coat and his high silk hat, and there was plenty of jaw in the
lower part of his face. Nor was his tailor altogether answerable
for his shoulders. Three years before this time Ross Wilbur had
pulled at No. 5 in his varsity boat in an Eastern college that was
not accustomed to athletic discomfiture.

"I wonder what I'm going to do with myself until supper time," he
muttered, as he came down the steps, feeling for the middle of his
stick. He found no immediate answer to his question. But the
afternoon was fine, and he set off to walk in the direction of the
town, with a half-formed idea of looking in at his club.

At his club he found a letter in his box from his particular chum,
who had been spending the month shooting elk in Oregon.


"Dear Old Man," it said, "will be back on the afternoon you
receive this. Will hit the town on the three o'clock boat. Get
seats for the best show going--my treat--and arrange to assimilate
nutriment at the Poodle Dog--also mine. I've got miles of talk in
me that I've got to reel off before midnight. Yours.
"JERRY."



"I've got a stand of horns for you, Ross, that are Glory
Hallelujah."


"Well, I can't go," murmured Wilbur, as he remembered the Assembly