by the premature popping of the "soup" (i.e., nitro-glycerin) poured into
the crevices of a country post-office in Missouri. In offering shelter to
Mr. James Whitesides, _alias_ "Humpy" Thompson, The Hopper's motives had
not been wholly unselfish, as Humpy had been entrusted with the herding of
poultry in several penitentiaries and was familiar with the most advanced
scientific thought on chicken culture.

The roadster was headed toward his home and The Hopper contemplated it in
the deepening dusk with greedy eyes. His labors in the New York garage had
familiarized him with automobiles, and while he was not ignorant of the
pains and penalties inflicted upon lawless persons who appropriate motors
illegally, he was the victim of an irresistible temptation to jump into
the machine thus left in the highway, drive as near home as he dared, and
then abandon it. The owner of the roadster was presumably eating his
evening meal in peace in the snug little cottage behind the shrubbery, and
The Hopper was aware of no sound reason why he should not seize the
vehicle and further widen the distance between himself and a
suspicious-looking gentleman he had observed on the New Haven local.

The Hopper's conscience was not altogether at ease, as he had, that
afternoon, possessed himself of a bill-book that was protruding from the
breast-pocket of a dignified citizen whose strap he had shared in a
crowded subway train. Having foresworn crime as a means of livelihood, The
Hopper was chagrined that he had suffered himself to be beguiled into
stealing by the mere propinquity of a piece of red leather. He was angry
at the world as well as himself. People should not go about with
bill-books sticking out of their pockets; it was unfair and unjust to
those weak members of the human race who yield readily to temptation.

He had agreed with Mary when she married him and the chicken farm that