"'Mr. Guilford,' sez I, 'that gilt brick went. But it has went as far as
it can travel an' is now reposin' into the soup. Git wise or eat hay,
sir. Art is on the blink.'"

The agent jingled his keys with a melancholy wink at Briggs.

"So I come back here, an' thankful to hold down this job. An' five mile
up the pike is that there noble poet an' his kids a-makin' up pieces for
to sell to the papers, an' a sorrerin' over the cold world what refuses
to buy his poems--an' a mortgage onto his house an' a threat to
foreclose."

"Indeed," said Briggs dreamily, for it was his business to attend to the
foreclosure of the mortgage on the poet's house.

"Was you fixin' to go up an' see the place?" inquired the agent.

"Shall I be obliged to walk?"

"I guess you will if you can't flutter," replied the agent. "I ain't got
no wagon an' no horse."

"How far is it?"

"Five mile, sir."

With a groan Mr. Briggs arose, lifted his suit-case, and, walking to the
platform's edge, cast an agitated glance up the dusty road.

Then he turned around and examined the single building in
sight--station, water-tower, post-office and telegraph-office all in
one, and incidentally the abode of the station-agent, whose duties
included that of postmaster and operator.

"I'll write a letter first," said Briggs. And this is what he wrote:

ROSE-CROSS P.O.,
_June 25, 1904_.

DEAR WAYNE: Do you remember that tract of land, adjoining your
preserve, which you attempted to buy four years ago? It was held by
a crank community, and they refused to sell, and made trouble for
your patrols by dumping dye-stuffs and sawdust into the Ashton Creek.

Well, the community has broken up, the shops are in ruins, and there
is nobody there now except that bankrupt poet, Guilford. I bought
the mortgage for you, foreseeing a slump in that sort of art, and
I expect to begin foreclosure proceedings and buy in the tract,
which, as you will recollect, includes some fine game cover and the
Ashton stream, where you wanted to establish a hatchery. This is a
God-forsaken spot. I'm on my way to the poet's now. Shall I begin
foreclosure proceedings and fire him? Wire me what to do.

Yours,
BRIGGS.

Wayne received this letter two days later. Preoccupied as he was in
fitting out his yacht for commission, he wired briefly, "Fire poet," and
dismissed the matter from his mind.

The next day, grappling with the problem of Japanese