of us. He'll squirm and get wild, but we'll hang on and spoil the date
for him, see? We'll insist in the letter that he must be alone, see,
because she's timid and afraid of being recognized. My God, he'll be
crazy! He'll think we've ruined his life--oh, ho, ho!" and he fairly
writhed with inward joy.

The thing worked. It was cruel in its way, but when has man ever grieved
over the humorous ills of others? The paper was secured, the letter
written by a friend of Peter's in a nearby real estate office, after the
most careful deliberation as to wording on our part. Extreme youth,
beauty and a great mansion were all hinted at. The fascination of Dick
as a romantic figure was touched upon. He would know her by a green silk
scarf about her waist, for it was spring, the ideal season. Seven
o'clock was the hour. She could give him only a moment or two then--but
later--and she gave no address!

The letter was mailed in the West end, as was meet and proper, and in
due season arrived at the office. Peter, working at the next easel,
observed him, as he told me, out of the corner of his eye.

"You should have seen him, Dreiser," he exclaimed, hunting me up about
an hour after the letter arrived. "Oh, ho! Say, you know I believe he
thinks it's the real thing. It seemed to make him a little sick. He
tried to appear nonchalant, but a little later he got his hat and went
out, over to Deck's," a nearby saloon, "for a drink, for I followed him.
He's all fussed up. Wait'll we heave into view that night! I'm going to
get myself up like a joke, a hobo. I'll disgrace him. Oh, Lord, he'll be
crazy! He'll think we've ruined his life, scared her off. There's no
address. He can't do a thing. Oh, ho, ho, ho!"