The door of the editorial room of the "Excelsior Magazine" began to
creak painfully under the hesitating pressure of an uncertain and
unfamiliar hand. This continued until with a start of irritation the
editor faced directly about, throwing his leg over the arm of his chair
with a certain youthful dexterity. With one hand gripping its back,
the other still grasping a proof-slip, and his pencil in his mouth, he
stared at the intruder.

The stranger, despite his hesitating entrance, did not seem in the least
disconcerted. He was a tall man, looking even taller by reason of the
long formless overcoat he wore, known as a "duster," and by a long
straight beard that depended from his chin, which he combed with two
reflective fingers as he contemplated the editor. The red dust which
still lay in the creases of his garment and in the curves of his soft
felt hat, and left a dusty circle like a precipitated halo around his
feet, proclaimed him, if not a countryman, a recent inland importation
by coach. "Busy?" he said, in a grave but pleasant voice. "I kin wait.
Don't mind ME. Go on."

The editor indicated a chair with his disengaged hand and plunged again
into his proof-slips. The stranger surveyed the scant furniture and
appointments of the office with a look of grave curiosity, and then,
taking a chair, fixed an earnest, penetrating gaze on the editor's
profile. The editor felt it, and, without looking up, said--

"Well, go on."

"But you're busy. I kin wait."