him a coal mine, or something like that?" says I.

J. Bayard refuses to notice my little sarcastic play. "I am sure Pyramid
would have wanted this worn-out, cast-off tool of his to end his days
decently," goes on Mr. Steele; "but to give him a lump sum would be
worse than useless. Two or three plunges, and it would be all gone."

"Think of puttin' him in a home somewhere?" says I.

"That might be a good plan," says Steele, "if he was still a widower;
but it appears that he has married again,--a young woman too, some
waitress that he met in a quick-lunch place. I saw her. Bah! One of
these plump, stupid young females, who appeared in a dingy dressing gown
with her hair down. What an old fool! But I suppose she takes care of
him, in a way. So I thought that an annuity, of say a thousand or two,
paid in monthly installments, would be the wisest. That would enable
them to move out into the country, get a nice little house, with a
garden, and really live. It was pathetic to see how grateful he was when
I told him of my scheme. Of course, McCabe, all this is subject to your
indorsement. Thought you might like to have a talk with them first, and
see for yourself; so I asked them to meet me here about----"

"Guess they're right on time," says I as the studio door opens, and in
drifts a December-and-May pair that answers all the details of his
description.

The old boy might have been still in the sixties; but with his remnant
of white hair, watery eyes, and ashy cheeks he looks like a reg'lar
antique. Must have been one of these heavy-set sports in his day, a good
feeder, and a consistent drinker; but by the flabby dewlaps and the
meal-bag way his clothes hang on him I judge he's slumped quite a lot.
Still, he's kind of a dignified, impressive old ruin, which makes the
contrast with the other half of the sketch all the more startlin'.

She's a bunchy blonde, she is, about four foot six in her French heels,
with yellow hair, China-doll eyes, a snub nose, and a waxy pink and
white complexion like these show-window models you see in department
stores. She's costumed cheap but gaudy in a wrinkled, tango-colored
dress that she must have picked off some Grand street bargain counter
late last spring. The ninety-nine-cent soup-plate lid cocked over one
ear adds a rakish touch that almost puts her in the comic valentine
class.

But when I'm introduced to the old scout he glances fond at her and does
the honors graceful. "Mrs. We