"So?" says I. "Well, how are you comin' on?"

"Excellently, sir, excellently," says he. "I have found, for the first time in my somewhat varied career, full scope for what I am pleased to call my talents. Of course, the work of preparing the ground is a slow process, and the--er--ahem--the results have not as yet begun to materialize; but when Opportunity comes my way, sir----Aha! Ha, ha! Ho, ho! Well, then we shall see if Tutwater is not ready for her!"

"I see," says I. "You with your hand on the knob, eh? It's an easy way of passin' the time too; that is, providin' such things as visits from the landlord and the towel collector don't worry you."

"Not at all," says he. "Merely petty annoyances, thorns and pebbles in the pathways that lead to each high emprise."

Say, it was almost like hearin' some one read po'try, listenin' to Tutwater talk; didn't mean much of anything, and sounded kind of good. At the end of half an hour I didn't know any more about his game than at the beginning. I gathered, though, that up to date it hadn't produced any ready cash, and that Tutwater had been on his uppers for some time.

He was no grafter, though. That dollar twenty-five weighed heavier on his mind than it did on mine. He'd come in and talk about not bein' able to pay it back real regretful, without even hintin' at another touch. And little by little I got more light on Tutwater, includin' some details of what he called his career.

There was a lot to it, so far as variety went. He'd been a hist'ry professor in some one-horse Western college, had tried his luck once up at Nome, had canvassed for a patent dishwasher through Michigan, done a ballyhoo trick outside a travelin' tent show, and had given bump lectures on the schoolhouse circuit.

But his prize stunt was when he broke into the real estate business and laid out Eucalyptus City. That was out in Iowa somewhere, and he'd have cleaned up a cool million in money if the blamed trolley company hadn't built their line seven miles off in the other direction.

It was gettin' this raw deal that convinces him the seed district wa'n't any place for a gent of his abilities. So he sold out his options on the site of Eucalyptus to a brick makin' concern, and beat it for 42d-st.

with a capital of eighty-nine dollars cash and this great director scheme in his head. The brass plate had cost him four dollars and fifty cents, one month's rent of the upstairs coop had set him back thirty more, and he'd been livin' on the rest.

"But look here, Tutty," says I, "just what sort of enterprise do you think you can direct?"

"Any sort," says he, "anything, from running an international exposition, to putting an icecream parlor on a paying basis."

"Don't you find your modesty something of a handicap?" says I.

"Oh, I'm modest enough," he goes on. "For instance, I don't claim to invent new methods. I just adapt, pick out lines of proved success, and develop. Now, your business here--why, I could take hold of it, and in six months' time I'd have you occupying this entire building, with classes on every floor, a solarium on the roof, a corps of assistants working day and night shifts, and----"

"Yes," I breaks in, "and then the Sheriff tackin' a foreclosure notice on the front door. I know how them boom methods work out, Tutty."

But talk like that don't discourage Tutwater at all. He hangs onto his great scheme, keepin' his eyes and ears open, writin' letters when he can scare up money for postage, and insistin' that sooner or later he'll get his chance.

"Here is the place for such chances to occur," says he, "and I know what I can do."

"All right," says I; "but if I was you I'd trail down some pavin' job before the paper inner soles wore clean through."

Course, how soon he hit the bread line wa'n't any funeral of mine exactly, and he was a hopeless case anyway; but somehow I got to likin'

Tutwater more or less, and wishin' there was some plan of applyin' all that hot air of his in useful ways. I know of lots of stiffs with not half his brains that makes enough to ride around in taxis and order custom made shirts. He was gettin' seedier every week, though, and I had it straight from the agent that it was only a question of a few days before that brass plate would have to come down.

And then, one noon as we was chinnin' here in the front office, in blows a portly, red faced, stary eyed old party who seems kind of dazed and uncertain as to where he's goin'. He looks first at Tutwater, and then at me.

"Same to you and many of 'em," says I. "What'll it be?"

"McCabe was the name," says he; "Professor McCabe, I think. I had it written down somewhere; but----"

"Never mind," says I. "This is the shop and I'm the right party. What then?"

"Perhaps you don't know me?" says he, explorin' his vest pockets sort of aimless with his fingers.

"That's another good guess," says I; "but there's lots of time ahead of us."

"I--I am--well, never mind the name," says he, brushin' one hand over his eyes. "I--I've mislaid it."

"Eh?" says I.

"It's no matter," says he, beginnin' to ramble on again. "But I own a great deal of property in the city, and my head has been troubling me lately, and I heard you could help me. I'll pay you well, you know.

I--I'll give you the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Wha-a-at's that?" I gasps. "Say, couldn't you make it Madison Square Garden? I could get rent out of that."

"Well, if you prefer," says he, without crackin' a smile.

"And this is Mr. Tutwater," says I. "He ought to be in on this. What'll yours be, Tutty?"

Say, for a minute or so I couldn't make out whether the old party was really off his chump or what. He's a well dressed, prosperous lookin'

gent, a good deal on the retired broker type, and I didn't know but he might be some friend of Pyramid Gordon's who'd strayed in here to hand me a josh before signin' on for a course of lessons.

Next thing we knew, though, he slumps down in my desk chair, leans back comf'table, sighs sort of contented, smiles a batty, foolish smile at us, and then closes his eyes. Another second and he's snorin' away as peaceful as you please.

"Well, say!" says I to Tutwater. "What do you think of that, now? Does he take this for a free lodgin' house, or Central Park? Looks like it was up to me to ring for the wagon."

"Don't," says Tutwater. "The police handle these cases so stupidly. His mind has been affected, possibly from some shock, and he is physically exhausted."

"He's all in, sure enough," says I; "but I can't have him sawin' wood here. Come, come, old scout," I hollers in his ear, "you'll have to camp somewhere else for this act!" I might as well have shouted into the safe, though. He never stirs.

"The thing to do," says Tutwater, "is to discover his name, if we can, and then communicate with his friends or family."

"Maybe you're right, Tutwater," says I. "And there's a bunch of letters in his inside pocket. Have a look."

"They all seem to be addressed to J. T. Fargo, Esq.," says Tutwater.

"What!" says I. "Say, you don't suppose our sleepin' friend here is old Jerry Fargo, do you? Look at the tailor's label inside the pocket. Eh?

Jeremiah T. Fargo! Well, say, Tutty, that wa'n't such an idle dream of his, about givin' me the garden. Guess he could if he wanted to. Why, this old party owns more business blocks in this town than anybody I know of except the Astors. And I was for havin' him carted off to the station!

Lemme see that 'phone directory."

A minute more and I had the Fargo house on the wire.

"Who are you?" says I. "Oh, Mr. Fargo's butler. Well, this is Shorty McCabe, and I want to talk to some of the fam'ly about the old man. Sure, old Jerry. He's here. Eh, his sister? She'll do. Yes, I'll hold the wire."

I'd heard of that old maid sister of his, and how she was a queer old girl; but I didn't have any idea what a cold blooded proposition she was.

Honest, she seemed put out and pettish because I'd called her up.

"Jeremiah again, hey?" she squeaks. "Now, why on earth don't he stay in that sanatorium where I took him? This is the fourth time he's gone wandering off, and I've been sent for to hunt him up. You just tell him to trot back to it, that's all."

"But see here, Miss Fargo," says I, "he's been trottin' around until you can't tell him anything! He's snoozin' away here in my office, dead to the world."

"Well, I can't help it," says she. "I'm not going to be bothered with Jeremiah to-day. I've got two sick cats to attend to."

"Cats!" says I. "Say, what do you----"