meditative, like a girl trying to decide which dress to wear to the party.
“‘New York?’ he says to me finally.
“‘Originally, and from time to time,’ I says. ‘Hasn’t it rubbed off yet?’
“‘It’s simple,’ says he, ‘when you know how. It’s the fit of the vest. They don’t cut vests right anywhere else. Coats, maybe, but not vests.’
“The white man looks at Henry Horsecollar and hesitates.
“‘Injun,’ says Henry; ‘tame Injun.’
“‘Mellinger,’ says the man—‘Homer P. Mellinger. Boys, you’re confiscated. You’re babes in the wood without a chaperon or referee, and it’s my duty to start you going. I’ll knock out the props and launch you proper in the pellucid waters of this tropical mud puddle. You’ll have to be christened, and if you’ll come with me I’ll break a bottle of wine across your bows, according to Hoyle.’
“Well, for two days Homer P. Mellinger did the honors. That man cut ice in Anchuria. He was It. He was the Royal Kafoozlum. If me and Henry was babes in the wood, he was a Robin Red-
