problem to you for a day or two."

Aided by the old man, Ronald awkwardly got into the sleazy clothes
that went with the exchange--growing less and less at home each
minute. He felt weak and sore; his head ached, and the wound left by
the fresh amputation of his little finger throbbed angrily.

"I suppose I may as well go now," he said. "When can I get my own self
there back again?"

"On Thursday night, if all works well," said the old man. "Till then,
good-day."

Ronald Wyde's first impulse, as he shambled into the open air, was to
go home; but he thought of the confusion his sadly-mixed identity
would cause in Frau Spritzkrapfen's quiet household, and came to a
dead stop to consider the matter. Then he decided to quit the town for
the interminable four days--to go to Dresden, or anywhere. His next
step was to slouch into the nearest beer-cellar and call for beer,
pen, and paper. While waiting for these, he surveyed his own
reflection in the dingy glass that hung above the table he sat by--a
glass that gave his face a wavy look, as if seen through heated air.
He felt an amused pride in his altered appearance, much as a
masquerader might be pleased with a clever disguise, and caught
himself wondering whether he were likely to be recognized in it.
Apparently satisfied of his safety from detection, he turned to the
table and wrote a beer-scented note to Frau Spritzkrapfen, explaining
his sudden absence by some discreet fiction. He got along well enough
till he reached the end, when, instead of his own flowing sign-manual,
he tipsily scrawled the unfamiliar name of Hans Kraut. Tearing the
sheet angrily across, he wrote another, and signed his name with an
effort. He was about to seek a messenger to carry his note, when it
occurred to him to leave it himself, which he did; and had thereby the
keen satisfaction of hearing pretty Lottchen confess, with a blush on
her fair German cheek, that they would all miss Herr Wyde very much,
because they all loved him. Turning away with a sigh that was very
like a hiccough, he trudged to the railway-station and took a ticket
to Dresden, going third-class as best befitting his clothes and
appearance.

He felt ashamed enough of himself as the train rumbled over the
rolling land between Freiberg and the capital, and gave him time to
think connectedly over what had happened, and what he now was. His
fellow-passengers cast him sidelong looks, and gave him a wide berth.
Even the quaint