es,
that goes to the bad the third hop; and exhibit C was one of these
ten-cent dishes of baked beans--the pale kind, that look like they'd
floated in with the tide. Course, that dinky tin pan they was in don't
land flat. It slips out of the bag as slick as if it was greased,
stands up on edge, and rolls all the way down, distributin' the mess
from top to bottom, as even as if it was laid on with a brush.

"My luncheon!" says she, in a reg'lar me-che-e-ild voice.

"Lunch!" says I. "That's what I'd call a spread. This one's on the
house, but the next one will be on me. Will to-morrow do?"

"Ye-es," says she.

"Sorry," says I, "but I'm runnin' behind sched. now. What's the name,
miss?"

"C. A. Belter, top floor," says she; "but don't mind about----"

"That'll be all right, too," says I, skippin' down over the broken
glass and puntin' the five-cent white through the door for a goal.

It's little things like that, though, that keeps a man from forgettin'
how he was brought up. I'm ready enough with some cheap jolly, but
when it comes to throwin' in a "beg pardon" at the right place I'm a
late comer. I thinks of 'em sometime next day.

Course, I tries to get even by orderin' a four-pound steak, with
mushroom trimmin's, sent around from the hotel on the corner; but I
couldn't get over thinkin' how disappointed she looked when she saw
that pan of beans doin' the pinwheel act. I know I've seen the time
when a plate of pork-and in my fist would have been worth all the
turkey futures you could stack in a barn, and maybe it was that way
with her.

Anyway, she didn't die of it, for a couple of days later she knocks
easy on the Studio door and gets her head in far enough to say how nice
it was of me to send her that lovely steak.

"Forget it," says I.

"Never," says she. "I'm going to do a bas relief of you, in memory of
it."

"A barrel which?" says I.

Honest, I wa'n't within a mile of bein' next. It comes out that she
does sculpturing and wants to make a kind of embossed picture of me in
plaster of paris, like what the peddlers sell around on vacant stoops.

"I'd look fine on a panel, wouldn't I?" says I. "Much obliged, miss,
but sittin' for my halftone is where I draws the line. I'll lend you
Swifty Joe, though."

She ain't acquainted with the only registered assistant professor of
physical culture in the country, but she says if he don't mind she'll
try her hand on him first, and then maybe I'll