his own conscience, and the exactions of conscience should be subordinate
to the needs of the body. That was a large part of Nickie's philosophy,
and he had acted up to it with marked success, but this morning
housewives were incredulous and tough, and our hero was faring badly.

He entered the yard of Ebonwell, the chemist, and was about to knock,
when his eye fell upon a well-worn Gladstone bag full of small bottles.
In the course of long experience as a beat, Nickie had learned the value
of prompt action. He gently snapped up the bag, and jauntily to the gate.
Here he collided with a female entering in a hurry.

"Was yeh wantin' anythin', mister?" said the woman suspiciously.

"Good morning, madam," said Nickie, with unction. "Can I tune your piano
this morning?" His manner was most courteous, he smiled kindly, but he
did not invite attention to the bag.

"No yeh can't," snapped the woman, "an' a good reason why--coz we ain't
got a pianner to toon."

"A pity," said Nickie, suavely, "a pity, madam. No home should be without
the refining influence of good music."

The woman passed in as Nickie passed out, and the latter looked back over
the gate, and said, "Good morning, lady," with profound respect.

Nickie must have forgotten all about his weak heart; the dash he made out
of that right-of-way, across the street, down a second right-of-way, and
into a public garden, would not have discredited a trained pedestrian. An
hour later Mr. Crips was seated in a secluded spot on the river bank,