while the dim Sub-Consciousness told him that probably he was the
Softest Thing the Lady Robber had Stood Up that Season. Then she
recovered the Pencil, which he was confusedly trying to put into his
Vest Pocket, and missing it about Six Inches, and with a cheery Good By
she was gone.

He shook himself and took a Long Breath, and asked where he was. Then it
all came back to him and he felt Ornery, and called himself Names and
roasted the Office Boy in the Next Room, and made a Rule that hereafter
Nobody could get at him except by Card, and if any Blonde Sharks in
Expensive Costumes asked for him, to call up the Chief and ask for a
Squad.

[Illustration: THE OFFICE BOY]

He was so Wrothy at himself for being Held Up that he could not find any
Consolation except in the Fact that he had seen on the List of
Subscribers the name of nearly every well-known married Citizen above
the Age of 35. He was not the Only One. She had Corralled the Street.

When the Man came around to deliver the seven-pound copy of "Happy Hours
with the Poets," and he paid out his Six Silver Pieces for a queer
Volume that he would not have Read for Six an Hour, he hated himself
worse than ever. He thought some of giving the Book to the Office Boy,
by way of Revenge, but he hit upon a Better Use for it. He put it back
into the Box and carried it Home, and said to his Wife, "See what I have
Bought for you."

It occurred to him that after getting a Present like that, she ought to
let him stay out every Night for a Month. But she could not see it that