finest chords in his being. Something like that it must have been.

"Anyway, about a quarter to six a procession went up Fourth Street,
consisting of Wilfred Lennox, Henrietta, and Alonzo. The latter was
tripping along about three steps back of the other two and every once in
a while he would stop for a minute and simply look puzzled. I saw him.
It's really a great pity Lon insists on wearing a derby hat with his
side whiskers. To my mind the two never seem meant for each other.

"The procession went to the Price mansion up on Ophir Avenue. And that
evening Henrietta had in a few friends to listen to the poet recite his
verses and tell anecdotes about himself. About five or six ladies in
the parlour and their menfolks smoking out on the front porch. The men
didn't seem to fall for Wilfred's open-road stuff the way the ladies
did. Wilfred was a good reciter and held the ladies with his voice and
his melting blue eyes with the long lashes, and Henrietta was envied for
having nailed him. That is, the women envied her. The men sort of
slouched off down to the front gate and then went down to the Temperance
Billiard Parlour, where several of 'em got stewed. Most of 'em, like old
Judge Ballard, who come to the country in '62, and Jeff Tuttle, who's
always had more than he wanted of the open road, were very cold indeed
to Wilfred's main proposition. It is probable that low mutterings might
have been heard among 'em, especially after a travelling man that was
playing pool said the hobo poet had come in on the Pullman of No. 6.

"But I must say that Alonzo didn't seem to mutter any, from all I could
hear. Pathetic, the way that little man will believe right up to the
bitter end. He said that for a hobo Wilfred wrote very good poetry,
better than most hobos could write, he thought, and that Henrietta
always knew what she was doing. So the evening come to a peaceful end,