rry the lady in your mind's eye. The man was tall and rawboned,
with very white teeth, very blue eyes and an open-faced collar that
allowed full play to an objectionably apparent Adam's apple. His hair
and mustache were sandy, his gait loping. His manner, clothes, and
complexion breathed of Waco, Texas (or is it Arizona?)

Said he to Tony:

"Let me have the London Times."

Well, there you are. I turned an accusing eye on Tony.

"And you said no stories came your way," I murmured, reproachfully.

"Help yourself," said Tony.

The blonde lady grasped the Kewaskum Courier. Her green plume appeared
to be unduly agitated as she searched its columns. The sheet rattled.
There was no breeze. The hands in the too-black stitched gloves were
trembling.

I turned from her to the man just in time to see the Adam's apple leaping
about unpleasantly and convulsively. Whereupon I jumped to two
conclusions.

Conclusion one: Any woman whose hands can tremble over the Kewaskum
Courier is homesick.

Conclusion two: Any man, any part of whose anatomy can become convulsed
over the London Times is homesick.

She looked up from her Courier. He glanced away from his Times. As the
novelists have it, their eyes met. And there, in each pair of eyes there
swam that misty haze about which I had so earnestly consulted Tony. The
Green Plume took an involuntary step forward. The Adam's Apple did the
same. They spoke simultaneously.

"They're going to pave Main Street," said the Green Plume, "and Mrs.
Wilcox, that was Jeri Meyers, has got another baby girl, and the ladies
of the First M. E. made seven dollars and sixty-nine cents on their
needle-work bazaar and missionary tea. I ain't been home in eleven
years."

"Hallem is trying for Parliament in Westchester and the King is back at
Windsor. My mother wears a lace cap down to breakfast, and the place is
famous for its tapestries and yew trees and family ghost. I haven't been
home in twelve years."

The great, soft light of fellow feeling and sympathy glowed in the eyes
of each. The Green Plume took still another step forward and laid her
hand on his arm (as is the way of Green Plumes the world over).

"Why don't you go, kid?" she inquired, softly.

Adam's Apple gnawed at his mustache end. "I'm the black sheep. Why
don't you?"

The blonde lady looked down at her glove tips. Her lower lip was caught
between her teeth.

"What's the feminine for black sheep? I'm