Delagoa Bay to Denver.

He skipped up-town, looking at the stars. He shouted as he saw
the stacks of a big Cunarder bulking up at the end of Fourteenth
Street. He stopped to chuckle over a lithograph of the
Parthenon at the window of a Greek bootblack's stand.
Stars--steamer--temples, all these were his. He owned them now.
He was free.

Lee Theresa sat waiting for him in the basement livingroom till
ten-thirty while he was flirting with trainboards at the Grand
Central. Then she went to bed, and, though he knew it not, that
prince of wealthy suitors, Mr. Wrenn, had entirely lost the
heart and hand of Miss Zapp of the F. F. V.


He stood before the manager's god-like desk on June 14, 1910. Sadly:

"Good-by, Mr. Guilfogle. Leaving to-day. I wish--Gee!
I wish I could tell you, you know--about how much I appreciate--"

The manager moved a wire basket of carbon copies of letters from
the left side of his desk to the right, staring at them
thoughtfully; rearranged his pencils in a pile before his
ink-well; glanced at the point of an indelible pencil with a
manner of startled examination; tapped his desk-blotter with his
knuckles; then raised his eyes. He studied Mr. Wrenn, smiled,
put on the look he used when inviting him out for a drink. Mr.
Guilfogle was essentially an honest fellow, harshened by The
Job; a well-satisfied victim, with the imagination clean gone out