he General, "I have a letter here that I want you to read.
I may be violating a confidence--but I think the writer would trust my
judgment in such a matter."

Tom Wallifarro read the sheets of evenly penned chirography, and as he
handed them back he said musingly:

"Under the circumstances, of course, it would not be fair to ask if you
have any guess as to who McCalloway is--or was. He struck me as a
gentleman of extraordinary interest--He is a man who has known
distinction."

"That's why I came in this morning, Tom. I want you to know him
better--and to co-operate with me, if you will, about the boy. Since the
mountain can't come to Mahomet--"

"We are to go there?" came the understanding response, and Basil Prince
nodded.

"Precisely. I wanted you and one or two others of our friends to go down
there. I had in mind an idea that may be foolish--fantastic, even, for a
lot of old fellows like ourselves--but none the less interesting. I want
to give the chap a dinner in his own house."

Colonel Wallifarro smiled delightedly as he gave his ready sanction to
the plan. "Count me in, General, and call on me whenever you need me."

It was not until January that the surprise party came to pass, and Basil
Prince and Tom Wallifarro had entered into their arrangements with all
the zest of college boys sharing a secret. Out of an idea of simple
beginnings grew elaborations as the matter developed, until there was
indeed a dash of the fantastic in the whole matter, and a touch, too, of
pathos. Because of McCalloway's admission that at times his hunger for
the refinements of life became a positive nostalgia, the plotters
resolved to stage, for that one evening, within the walls of hewn logs,
an environment full of paradox.

Results followed fast. A hamper was filled from the cellars of the
Pendennis Club. Old hams appeared, cured by private recipes that had
become traditions. Napery and silver--even glass--came out of sideboards
to be packed for a strange journey. All these things were consigned long
in advance to Larry Masters at Marlin Town, where railway traffic ended
and "jolt wagon" transportation began. Aunt Judy Fugate, celebrated in
her day and generation as a cook, became an accessory before the fact.
In her house only a "whoop and a holler" distant from that of
McCalloway's, she received, with a bursting importance and a vast
secrecy, a store of supplies smuggled hither far more cautiously than it
had ever been ne