines and newspapers; on the membership roll of the Savage in
London and the Lambs in New York. But you will not find it in this
story; because it would not be fair to set his name against the unusual
adventures that crossed his line of life with that of the young man who
wore the tobacco pouch suspended from his neck.

Tall, bony, graceful enough except in a chair, where his angles became
conspicuous; the ruddy, weather-bitten complexion of a deep-sea sailor,
and a sailor man's blue eye; the brow of a thinker and the mouth of a
humourist. Men often call another man handsome when a woman knows they
mean manly. Among men Cutty was handsome.

Kitty considerately rose and gathered up her manuscript.

"No, no, Kitty! I'd rather talk to you than Burly, here. You're always
reminding me of that father of yours. Best comrade I ever had. You laugh
just like him. Did your mother ever tell you that old Cutty is your
godfather?"

"Good gracious!"

"Fact. I told your dad I'd watch over you."

"And a fat lot of watching you've done to date," jeered Burlingame.

"Couldn't help that. But I can be on the job until I return to the
Balkans."

Kitty laughed joyously and sat down, perhaps a little thrilled. She had
always admired Cutty from afar, shyly. Once in a blue moon he had in
the old days appeared for tea; and he and Mrs. Conover would spend
the balance of the afternoon discussing the lovable qualities of Tommy
Conover. Kitty had seen him but twice during the war.

"Every so often," began Cutty, "I have to find listeners. Fact. I
used to hate crowds, listeners; but those ten days in an open boat, a
thousand miles from anywhere, made me gregarious. I'm always wanting
company and hating to go to bed, which is bad business for a man of
fifty-two." Cutty's ship had been