"What's that?"

"Quiet little bar kept by a talkative Swede. 'Rickey' Hoff hung out
there a lot. Charley even had a room fixed up for him to lay off in
when he was too pickled to go home."

"Would--er--young Hoff--er--perhaps keep a few--er--extra clothes
there?" asked Average Jones, seemingly struggling with a yawn.

The city editor stared. "Oh, I dare say. He used to end his sprees
pretty much mussed up."

"That would perhaps explain where the shirt came from," murmured the
Ad-Visor. "Much obliged for the suggestion. I'll just step
around."

"Silent Charley" he found ready, even eager to talk. Yes; "Rickey"
Hoff had been in his place right along. Drunk? No; not even
drinking much lately. Two other gentlemen had met him there quite
often. They sat in the back room and talked. No, neither of them
was Spanish. One was big and clean-shaven and wore a silk hat.
They called him "Colonel." A swell dresser. The other man drank
gin, and a lot of it. His name was Fred. He was very tanned. One
day there had been a hot discussion over a sheet of paper that lay
on the table in front of the three men in the back room. "Rickey"
had called a messenger boy and sent him out for a geography. "I
told you there wasn't any such thing there," the saloon-keeper heard
him say triumphantly, when the geography arrived. Then Fred
replied: "To h-ll with you and your schoolbook! I tell you I've
waded across it." The colonel smoothed things over and it ended in