his hands in a manner based upon a somewhat hazy conception of the
formulae of self-defence. To his surprise, the open hand of the smaller
man slipped swiftly past what he called his "guard" and placed a
smart, stinging slap upon lips open to utter the syllable "val."

Bearing with indignation, he swung his right fist heavily for the head
of P. Sybarite. Somehow, strangely, it missed its goal and ...

George Bross sat upon the dusty, grimy floor, batted his eyes,
ruefully rubbed the back of his head, and marvelled at the
reverberations inside it.

Then he became conscious of P. Sybarite some three feet distant,
regarding him with tight-lipped interest.

"Good God!" George ejaculated with feeling. "Did _you_ do that to me?"

"I did," returned P. Sybarite curtly. "Want me to prove it?"

"Plenty, thanks," returned the shipping clerk morosely, as he picked
himself up and dusted off his clothing. "Gee! You got a wallop like
the kick of a mule, Per--"

"Cut that!"

"P.S., I mean," George amended hastily. "Why didn't you ever tell me
you was Jeffries's sparrin' partner?"

"I'm not and never was, and furthermore I didn't hit you," replied P.
Sybarite. "All I did was to let you fall over my foot and bump your
head on the floor. You're a clumsy brute, you know, George, and if you
tried it another time you _might_ dent that dome of yours. Better
accept my offer and be friends."

"Never call you Per--"

"Don't say it!"

"Oh, all right--all right," George agreed plaintively. "And if I
promise, I'm in on that theatre party?"

"That's my offer."

"It's hard," George sighed regretfully--"damn' hard. But whatever
_you_ say goes. I'll keep your secret."

"Good!" P. Sybarite extended one of his small, delicately modelled
hands. "Shake," said he, smiling wistfully.

II

INSPIRATION

When they had locked in the Genius of the Place to batten upon itself
until seven o'clock Monday morning, P. Sybarite and Mr. Bross, with at
least every outward semblance of complete amity, threaded the roaring
congestion in narrow-chested Frankfort Street, boldly breasted the
flood tide of homing Brooklynites, won their way through City Hall
Park, and were presently swinging shoulder to shoulder up the sunny
side of lower Broadway.

To be precise, the swinging stride was practised only by Mr. Bross; P.
Sybarite, instinctively aware that any such mode of locomotion would
ill become one of his inches, contented himself with keep