And then he turned down the gay, bright street with the easy and
graceful tread of a millionaire.

But in the instant that he had paused the wisest and keenest eyes in the
city had enveloped him in their field of vision. A stout man with gray
eyes picked two of his friends with a lift of his eyebrows from the row
of loungers in front of the hotel.

"The juiciest jay I've seen in six months," said the man with gray eyes.
"Come along."

It was half-past eleven when a man galloped into the West Forty-seventh
Street Police Station with the story of his wrongs.

"Nine hundred and fifty dollars," he gasped, "all my share of
grandmother's farm."

The desk sergeant wrung from him the name Jabez Bulltongue, of Locust
Valley farm, Ulster County, and then began to take descriptions of the
strong-arm gentlemen.

When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he was
received over the head of the office boy into the inner office that is
decorated with the statuettes by Rodin and J. G. Brown.

"When I read the first line of 'The Doe and the Brook,'" said the
editor, "I knew it to be the work of one whose life has been heart to
heart with Nature. The finished art of the line did not blind me to that
fact. To use a somewhat homely comparison, it was as if a wild, free
child of the woods and fields were to don the garb of fashion and walk