take this Eggleston K. Ham, wad him up
in a neat little lump, and stuff him into the waste basket. I wouldn't
have been exertin' myself much, at that.

He's one of that kind, you know. Insignificant? Why, in full daylight
you almost had to look twice to see him--and then you'd be guessin'
whether it was a lath that had sprouted whiskers, or whiskers that was
tryin' to bud a man! Them and the thick, gold-rimmed glasses sure did
give him a comic, top-heavy look.

Course, we get all kinds in our buildin'; but when the lady voice
culturist on the top floor sublets her studio for the summer to this
freak I thought we'd gone from bad to worse. And she even has the nerve
to leave the key with me, sayin' Mr. Ham would call for it in the course
of a week or so.

[Illustration: He sidles up to the desk and proceeds to make some
throaty noises.]

We'd enjoyed about ten days of peace too, with no bloodcurdlin' sounds
floatin' down the light shaft, and I was hopin' maybe the subtenant had
renigged, when one mornin' the front office door opens easy, and in
slips this face herbage exhibit. It's no scattered, hillside crop,
either, but a full blown Vandyke. When he'd got through growin' the
alfalfa, though, his pep seemed to give out, and the rest of him was as
wispy as a schoolgirl.

He sidles up to the desk, where I have my heels elevated restful, and
proceeds to make some throaty noises behind his hand. I'm just readin'
how Tesreau pulled out of a bad hole in the seventh with two on bases;
but I breaks away long enough to glance over the top of the paper.

"Go on, shoot it," says I.

"I--I'm very sorry," says he, "but--but I am Mr. Ham."

"Never mind apologizin'," says I. "Maybe it ain't all your fault. After
the key, ain't you?"

"Yes, thank you," says he.

"Eggleston K., I suppose?" says I.

"Oh, yes," says he.

"Here you are, then, Eggy," says I, reachin' into a pigeonhole and
producin' it. "What's your instrument of torture, the xylophone?"

"I--I beg pardon?" says he.

"Come now," says I, "don't tell me you're a trombone fiend!"

"Oh, I see," says he. "No, no, I--I'm not a musician."

"Shake, Eggy!" says I, reachin' out my hand impulsive. "And I don't care
how many cubist pictures you paint up there so long as you ain't noisy
about it."

He fingers his soft hat nervous, smiles sort of embarrassed, and
remarks, "But--but I'm not an artist either, you know."

"Well, well!" says I. "Two misses, and still in