can deal profitably with the ninety-nine men who
walk or run or burrow or climb, especially if they happen to look seedy,
but he is never quite prepared for the hundredth man who can fly. That
is, it sometimes happens that a man who has been comfortably ensconced
in the pigeonhole labelled, "To Be Done," is suddenly--and by some
hocus-pocus which your sharp one can never quite comprehend, and
considers unfair--is suddenly discovered to have disappeared,
evaporated, to have escaped classification. I throw in this observation
at this point for what it may be worth, and not because I have anything
against Ed Smith. We may think a woodpecker's bill to be entirely too
long for beauty, but it is fine for the woodpecker. Moreover, I cannot
forget that without Ed Smith the Hempfield _Star_ would never have seen
Nort.

How well I remember my first sight of the "man to help Fergus!" It was
about two days, I think, after his arrival, and at a time when the
_Star_ was twinkling in the most extraordinary and energetic fashion.
You could almost _hear_ it twinkle. As I came into the office Anthy and
Fergus were busy at their cases, the old Captain at his desk, Ed Smith
in shirtsleeves was making up a new advertisement, and Dick, the canary,
swinging in the window. But what was that strange object in the corner
on the floor?

Why, Nort, sprawled full length, with his head almost touching the
gasoline engine! He had parts of it pretty well distributed around him
on the floor, and as nearly as I could make out, was trying to get his
nose into the boiler, or barrel, or whatever the insides of a gasoline
engine are called. Also he was whistling, as he loved to do, in a low
monotone, apparently enjoying himself. Presently he glanced up at me.

"Ever study the anatomy of a gasoline engine?" he asked.

"Never," said I.

"Interesting study," said he.

"I know something about the anatomy of cows and pigs and hens," I said,
"but I suppose a gasoline engine is somewhat different."

"Somewhat," said he.

He tinkered away industriously for a moment, and when I continued to
stand there watching him, he inquired solemnly:

"A hen has no spark coil, has it?"

"No," I said, just as solemnly, "but neither can a gasoline engine
cackle."

I shall never forget the sight of Nort as he slowly rose to a sitting
position and looked me over--especially the smile of him and the gleam
in his eyes. There was a dab of oil on his nose and smudges on hi