e nods to an office buildin'.

"That'll be all right, too," says I. "I'll wait."

"Will you?" says Rupert, beamin'. "I shall be pleased."

So in less'n half an hour I have Rupert planted cozy at a corner table
with a mixed grill in front of him, and I'm givin' him the cue for
openin' any confidential chat he may have on hand. He's a good deal of a
clam, though, Rupert. And suspicious! He must have been born lookin'
over his shoulder. But in my own crude way I can sometimes josh 'em
along.

"Excuse me for mentionin' it, Rupert," says I, "but there's lots of
class to you these days."

"Eh?" says he. "You mean----"

"The whole effect," says I, "from the gaiters to the new-model lid. Just
like you'd strolled out from some Fifth Avenue club and was goin' to
'phone your brokers to buy another block of Bethlehem at the market.
Honest!"

He pinks up and shakes his head, but I can see I've got the range.

"And here Vee and I had it doped out," I goes on, "how you'd be down on
the West Coast by this time, investin' your pile in orange groves and
corner lots."

"No," says Rupert; "I've been here all the while. You see, I--I've grown
rather fond of New York."

"You needn't apologize," says I. "There's a few million others with the
same weakness, not countin' the ones that sleep in New Jersey but always
register from here. Gone into some kind of business, have you?"

Rupert does some fancy side-steppin' about then; but all of a sudden he
changes his mind, and, after glancin' around to see that no one has an
ear out, he starts his confession.

"The fact is," says he, "I've been doing a little literary work."

"Writin' ads," says I, "or solicitin' magazine subscriptions?"

"I am getting out a book of poems," says Rupert, dignified.

"Wh-a-a-at?" I gasps. "Not--not reg'lar limerick stuff?"

I can see now that was a bad break. But Rupert was patient with me. He
explains that these are all poems about sailors and ships and so on;
real salt, tarry stuff. Also, he points out how it's built the new style
way, with no foolish rhymes at the end, and with long lines or short,
just as they happen to come. To make it clear, he digs up a roll of
galley proofs he's just collected from the publishers. And say, he had
the goods. There it was, yards of it, all printed neat in big fat type.
"Sea Songs" is what he calls 'em, and each one has a separate tag of its
own, such as "Kittywakes," "Close Hauled," and "Scuppers Under."

"Lo