talking much about the Skyscraper. It was hushed up in the papers. You
won't go back on me, sir?"

"You don't know what became of the passenger?"

"No! But he was a Scotchman, and they're bound to fall on their feet
somehow!"


III.


The December fog that overhung St. Kentigern had thinned sufficiently to
permit the passage of a few large snowflakes, soiled in their descent,
until in color and consistency they spotted the steps of the Consulate
and the umbrellas of the passers-by like sprinklings of gray mortar.
Nevertheless the consul thought the streets preferable to the persistent
gloom of his office, and sallied out. Youthful mercantile St. Kentigern
strode sturdily past him in the lightest covert coats; collegiate St.
Kentigern fluttered by in the scantiest of red gowns, shaming the furs
that defended his more exotic blood; and the bare red feet of a few
factory girls, albeit their heads and shoulders were draped and hooded
in thick shawls, filled him with a keen sense of his effeminacy.
Everything of earth, air, and sky, and even the faces of those he looked
upon, seemed to be set in the hard, patient endurance of the race.
Everywhere on that dismal day, he fancied he could see this energy
without restlessness, this earnestness without geniality, all grimly set
against the hard environment of circumstance and weather.

The consul turned into one of the main arteries of St. Kentigern, a wide