ho float in and out of the
office buildings of a great city, pensioners for the most part on
either the bounty or the carelessness of busy men--waifs in the
industrial orbit who gain their living by various established or
ingenious variations of the more indirect forms of brigandage. There
were men selling books that probably no one in the world would ever
wish to buy or to read; women soliciting funds for charitable
institutions which might or might not exist; salesmen positively
enthusiastic in their desire to give the Guardian the benefit of their
patent pencil sharpeners, or gas crowns, or asbestos window shades, or
loose-leaf ledgers, or roach powder of peculiar pungency and
efficiency. Of course the elevator attendants were supposed to
distinguish between the sheep and the goats, and to let only legitimate
callers ascend, but the discretionary power of the Ethiopian is
scarcely subtle--or at least such was the case with the Guardian's
staff of watchdogs--and as a result many a visitor reached the floor
where Smith presided only to have his disguise fall from him at his
first word and to be politely ejected by the invaluable Jimmy, who was
accustomed to accompany the gentle strangers as far as the street door
in order that there might be no misapprehension on their part.

This particular morning Smith disposed with more or less ease of
several claimants to his attention, before he was finally brought to a
pause by the appearance of Mr. Darius Howell of Schuyler, Maine, who
had come to New York in connection with his potato business, and who
had incidentally decided to call at the office of the Guardian which he
also had the honor locally to represent. Years before, Smith had once
visited Schuyler, and at that time had met the small, grizzled
individual who now stood before him. He had not, however, the
slightest idea of the identity of his visitor, and waited a brief
moment for a clew to aid him.

"You don't remember me, I reckon," said the caller. "I remember you,
though, Mr. Smith. My name is Darius--"

"Howell," said Smith, instantly, getting up to shake hands. Of all the
agents reporting to him there was only one Darius. "I remember you
very well. I hope you haven't come to tell me that Schuyler has burned
up. Come in and sit down. It must be five years since I've seen you."

"Six years come next July," agreed the other, cautiously. It would
have been impossible for him to admit the simplest pro