ozen men in various attitudes
of neglect, but all hanging abjectly by the loops which a considerate
company had provided for its patrons. For his part, he preferred to
brace himself against the forward door, which gave him a position where
he could watch his fellow-prisoners.

His eye fell at once on a girl for whom he always looked. He did not
know her name, but, as the saying goes, he knew her face very well. She
lived on the same street where he had his lodging, so that when they met
in a horse-car they always got out together. From the regularity with
which she came out in a certain car, Buckingham had sagely concluded
that she was one of the multitude of girls who earned their living, for
whom as a class he had great respect, though he did not happen to know
any single member. He liked to look at her. She was shy and discreet in
bearing; she usually entertained herself with a book, which permitted
him larger liberty of eye; and she dressed with a neatness which had an
individuality: she evidently expressed herself in her clothes. That is
not all. She was undeniably pretty.

Now, our young friend had seen her in his horse-car a great many times,
but never under the conditions which existed at this time. People rarely
exclaim to themselves except in novels, but Buckingham did deliberately
shout to himself, "Why, this--this is my heroine! I have only to find a
hero and a plot. I know this girl very well. I am sure I can make a
story about her. Give me a hero, give me a plot, and there is my story!"

II.

MISS MARTINDALE.

When the horse-car stopped at the foot of Grove Street, Austin
Buckingham and the prospective heroine of his story got out so nearly at
the same time that when they reached the sidewalk they were side by
side. Beneath the gas-light stood a tallish man who was looking up to
read the name of the street upon the lamp. The light thus fell on his
face and brought it into distinctness; especially it disclosed a scar
upon his cheek. He caught sight now of these two people, and at once
addressed Buckingham:

"Can you tell me whereabouts Mr. Martindale lives?"

Buckingham hesitated, not because he knew and did not wish to tell, but
because he did not know, but wished to, if possible, out of courtesy. He
was trying to remember. The answer, however, came a moment after from
the girl, who had checked her walk upon hearing the name.

"I am going directly there," she said, and the two walked off togethe