price, which he was gratified to
find was unusually moderate.

"By gad, yes," he said. "Tomato soup--that's it! It's good and
substantial."

"Filling," agreed Van Dorn.

"And corn-beef hash," said Perner. "I haven't had any corn-beef hash for
a dog's age."

"Let's see," said Livingstone and Van Dorn together.

There was another hasty and surreptitious reference to the price.

"Hash, that's it!" suddenly exclaimed Barrifield, who had also been
studying the various economies set forth on the rather elaborate list.
"Nice brown hash without the poached egg or any trimmings. Just good,
plain, old-fashioned hash! Two portions of soup and two of hash will
make a lunch fit for a king. It makes my mouth water to think about it.
What shall we have to drink?"

"I find it interferes with my work, afternoons," said Perner. "Nothing
for me."

"Me, too," agreed Van Dorn. "I'm going to do without even coffee in the
middle of the day."

"Same here," said Livingstone.

"How about pie?" suggested Barrifield, wistfully.

Perner's eyes, too, grew hungry at the sound of the word, but he
maintained silence. A peculiar smile grew about Van Dorn's mouth.

"They won't serve two portions of pie for four of us, I suppose," he
said.

There was a laugh in which all joined, and the flimsy wall of pretense
was swept away.

"Let's own up, boys," said Barrifield, "it's a matter of economy just
now with all of us. We'll be lunching at Del's this time next year, but
for a few months we want to go a little slow. Let's have pie, though,
once more, anyway."

IX

IN THE SANCTUM

Perner's days were not without compensations. There was correspondence
with certain celebrities whom they had decided to engage for the coming
year, and to be addressed by these as "Dear Mr. Perner," and even as "My
dear Perner" more than once, was worth the foregoing of certain luxuries
of a grosser nature.

Then, too, the news of the "Whole Family" had gone abroad among the
bohemians of the town, and the poet and the fictionist unearthed from
the dark corners of their desks--technically known as their
"barrels"--the sketches, poems, and stories that had already (and more
than once, perhaps, as editors came and went) gone the hopeless round
from Franklin Square to Irvington-on-the-Hudson. They shook the dust
from these, cleaned them carefully with an eraser, and brought them to
Perner's door. They were a merry crowd, these bohemians, and most of
the