of the Stetson to the heels of his No. 14 Cinderellas, he
must have been some under ninety inches, but not much. And he has all
the grace of a water tower. Whoever tried to build that suit for him
must have got desperate and cut it out with their eyes shut; for it fit
him only in spots, and them not very near together. But what can you
do with a pair of knock knees and shoulders that slope like a hip roof?

Not expectin' any freaks that day, and bein' too stunned to make any
crack on our own hook, me and Swifty does the silent gawp, and waits to
see if it can talk. For a minute he looks like he can't. He just
stands here with his mouth half open, grinnin' kind of sheepish and
good natured, as if we could tell what he wanted just by his looks.
Fin'lly I breaks the spell.

"Hello, Sport," says I. "If you see any dust on top of that
chandelier, don't mention it."

He don't make any reply to that, just grins a little wider; so I gives
him a new deal.

"You'll find Huber's museum down on 14th-st.," says I. "Or have you
got a Bowery engagement?"

This seems to twist him up still more; but it pulls the cork. "Excuse
me, friends," says he; "but I'm tryin' to round up an eatin' house that
used to be hereabouts."

"Eatin' house?" says I. "If you mean the fried egg parlour that was on
the ground floor, that went out of business months ago. But there's
lots more just as good around on Sixth-ave., and some that carry stock
enough to fill you up part way, I guess."

"I wa'n't lookin' to grub up just yet," says he. "I was huntin'
for--for some one that worked there."

And say, you wouldn't have thought anyone with a natural sunset colour
like that could lay on a blush. But he does, and it's like throwin'
the red calcium on a brick wall.

"Oh, tush, tush!" says I. "You don't mean to tell me a man of your
size is trailin' some Lizzie Maud?"

He cants his head on one side, pulls out a blue silk handkerchief, and
begins to wind it around his fore finger, like a bashful kid that's
been caught passin' a note in school.

"Her--her name's Zylphina," says he,--"Zylphina Beck."

"Gee!" says I. "Sounds like a new kind of music box. No relation, I
hope?"

"Not yet," says he, swingin' his shoulders; "but we've swapped rings."

"Of all the cut-ups!" says I. "And just what part of the plowed fields
do you and Zylphina hail from?"

"Why, I'm from Hoxie," says he, as though that told the whole story.

"Do tell!" sa