catches of his breath, and out of his father's
hearing:--

"I don't care--(_a sniff_)--when I'm rich, I'll go to Budd's for an
up-to-date dinner, you bet--(_a snuffle_)--I'll probably go there every
day of my life--(_two snuffles_)--yes, sir--Sundays and all!"

I cheered him as best I could.

His sister had saved her day to a happy end, babbling off to bed with
the distressing Irene, to whom she would show a book of pictures until
sleep shut off her little eyelid.

A wise old man--I believe he was a bishop--once said he knew "that
outside the real world is a world of fine fabling."

I had stolen a day from that world. Now I hurried through the gloom of
the hall, past the poor striving hands, to sit with Solon Denney and
tell him of a peculiar thing I had observed during the afternoon's walk.

CHAPTER VIII

ADVENTURE OF BILLY DURGIN, SLEUTH

I spoke to Solon of Billy Durgin, whose peculiar, not to say mysterious,
behavior I had been compelled to notice. I had first observed him that
afternoon as we passed the City Hotel. Through the window of the little
wash-room, where I saw that he was polishing a pair of shoes, he had
winked at me from over his task, and then erected himself to make a
puzzling gesture with one hand. Again, while we stood dream-bound before
the window of the corner drug store, he had sent me a low whistle from
across the street, following this with another puzzling arm wave;
whereat he had started toward us. But instead of accosting me, as I had
thought he meant to, he rushed by, with eyes rigidly ahead and his thin
jaws grimly set. Throughout the stroll he haunted us, adhering to this
strange line of conduct. I would turn a corner, to find Billy apparently
waiting for me a block off. Then would follow a signal of no
determinable import, after which he would walk swiftly past me as if
unaware of my presence. Once I started to address him, but was met with
"_Not a word_!" hissed at me in his best style from between clenched
teeth.

I decided at last that Billy was playing a game of his own. For Billy
Durgin, though sixteen years old, had happy access to our world of fine
fabling; and to this I knew he resorted at those times when his duties
as porter at the City Hotel palled upon his romantic spirit.

Billy, in short, was a detective, well soaked in the plenteous
literature of his craft and living in the dream that criminals would one
day shudder at the bare mention of his name.