CHRISTOPHER ESCAPES BEING A HERO

Leaving the repairing department, Christopher strolled to the edge of
the balcony and idly looked down. Below all was bustle and brilliancy.
Brass, copper, silver, and jewels flashed in the light of the galleries
beneath him, which despite the fact that Thanksgiving was barely over,
were already astir with the vanguard of Christmas shoppers. Far down on
the main door he could see men and women in eager consultation over
Colonial silver, Sheffield trays, gay-colored feather fans and
multi-hued parasols.

For quite an interval he watched, deriving no small degree of amusement
from the uncertainty, anxiety, animated gestures and helpless
bewilderment of some of the less inspired of the visitors; then,
wearying of this entertainment, he descended by the stairway to the
third and afterward to the second gallery, where he again paused to lean
over the carved rail and obtain a closer view of the panorama.

It chanced that just beneath him was a long showcase filled with gems
before which two gentlemen in fur coats were standing, earnestly
conversing with the salesman. On the counter lay a tray of rings and
these one of the men was trying on and examining. It was plain from the
clerk's eager manner that his prospective purchaser was wavering
between two costly articles, neither one of which quite suited him. With
desperate earnestness the salesman pleaded, cajoled, and argued, and
unconsciously Christopher, looking down, became almost as interested as
he to see what would come of the matter.

The taller man slipped a band of diamonds on his finger, turned it
round, held the hand it graced at arm's length, then frowned, took off
the ring, and tried the other.

Meantime his friend was called on for his opinion and advised
sympathetically. Christopher pursed his lips scornfully. The two were
like a pair of vain old peacocks and silly as women, thought he. How
foolish for men to be wearing jewels, anyway. You wouldn't catch him
arrayed in a big diamond ring. And the strangest part of it was that the
man who was thus frittering away his money did not look at all like a
fop but was tall, muscular, and had a scar, not unlike a sword cut,
across his right cheek. It was a strange mark that ran from his ear
almost to the corner of his mouth, and it gave his face a disagreeable,
sinister expression.

His comrade was less robust--a small, wiry fellow, who seemed lost in
the heavy coat he wore.