n he had said a thing that met his own approval Sol Rollin would
cackle most cheerfully and then crack a knuckle by twisting a finger.
His laugh was mostly out of register also. It had a sad lack of
relevancy. He laughed on principle rather than provocation. Some sort of
secret comedy of which the world knew nothing, was passing in his mind;
it seemed to have its exits and its entrances, its villain, its clown
and its miser who got all the applause.

While working his joy was unconfined. Many a time I have sat and watched
him in his little shop, its window dim with cobwebs. Sometimes he would
stop whistling and cackle heartily as he worked his plane or drew his
pencil to the square. I have even seen him drop his tools and give his
undivided attention to laughter. He did not like to be interrupted--he
loved his own company the best while he was 'doin' business'. I went one
day when he was singing the two lines and their quaint chorus which was
all he ever sang in my hearing; which gave him great relief, I have no
doubt, when lip weary with whistling:

Sez I 'Dan'l Skinner, I thank yer mighty mean
To send me up the river, With a sev'n dollar team'
Lul-ly, ul--ly, diddie ul--ly, diddleul--lydee, Oh,
lul-ly, ul--ly, diddle ul--ly, diddle ul--ly dee.

'Mr Rollin!' I said.

Yes siree,' said he, pausing in the midst of his chorus to look up at
me.

'Where can I get a piece of yellow pine?'

'See 'n a minute,' he said. Then he continued his sawing and his song,
'"Says I Dan Skinner, I thank yer mighty mean"--what d' ye want it fer?'
he asked stopping abruptly.

'Going to make a ruler,' I answered.

'"T' sen' me up the river with a seven dollar team,"' he went on,
picking out a piece of smooth planed lumber, and handing it to me.

'How much is it worth?' I enquired.

He whistled a moment as he surveyed it carefully.

''Bout one cent,' he answered seriously.

I handed him the money and sat down awhile to watch him as he went on
with his work. It was the cheapest amusement I have yet enjoyed. Indeed
Sol Rollin became a dissipation, a subtle and seductive habit that grew
upon me and on one pretext or another I went every Saturday to the shop
if I had not gone home.

'What ye goin' t' be?'

He stopped his saw, and looked at me, waiting for my answer.

At last the time had come when I must declare myself and I did.

'A journalist,' I replied.

'What's that?' he enquired curiously.

'An editor,' I said