James had swept a space clear on the table, and was arranging some
stationery.

"Don't you care," he replied; "you just sit down and read your little
Omar for a while."

He plunged into the labours of composition, and Bert sat smoking
meditatively. After some moments the writer passed a letter over to the
smoker.

"Think it'll do?" he inquired.

Bert read the letter through carefully.

"Jeems," said he, after due deliberation, "Jeems, you're a blooming
genius."

James stamped the envelope.

"I'll mail it for you when I go out in the morning," Bert suggested.

"Not on your daily bread, sonny. It is posted now by my own hand. We
won't take any chances on _this_ layout, and that I can tell you."

He tramped down four flights and to the corner, although it was
midnight and bitter cold. Then, with a seraphic grin on his
countenance, he went to bed and slept the sleep of the just.

The envelope was addressed to a Mr. James Fay, Spanish Gulch, South
Dakota.