faithfulness, there could be no doubt. During the seven years of his
service, he had been obliged to forget that he possessed such a name
as Turkington or even James. He had been Turk from the beginning,
and Turk he remained--and, in spite of occasional out breaks, he had
proved his devotion to the young gentleman whose goods and chattels
he guarded with more assiduity than he did his own soul or--what
meant more to him--his personal comfort. His employment came about in
an unusual way. Mr. Quentin had an apartment in a smart building
uptown. One night he was awakened by a noise in his room. In the
darkness he saw a man fumbling among his things, and in an instant
he had seized his revolver from the stand at his bedside and covered
the intruder. Then he calmly demanded: "Now, what are you doing
here?"

"I'm lookin' for a boardin' house," replied the other, sullenly.

"You're just a plain thief--that's all."

"Well, it won't do me no good to say I'm a sleepwalker, will it?--er
a missionary, er a dream? But, on d' dead, sport, I'm hungry, an' I
wuz tryin' to git enough to buy a meal an' a bed. On d' dead, I
wuz."

"And a suit of clothes, and an overcoat, and a house and lot, I
suppose, and please don't call me 'sport' again. Sit down--not oh
the floor; on that chair over there. I'm going to search you. Maybe
you've got something I need." Mr. Quentin turned on the light and
proceeded to disarm the man, piling his miserable effects on a
chair. "Take off that mask. Lord! put it on again; you look much
better. So, you're hungry, are you?"